When you study the
world’s history with the intention of writing fiction about it, you are struck
by two things:
One: it’s no small
task to build the past from clay, to glaze it, fire it, and present it to your
audience in perfect shining detail. To overuse a tired phrase, it’s necessary
to “make the past come to life.”
Two: History is full
of absurd stories. Absurdly dangerous, absurdly vicious, absurdly hysterical.
Unbelievable. Tales of kings and queens and generals so singular in character
they don’t seem real. I’ve written about some of those people, and will write
about more of them still.
It stands to reason,
therefore, that historical fiction should be vivid and splendid. In the hands
of Dorothy Dunnett, it most certainly is. Not a bullet point recounting of the
past, but a living, breathing portrait, peopled with fictional characters built
to rival the true-life figures they brush up against on the page.
Her Lymond Chronicles
were first published in the 60s and 70s, and since that time, readers cleverer
than me have extolled the series’ virtues. I know I won’t be saying anything
new here; I don’t think that’s the point. Rather, it will be new for some
readers. For those who haven’t discovered her yet. And I firmly believe in the
power of preserving stories for future generations through sharing. So this is
me sharing with you a series that I hope is never buried for good.
“Lymond is back,”
reads the first line of book one, The Game of Kings, because sometimes
the wildest of stories begin with the simplest of notions. Lymond is back, and
he’s about to set his entire homeland of Scotland into a state of upheaval.
To put it in simple
terms, the series follows the exploits of Scottish nobleman Francis Crawford of
Lymond, Master of Culter, on his exploits across six, densely-packed novels.
Young, handsome, golden-haired, slender, beautiful, charming, carefree, witty; Lymond
is seemingly physical perfection, with a razor-sharp tongue and a penchant for
less-than-innocent mischief. This is not the hulking brute, not the cold master
of the house; no Heathcliff nor Rochester, though he is damn good in a fight.
He’s a dandy; he’s highly-educated, excruciatingly aware of his own
intelligence, and an actual master of disguise. He is the series’ central
figure…though nine times out of ten, we view him from outside viewpoints. It’s
a rare occasion that we slip into his thoughts, and when we do, it’s a fairly
bleak picture. Lymond is not a happy man, nor even a well one. Despite the fact
that a good many of his problems are of his own making, he still presents a
tragic figure, one you can’t help but love…usually just after you’ve written
him off as irredeemable.
Around him is a cast
of loveable, memorable, properly fleshed-out supporting characters, men and
women, from all walks of life, suffering his whims, holding him up when needed,
loving him, most especially when he won’t love himself.
Character is my chief
concern when it comes to reading, but close second is the writing itself; the
prose and the storytelling. I don’t want to couch this as a warning, because
that seems insulting, both to Dorothy and her readers, but I will say that this
is not a breezy series. It’s not something you fall easily into just before
bed. It’s dense. The prose itself is beautiful and intelligent, but
written in a style more reminiscent of its setting – the 16th Century
– than its time of publication. It sounds like a historical novel.
Dunnett was brilliant, and she asks her readers to be acute and art-loving,
unapologetically. Sprinkled throughout – though especially in the first book –
are lines written in Latin, in French, in Spanish, in Turkish, even in Middle
English, and there is no translation. Innumerable references are made to
mythology, to historical literature, and to popular figures of Lymond’s time.
I hope this doesn’t
sound daunting. I was proud to have understood the mythology references, and
had just spent quite a long time studying the 15th Century Ottoman
Empire and Eastern Europe, but there was still much I simply didn’t know. My
approach while reading was to either make note of the things I wanted to look
up, or, simply keep reading and move on. I don’t feel like missing a few lines
of Latin or references here and there will diminish anyone’s understanding of
the plot or characterization.
As far as pacing
goes, Dunnett does a deft job of slowly ratcheting up the tension throughout
each book, and just when you think Lymond’s actions are inexcusable, he springs
his trap, and the truth tumbles out, and it’s generally a satisfying truth that
leaves you pleased, and happy, and more than a little impressed with our hero.
One of my favorite
things about Dunnett’s writing is the way her characters occupy a scene. The
dialogue itself is brilliant, yes, but she also meticulously tells us what
everyone’s face is doing. How they’re standing, how the breath catches in their
throats. How an errant breeze stirs the candle flames, and the light glimmers
off the rings on the hand Lymond has pressed over his eyes. It’s stunningly
visual; body language and lighting and facial expressions tell half the story;
they fill in the gaps that conversations – as in real life – leave between what
is said and what is felt. This is something I’ve always tried to do with my own
writing, so there was a sense of vindication in reading her work and watching
her do it – and do it so well. It also creates these gorgeous, heartbreaking
moments that bridge the centuries between these people and us, and allow us to
understand the simple language of human hardship.
There isn’t another
series quite like this. I’ve heard a half-dozen authors profess their love for
it, and talk about the ways it’s inspired them, and now that I’ve read it, I
understand. It’s a gift to any reader, but to a writer of serious fiction, of
any kind, I think it’s almost essential.
I don’t want to spoil
it for anyone, because I hope I’ve sparked enough interest to send new readers
toward it. But I will leave you with one of my favorite passages from book one,
The Game of Kings. It was the scene that gave me the shivers; that
hooked me in, once and for all.
Enter Francis
Crawford, in a meadow, with his brother, Richard, who’s recently saved his
life:
Lymond had stopped
the noise with his hands. The long, cramped fingers hid his face as he
crouched, the breath sobbing in his lungs and the blood flamboyant through the
crushed bandage, welling between his rigid elbows, soaking into the trampled
grass.
“Francis!” Excoriated
by the shuddering, raucous sound, Richard spoke harshly. “I can’t let you take
your own life.”
Lymond took his hands
from his face. The blood was everywhere now; his torment of grief public,
uncaring. “Must I plead?” He stopped in extremity, beaten, shaken by pulses,
and then struggled on. “You claim your right of execution…May I not exercise
mine? Could all the chains of Threave outweigh what I already bear, do you
think? Or all the Tolbooth’s pains be worse thatn this?...You can’t relieve me
of your weight, or help me, or free me…except in one way.”
Richard, his memory
taken by the throat, was mute. With a bitter courage, Lymond raised his head.
“I beg you.”
I will bring him to
you on his knees, and weeping, and begging to be killed.
Richard, rising, turned
on his heel and walked over the meadow without looking back.
In order:
The Game of Kings
Queen’s Play
The Disorderly Knights
Pawn in Frankincense
The Ringed Castle
Checkmate
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