Alacrity and Other Words.

I have finished The Archer's Tale, but I believe I will make a few more posts on it before I'm through thinking. This marks my fourth novel by Cornwell and, in all honesty, I believe he suffers the same weakness for alliteration, assonance, and consonance that I do. I believe, fully, in the rhythm of words, and I also believe those prose writers need to consider such just as deeply as poets, but much of the amateur prose I read of late seems to favor something far less artistic in its telling. However, it is not alliteration I am here to talk about today.

Today, I would like to talk about words.

Cornwell uses words well, though I stumble on his commas (or lackthereof) occasionally, and I am impressed that I can finish one of his books and see a word I either do not immediately recognize or, even better, have forgotten for its concrete meaning in a distant memory. There are never many, but they are enough to make me smile. I love words: ornate, archaic, contemporary, slang--diction is one of my main interests as a writer and a reader, and I am annoyed by authors who do not seem to know how to pick the right words. This is not a complaint I make of Cornwell. I think, for his genre and style, he picks a fine troupe to command his prose.

This post, then, will focus on the few words I had to pause for while reading. To begin: "At first Skeat thought Thomas of Hookton was little more than another wild fool looking for adventure--a clever fool, to be sure--but Thomas had taken to the life of an archer in Brittany with alacrity" (33).

When first reading this sentence, I assumed "alacrity" meant something akin to eagerness; somewhere in my vocabulary, the two words were joined. However, just to satisfy my own hobby, I looked the word up and found it a bit more complicated. Alacrity, in a truer form, speaks to liveliness and willingness and even, in some ways, cheerfulness. It is more than simply being eager and, as such, goes from a throw-away word used in a descriptive paragraph to being a true mark of characterization. Thomas is not simply eager to be an archer, but he takes to the archer's life with a cheerfulness, a liveliness, a willingness that surpassed eager. Eager is what adventurers would be. In using alacrity, Cornwell is reiterating that Thomas is much more than a fool looking for glory. This, then, is a fine use of a word.

I will come back to Thomas at a later date, as he intrigues me, but let's move on to more words:

The lawyer now laid a long list of charges against Sir Simon. It seemed he was claiming the widow and her son as prisoners who must be held for ransom. He had also stolen the widow's two ships, her husband's armor, his sword and all the Countess's money. Belas made the complaints indignantly, then bowed to the Earl. "You have a reputation as a just man, my lord," he said obsequiously, "and I place the widow's fate in your hands." (75-76)

At first, as is often my impression when I cannot immediately place a word, I thought "obsequiously" was entirely unnecessary. It felt like a big word thrown in for the sake of having a big word, but Cornwell is much more clever than that, on his better days, and I was terribly disappointed. As such, I chased the word down and found that it meant, specifically, the type of obedience, compliance, or whathaveyou reserved for servants who know their duty and place. It is not just, as I first assumed, a description that means "deferentially" or some other such word, but a word specifically designed to accomodate the complicated social situation between servant and master. I learned something new with "obsequiously" and, what's more, I was no longer disappointed! Some folks reading this may be shaking their heads at my ignorance, but it's not every day that I get to learn a new word in context.

This next word is simply fun and, indeed, fun to say: "At first he would force himself to a clumsy courtesy, though usually he was bumptious and crude and always he stared at her like a dog gazing at a haunch of beef" (84). What I love about choosing "bumptious" here is the same skill that I enjoy about Cornwell's novels: it's all about characterization. Every word points to the character and whether this is a natural talent or a supreme work of patience on Cornwell's part, I am captivated by how cleverly he uses words to his advantage. Bumptious refers to someone who is cheeky--a younger man who is trying to act bigger than his britches, so to speak--and this could certainly characterize our dear Sir Simon, the target for this word choice. But really, isn't it fun to say? Bumptious. It sounds lovely in my head--makes me smile and think of a bumbling fool off The Three Stooges, though I know that isn't quite what the word intends.

I had a feeling I knew what "unctuously" meant, especially in the context of its sentence, but I didn't truly know. Though I have studied theology for quite some time, this word seems to have escaped my learning. Which is why, when I stumbled (quite literally) over it in the reading, I had to look it up immediately: "Perhaps the saint inspired him, for he was suddenly possessed of devilment and began to enjoy playing a priest's role. 'I am merely one of God's humble children, my son,' he answered unctuously" (142-143). The word, itself, refers to a special type of piousness that one would reserve for priests and the like, but it is that smug sort of piousness--the type when the person speaking doesn't just assume they are on higher moral ground than you but, instead, this person fervently knows their superiority. Were I pretending to be a priest, I am not certain I could affect such a manner of speaking, but our dear Thomas seems to have shifted quite comfortably into the role.

As an aside, I find it terribly interesting (especially in this context) that unctuous can also refer to oily, greasy, or that slimy, soapy feeling.

Cornwell gives us another fine word: "So if the English were kept south of the Seine then they must eventually fight or make an ignominious retreat to Normandy" (245). I wasn't entirely sure of this word, either, but I've found that it stretches to mean humilitating, degrading, dishonorable--and all those other words that coalesce among the ruined. Of all the words I encountered while reading The Archer's Tale, I found this one might have been just a tad unnecessary. Its meaning is certainly well-fitted to the sentence, and I cannot complain for that, but this word bothers me. Here, it in relation to the specific diction of the text and the time and the characters speaking in the scene, the word feels out-of-place. I do not believe it is a specialized word that someone would've used to describe the situation and, as such, I have to attribute it to the narrator's word who, in this case, would become Cornwell. In other words, this is the first time I think I am hearing Cornwell the Author instead of the fictional narrator of the novel, and I will admit I am bothered by it.

Luckily, it does not happen often with Cornwell. He has an uncanny ability to cede into a narrator and allow their voice to take over a text, and it is this talent that makes reading his novels so enjoyable. I believe them, while I am reading; I believe in what I am reading and even dare to dream its possible that history happened in just this way. If that is not the mark of a skilled writer, I am not sure what is.

A Real Priest.

In the Prologue to Cornwell's The Archer's Tale, we receive a description of a priest--a fleeting character who suffers a painful death only a few pages further but who proves, in the care taken to bring him life, to be an important presence in the plot. However, it is not the character's turn in wielding a tale that gives me pause; instead, it's his lovely description:

Father Ralph was a frightening man even when he was not angry, but in his temper he was a wild-haired fiend, and his flaring anger protected the treasure, though Father Ralph himself believed that ignorance was its best protection...

They were all too scared of him, but he did his duty to them; he christened them, churched them, married them, heard their confessions, absolved them, scolded them and buried them, but he did not pass the time with them. He walked alone, grim-faced, hair awry and eyes glowering, but the villagers were still proud of him. Most country churches suffered ignorant, pudding-faced priests who were scarce more educated than their parishioners, but Hookton, in Father Ralph, had a proper scholar, too clever to be sociable, perhaps a saint, maybe of noble birth, a self-confessed sinner, probably mad, but undeniably a real priest. (4-5)

Undeniably a real priest. It is strange but, by instinct, I understand what this statement means though it remains a concept difficult to explain. What is a real priest? Is this a question of character, of belief--? Is it something in the personage or gait? When I think of a real priest I think of someone absurdly human and certainly detached but who, in his every move and make, exudes a faith in the heart of what he's preaching. He is not perfect, not the saintly vision of Bishop or monk, but hard-worked and hard-lived, gritty, uncompromising, undoubtedly miserable, much learned, with a burden that everyone notices but no one has the balls to ask about (not unlike the hesitation in Hawthorne's The Minister's Black Veil). This is not a priest I would like to sit in mass with, however, but the sort of priest who reminds me that I am a flawed human being, and weak, and perhaps not as devout as I should be. He is, in short, the sort of priest I would trust my conscience with and one who would convince me, with only a glance, that Hell really can exist.

He is also a rotten, nasty son of a bitch who's too smart for his own good. What more should a man want from a priest?

All this said, I've spent far too much time bordering on theological descriptors; Father Ralph meets a violent, untimely death (someone had to die), and the story continues with Thomas, Father Ralph's illegitimate son (by his housekeeper, whom he truly loved):

"I reckon they's been drinking too much," Edward said.
"I sees angels when I drink," John said.
"That be Jane," Edward said. "Looks like an angel, she does."
"Don't behave like one," John said. "Lass is pregnant," and all four men looked at Thomas, who stared innocently up at the treasure hanging from the rafters. (8)

And, my most favorite:

Thomas thrived on life, and Skeat had learned that lad was clever, certainly clever enough to know better than to fall asleep one night when he should have been standing guard and, for that offense Skeat had thumped the daylights out of him. "You were goddamn drunk!" he had accused Thomas, then beat him thoroughly, using fists like blacksmith's hammers. He had broken Thomas's nose, cracked a rib and called him a stinking piece of Satan's shit, but at the end of it Will Skeat saw that the boy was still grinning... (33)

What I enjoy most about Cornwell, apart from his battle scenes, some famously introduced: "Thomas stood, needing to piss, and the first awful screams sounded from the village. For Easter had come, Christ was risen and the French were ashore" (10), are his characters. They are deliciously flawed and, in so-being, tremendously realistic. Cornwell is unforgiving. You are not reading the cookie-cutter fantasy hero with the heart of gold or the clever historian who saves the Queen; no, you are reading about men who could have, perhaps should have, existed in history, who have agendas and faults and round-out with 'bastard' being the kindest thing you can call them. Yet they are likable--not in the sense that you wish them well and cheer them on, necessarily, but in the way that you wish, were you going to the pub, that these would be your drinking buddies.

The Archer's Tale is not moving as quickly as The Winter King did, but it is far more subtle--and that is what I am enjoying right now. Give it a go, and perhaps you will enjoy it, too.

Old Made New.

I have discovered that, when I have the time, I can use Character Map to make capital letters and all my missing punctuation marks. This is spectacular, and I'm only sorry the previous post suffered for my ignorance. I will leave it as-is for now, but I may fix it in the future.

I have read T.H. White's The Once and Future King perhaps a dozen times and even The Book of Merlin once or twice. My enjoyment of Arthur and his Knights actually started with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, so I suppose I wandered backwards into the stories, but I quickly moved to Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur and, from there, Green, Pyle and Plummer, The Mists of Avalon, and even Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Steinbeck tried to get in on the Arthurian legends, but I admit I couldn't stay awake through any of them. All of this to say that I have made the rounds with Arthur and have expected nothing new to come of them. Until now.

Bernard Cornwell, in his Arthur trilogy, has removed the veil, so to speak, from the Arthurian tales. His stories read like history, not fantasy, and they move with suspense and realistic, not manufactured or romanticised, emotion. This is not a history that you want to miss. I believe Cornwell is, perhaps, one of the greatest writers of historical fiction (a personal favorite, that genre) that I've ever had the pleasure of reading. Notice here that I did not name him a fantasy author.

I read the Arthur trilogy, which begins with The Winter King, shortly after coming out of the coma. Or, more sincerely, Mr. Collins read the first novel to me, and part of the second, and I took over the reigns for the third. I told him I was looking for something romantic and fantastic--an adult fantasy, so to speak, and he brought me Arthur (having been privy to my glorification of Sir Gawain). I admit I wasn't excited to know I'd be forced to endure another Arthur story, but I trusted him and took a chance. I've since pushed that chance on six or seven different readers, and it is for one of them that I am writing this review (of sorts).

My sister, long-since tired of Arthur, devoured the books. They are brutal, she says, and I agree. If you're looking for a story of the Round Table that sounds more plausible than the latest Sci-Fi reinactment of Malory or White or Bradley, but one that still stays true to the legend's heart, then Cornwell is for you.

As I read the books a while ago and did not have the ability to take notes, I will not be saying more about The Arthur Trilogy (The Winter King, Enemy of God, and Excalibur), but I am scheduled to begin his Holy Grail books this week, and so I will write about them in more depth. This means, for those of you still unsure, you will get a taste of his style and, if you like it, perhaps you'll try our Arthur one more time.

That said, if you have not read White or Malory or something similar, I would suggest reading those fantasies first. You will enjoy the nuances of Cornwell's story even more: of that I can assure you.