THE THIRD DRAFT

Phew. I've finished - for now at anyrate.

I’ve just finished the third draft of my newest novel. And I’ve sent it off to my editor. It’s in safe hands so I can relax.

I haven’t settled on a name yet so for now I’m calling it Britannia. I realise that this is boring but I’m too tired to think of anything better. It’s a placeholder.

The best possible name would be Sword at Sunset. This, however, has already been taken by Rosemary Sutcliff for her marvellous novel reimaging Kig Arthur as he may have been. My book is set a little earlier than hers, in the tumultuous century after the Roman legions left Britain.

A Northumbrian lass at one of the Roman forts

Archaeology and genetics are discovering a lot more about the time but there are still great tracts which are pretty much unknown. Because of this, it is a wonderful era for a historical novelist, a lovely place to frolic.

The list of writers who wrote about these times shows how rich a field it is. Rosemary Sutcliff, Douglas Jackson, Bernard Cornwell and T.H. White are perhaps the most memorable of the last hundred or so years. Their forebears, however, stretch back fifteen hundred years. Tennyson, Malory, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Bede and Gildas all set work there. Gildas was a near contemporary of the events he wrote about.

And, of course, the names of the people they conjured up still live on. Hengist and Horsa, Vortigern, Ambrosius Aurelianus, Merlin and, of course, Arthur. With the possible exception of Aurelianus, it’s pretty much certain that none of them existed.

My latest book is set forty years after the Roman legions left, between 447 and 453. It starts on Hadrian’s Wall and I can think of no better to finish this post than this poem by W.H. Auden.

Part of Hadrian’s Wall

Roman Wall Blues

Over the heather the wet wind blows,

I’ve lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,

I’m a Wall soldier, I don’t know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,

My girl’s in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,

I don’t like his manners, I don’t like his face.

Piso’s a Christian, he worships a fish;

There’d be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;

I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I’m a veteran with only one eye

I shall do nothing but look at the sky.