Tag Archives: Anya Seton

Fiction, Reviews

‘Avalon,’ by Anya Seton

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Anya Seton (1904-1990) is famous as the author of several historical novels, some of which are still considered classics. Avalon, published in 1965, is not among that group. It is pretty readable, but this reader found it rather far-fetched, in two different senses – it has a very wide stage of action, and the plot is a tad implausible.

The story starts with Prince Rumon, a 10th Century Provencal prince related to the English royal family, getting shipwrecked on the Cornish coast on his way to see King Edgar. There he comes upon a dying woman, who places her daughter Merewyn his care and asks him to convey her to her aunt, a nun. Rumon is somewhat annoyed at the obligation, but he’s given his word. He does not tell Merewyn the secret her mother confided – that she is not, as she has been told, the daughter of a Cornish nobleman, a descendant of King Arthur. She is in fact the issue of rape by a Viking raider.

Merewyn promptly falls in love with the handsome Rumon, but he does not reciprocate. His mind is not on women, but on his dream of finding the mysterious, legendary Isle of Avalon. After unloading Merewyn with her aunt in the convent, he goes on to the king’s court, where he falls under the spell of Alfrida, Queen of England. Under that manipulative woman’s spell, Rumon makes some disastrous decisions, even as he and Merewyn, whenever they encounter one another, carry on a ping-pong affair of the heart, each one hot when the other is cold. The story then goes on to concentrate on Merewyn, whose path takes her as far as Iceland and Greenland.

Avalon almost works as a great story, I think, but not quite. It starts out seeming to center on Rumon’s search for Avalon, and on his and Merewyn’s convulsive love affair. But although those themes are never entirely forgotten, other concerns upstage them. The book’s conclusion attempts to bring it all together, in a Sigrid Undset-like scene of confession and reconciliation, but it left this reader feeling a bit let down. (Actually, it was too much like real life, as opposed to romance, I suppose.)

Anya Seton was admired for her research, and I was generally impressed in that regard – although she gave Vikings horned helmets (!). I know historians knew better by 1965, so there’s really no excuse for that. Her portrayal of King Ethelred the Unready is (it seems to me) a little unjust. She treats him as cowardly, not very bright, and sexually ambiguous. I believe he was a fairly capable king (he had a very long reign, something hard for fools to carry out in those days) in an impossible situation. The only character in this book who also appears in one of my books (Queen Emma, wife of Ethelred) is very different from the way I portrayed her – though I can’t claim any scholarly authority on the issue.

Avalon is a very long novel, and worth reading for those who (like me) are interested in the period. But it’s not a great epic romance. The Christian elements were handled pretty well, though.

Reading, Religion, Writing

Chronicle of a writer’s day

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“Daffodils and Glastonbury Tor.” Photo credit: Glastomichelle. Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons license.

What’s on tonight? Hey, how about a pointless account of my day? What could be more fun than that?

Last night my men’s Bible study group re-convened after several weeks of preemptions. I continue to be astonished how much these meetings nourish and uplift me. I feel an actual physical easing. I’ve been a solitary for so many years, getting by without close Christian fellowship. I knew that was the wrong way to do it, but I was hemmed in by… well, fear, to be honest.

I don’t think these guys will ever realize what they’re doing for me.

This morning I drove to the gym, and while I was inside, beavering away at my Sysiphian labors, a freezing rain came down, which covered my car windows in a matrix of icy pearls and made the road treacherous going home.

I worried about driving this afternoon, as I had a doctor’s appointment. But by the time I had to pull out again, the moisture had all melted and (mostly) dried off. I was able to reassure a technician, who took samples of my blood, on that point.

(No big deal on the doctor’s appointment, by the way. I wanted him to check something out, and he ordered tests, but didn’t seem greatly concerned. This stuff is just S.O.P. when you achieve venerability.)

Right now I’m re-reading two different books I read as a teenager, both of which deal with medieval Glastonbury. Because I’m writing a book about King Haakon the Good, and he grew up in England, and there’s good reason to think he might have spent time at that ancient site of monasticism and pilgrimage.

The first book is The Hidden Treasure of Glaston, by Eleanore M. Jewett. This is a book aimed at teenagers, and I remember that it surprised me when I read it (as a teenager), since I had known nothing about Glastonbury or the grave of King Arthur up to then. So far, I think it stands up pretty well. Entirely credulous about the legends, but well done withal. I’ll review it when I finish it.

The other book is Avalon, by Anya Seton, which I’ll also review. I read this as a Reader’s Digest Condensed Book (remember those?) back when it was new. It was quite a thrill for me, back in 1965 or 66, to discover any novel involving Vikings. I’m enjoying this book too, though I detect some historical errors. It’s set slightly before my Erling books.

What do I envy most in other historical writers’ works? The ability to describe geography, plants, and wildlife. I struggle with that stuff. “What kind of flowers would be blooming in an English marsh in Somerset in April, 980 AD, and how would they smell?” Would it be the same varieties they have now? How much have things changed in a thousand years? How much guessing do the authors do? Sigrid Undset was great at that stuff, but she was an amateur expert in botany.

What comforts me most? Finding mistakes. If successful novelists can screw up on details, maybe I can get away with a few howlers too. Because I know they’re there, like Communists under the beds (who were also actually there, as it happened).