A Burnable Book: A Novel

By Bruce Holsinger

In Chaucer's London, betrayal, murder, royal intrigue, mystery, and dangerous politics swirl around the existence of a prophetic book that foretells the deaths of England's kings. Bruce Holsinger's A Burnable Book is an irresistible historical thriller reminiscent of the classics An Instance of the Fingerpost, The Name of the Rose, and The Crimson Petal and the White.

London, 1385. Surrounded by ruthless courtiers—including his powerful uncle, John of Gaunt, and Gaunt's artful mistress, Katherine Swynford—England's young, still untested king, Richard II, is in mortal peril, and the danger is only beginning. Songs are heard across London—catchy verses said to originate from an ancient book that prophesies the end of England's kings—and among the book's predictions is Richard's assassination.

Only a few powerful men know that the cryptic lines derive from a "burnable book," a seditious work that threatens the stability of the realm. To find the manuscript, wily bureaucrat Geoffrey Chaucer turns to fellow poet John Gower, a professional trader in information with connections high and low. Gower discovers that the book and incriminating evidence about its author have fallen into the unwitting hands of innocents, who will be drawn into a labyrinthine conspiracy that reaches from the king's court to London's slums and stews—and potentially implicates his own son. As the intrigue deepens, it becomes clear that Gower, a man with secrets of his own, may be the last hope to save a king from a terrible fate.

Medieval scholar Bruce Holsinger draws on his vast knowledge of the period to add colorful, authentic detail—on everything from poetry and bookbinding to court intrigues and brothels—to this highly entertaining and brilliantly constructed epic literary mystery that brings medieval England gloriously to life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9780062240347

Bruce Holsinger

Bruce Holsinger is a professor of English Language and literature whose books on medieval culture have won major prizes from the Modern Language Association and the Medieval Academy of America. Bruce is also a Guggenheim fellow and the recipient of many prestigious research fellowships. He lives in Virginia with his wife and sons. His debut novel, A Burnable Book,was published to critical acclaim in 2014 and is the first to feature John Gower. The Invention of Fire is his second novel.

Book preview

Prologue

Moorfields, north of the walls

Under a clouded moon Agnes huddles in a sliver of utter darkness and watches him, this dark-cloaked man, as he questions the girl by the dying fire. At first he is kind seeming, almost gentle with her. They speak something like French: not the flavor of Stratford-at-Bowe nor of Paris, but a deep and throated tongue, tinged with the south. Olives and figs in his voice, the embrace of a warmer sea.

He repeats his last question.

The girl is silent.

He hits her.

She falls to the ground. He squats, fingers coiled through her lush hair.

"Doovay leebro? he gently chants. Ileebro, mee ragazza. Ileebro." It could be a love song.

The girl shakes her head. This time he brings a fist, loosing a spray of blood and spittle from her lips. A sizzle on a smoldering log. Now he pulls her up, dangling her head before him, her body a broken doll in his hands. Another blow, and the girl’s nose cracks.

"Ileebro!" Screaming at her, shaking her small frame.

"Nonloso! she cries. Nonloso, seenoray." She spits in his face.

He releases her and stands. Hands on his knees, he lets fly a string of words. Agnes can make nothing of them, but the girl shakes her head violently, her hands clasped in prayer.

"No no no, seenoray, no no no." She screams, sobs, now whimpers as her softening cries fade into the silence of the moor.

When she is still he speaks again. "Doovay leebro?"

This time the girl hesitates. Moonlight catches the whites of her eyes, her gaze darting toward the dense foliage.

In the thick brush Agnes stiffens, ready to spring. The moment lengthens. Finally, in the clearing, the girl lowers her head. "Nonloso." Her voice rings confident this time, unafraid.

The man raises a hand. In it he clutches a stick of some kind. No, a hammer. This is your last chance, my dear.

Agnes’s limbs go cold. Perfect gentleman’s English. More than that, she knows this man’s voice, has heard it close to her ear, though she can’t summon the face. One of a thousand.

Now the girl throws back her head, lips parted to the dark sky, the dread ascending in a last flux of words: "Though faun escape the falcon’s claws and crochet cut its snare, when father, son, and ghost we sing, of city’s blade beware!"

English again, brushed with an accent, confusing the night with these strange portents hurled at the stars. She’s taunting him, Agnes thinks. He hesitates, the hammer still in the air.

Finally it descends. There is a glint of iron, and a sound Agnes will never forget.

For hours Agnes waits, as the moon leaves the sky, as the din of night creatures falls slowly into a bottomless silence. Now dawn, birdsong mingling with the distant shouts of workingmen within the city walls. The priory rings Lauds, and light rises across the moor.

Time to move. She arms aside a span of branches, scoring her wrists on dense clusters of twigs and nubs. A tentative foot out among the primrose, a pale blanket of scent.

Her gaze glides over the clearing: the lean-to, the remnants of the fire, the body. Her killer has stripped the girl to the flesh. Not with unthinkable intent, but with a deliberation that makes clear his aim. He was searching her, picking at her, like a wolf at a fresh kill. No rings on the delicate fingers, no brooch at the slender neck, though a silver bracelet circles her wrist. With her right hand Agnes clumsily unclasps it, admiring the small pearl pendant, the delicate chain. She pockets it. The only other item of value is a damask dress, tossed over a rotten log. Too big and bulky to carry into the city, and too fine for Agnes to wear.

Her left arm, still pinned at her side, aches. The small bundle has been clutched too tightly to her breast, almost molded to her body. A thousand thorns wake her limb as she examines what the doomed girl thrust wordlessly at her hours ago. A bright piece of cloth, tied in leather cord, wrapped around a rectangular object of some kind. She collapses on a high stone and rests the bundle on her knees. With one tug the cord comes free.

A book. She opens it, looking for pictures. None. She tosses the thin manuscript to the ground.

What she notices next is the cloth. A square of silk, the embroidery dense and loud, the whole of it still stiff with the volume’s shape. She spreads the cloth to its full span. Here is a language she reads: of splits and underside couching, of pulled thread and chain stitch, an occulted story told in thread of azure, gold, and green. At the center of the cloth appear symbols that speak of ranks far above hers. Here a boy, there a castle, there a king; here lions rampant, there lilies of France; here a sword, there a shield.

Agnes knows something of livery, suspects the import of what she holds. A woman has just died for it, a man has just killed. For what? She remembers the girl’s last, haunting words.

Though faun escape the falcon’s claws and crochet cut its snare,

When father, son, and ghost we sing, of city’s blade beware!

The rhythm of a minstrel’s verse, one she has never heard. Yet the rhyme will not leave her mind, and she mouths it as she thinks her way back through the walls. Which road is less likely to be watched, which gate’s keepers less likely to bother with a tired whore, some random maudlyn dragging it into London at this hour?

Cripplegate. Agnes takes a final kneel next to the dead girl and whispers a prayer. She retrieves the book and wraps it once more in the cloth, hiding them both in her skirts.

Soon she has left the Moorfields and traced a route below the causeway, circling north of a city suddenly foreign to her, though she has spent nearly all her life between its many gates. She enters London dimly aware that she holds things of great value on her person and in her mind, though unsure what to do with any of them, nor what they mean, nor who to trust.

A cloth, a book, a snatch of verse.

Which is worth dying for?

Part i

The Prince of Plums

DAY XV BEFORE THE KALENDS OF APRIL TO THE IDES OF APRIL, 8 RICHARD II

(18 MARCH–13 APRIL, 1385)

Chapter i

Newgate, Ward of Farringdon

If you build your own life around the secret lives of others, if you erect your house on the corrupt foundations of theirs, you soon come to regard all useful knowledge as your due. Information becomes your entitlement. You pay handsomely for it; you use it selectively and well. If you are not exactly trusted in certain circles, you are respected, and your name carries a certain weight. You are rarely surprised, and never deceived.

Yet there may come a time when your knowledge will betray you. A time when you will find even the brightest certainties—of friendship, of family, even of faith—dimming into shadows of bewilderment. When the light fails and belief fades into nothingness, and the season of your darkest ignorance begins.

Mine fell in the eighth year of Richard’s reign, over that span of weeks separating the sobriety of Lent from the revelry of St. Dunstan’s Day. London often treats the passing of winter into spring with cold indifference. That year was no different. February had been an unforgiving month, March worse, and as the city scraped along toward April the air seemed to grow only more bitter, the sky more grey, the rain more penetrating as it lifted every hint of warmth from surfaces of timber and stone.

So too with the jail at Newgate: a stink in the air, a coating on the tongue. I had come over the bridge that leaden morning to speak with Mark Blythe, jailed on the death of his apprentice. I had come, too, as a small favor to the prior of St. Mary Overey, the Southwark parish that Blythe once served as head mason. For years I had let a house along the priory’s south wall, and knew Blythe’s family well.

We had been chewing for a while on the subject of the coming trial, and whether I might help him avoid it. No fire in the musty side-chamber. I was losing my patience, and more of my vision than usual. You have no choice, unless you want to hang, or worse, I told him. And there is worse, Mark. I’ve seen it. I’ve smelled it.

It was an accident, Master Gower.

So you’ve said, Mark. How could you have known the axle would break? Despite the prison chill a bead of moisture, thick as wheel oil, cleared a path down his cheek. Blythe had lost three fingers, two from his left hand as well as his right thumb, his body marked with the perils of his craft, and Newgate’s heavy irons had scored his forearms. I softened my voice. But the axle did break. The stones, half a ton of them, did spill out and crush that boy’s legs. Your apprentice did die, Mark. And the soundness of that cart was your responsibility.

Not’s how I saw it, and as for the axle . . . His voice trailed off.

I heard a sigh, realized it was my own. The problem, Mark, is that the law sees different kinds of accidents. You can’t claim accidental injury when your own negligence—when your carelessness has been taken as the cause of death.

Blythe’s hands dropped to the table.

Please don’t make me tell your wife you’ve just put your life in the hands of a petty jury.

His eyes widened. But you’d stand for me, wouldn’t you then, Master Gower?

I’m not an advocate, Mark. What I have are connections. And money. I can put those at your service. But not before a jury. Poor timing, I didn’t say. Before the crackdown last year I could have bribed any jury in the realm.

His shoulders slumped. No trial, then. How quick to get me out?

I hesitated. You’ll be here until next delivery. June, I would think.

"More time, sir? In here? He shook his head. They’ll send me down, sir, down to the Bocardo. They press them down there, it’s said. Sticks them with nails like Jesu himself, do abominations each to the other. Don’t want the Bocardo, Master Gower, not by the blood."

My hands settled on Blythe’s mangled fingers, stilling them against the wood. Mutilated, cracked, darkened with years of stonework, these fingers had shaped their share of useful beauty over the years: a lintel, a buttress, the pearled spans of a bishop’s palace, the mortaring so precise you would never know from beyond a few feet that what you saw was not a single stone. Mark, I will do what I can to—

Have an end!

I flinched at the yawn of old hinges and half-turned to the door. Tom Tugg, keeper of Newgate, a cock in the yard. He swung a ring of keys, each a gnarled foot of iron. Fees to be tallied and collected presently, he crooned, and two turnkeys did their work. Blythe moaned, the irons biting his swollen wrists.

It took a moment, but finally Tugg saw my face. Even in the scant light of three candles I caught his gape.

"Whatsit—who let this fiend speak to my prisoner? He spun on his men. Who put them in here?"

Your deputy. A small threat for a small thing. The turnkeys just shrugged.

Take him back, Tugg ordered, a spit of disgust. He looked at me and got my heartiest smile. He licked his lips. Come along, then.

I gave Blythe’s broad back a pat before he was pulled in the opposite direction. Tugg led me along the passage to the outer gatehouse. A fight had broken out in the women’s chamber, a crowd cheering the crunch of bone on the stone floor. At the gatehouse door Tugg turned on me. Well? His chin was pocked, unshaved.

I would like Blythe transferred to Ludgate until delivery.

Tugg wrinkled his heavy brow. Ludgate, you say? The new prison, recently completed at the western gate and now under the custody of the city chamber, housed those accused only of civil offenses. So pleasant were its conditions that stories were circulating of inmates striking deals to remain jailed. "You’ve got to understand my situation here, Gower, he said with a slight twinge of his jaw. Newgate’s abrim with spies."

So I’ve heard, I said, prepared for this. Secret alliances with the Scots, French agents lurking behind every door.

Twenty of them at last count, held without surety.

All the more reason to move Mark Blythe, then, for he’s no spy, I said. Relieve the overcrowding, put a petty criminal out of your mind. Almost there. You can say it was your idea, sound leader that you are.

He blew out a breath. A pound, Gower. It’ll take a pound to move him, what with that touchy keeper they got, dealings with the Guildhall—

Wonderful, I said. We’ll deduct it from your balance. Tugg was still down to me many pounds; twenty shillings would make hardly a dent.

See here, Gower—

Nothing to see, Tugg. I have your debt, I have your note. And I have the most horrendous bit of—

Ludgate, then, he said, with another thick sigh. He’ll be there till delivery.

I gave him a hard look. "Live delivery." He nodded.

Outside Newgate I retrieved my pattens, then trudged through the walls and up the muddy way to Holbourne, breathing shallowly on the bridge as I neared the outer reaches of the ward. Before the churchyard at St. Andrew a wild-haired man preached to the drizzle, his only parishioners a crescent of nosing goats. I caught a snatch of verse as I ducked into the narrow alley just east of Thavie’s Inn.

"Full long shall he lead us, full rich shall he rule,

Through pain of pestilence, through wounds of long war.

Yet morire is matter all sovereigns must suffer."

All kings must die. True enough, and the lines were well wrought, though the preacher soon lapsed into the usual fare. Corruption, gluttony, lust, the coming holocaust of the unfaithful. I wondered how long the poor man would last before joining Blythe in his cell.

At street level Monksblood’s stood open to the weather, a brick wedged beneath the alley door. I leaned in and gave a nod to the keeper. He tossed me a jar. At the foot of the stairs sat his daughter, a slight thing of about eight. With her foot resting on the next cask, she angled my jar beneath the tap and carefully turned the bronze spigot. I dropped a few pennies in her little palm. A wan smile, tired eyes bright for a moment beneath her shining brow, then she looked past me and up the stairs, waiting for her father’s next fish.

With the sour ale on my tongue I surveyed the undercroft tavern, lit weakly by a row of lanterns dangling from heavy beams. The tables were nearly empty, just two groups of men clustered along the hearth. Masons, fresh from work on the bridge. I got a few sullen looks. Steam rising from damp clothes, the muffled clatter of boots overhead.

In the far corner my friend sat alone, frowning into his jar as his finger traced a slow arc around its mouth. He seemed coiled on the bench, his brow knit, his eyes narrowed in concentration, the whole of him tensed against some unspoken thought.

Geoffrey, I said, and moved forward.

Half-turning with a start, he rose, his face blossoming into a smile. "Mon ami." He spread his hands.

As my arms wrapped his frame I felt the familiar surge of anticipation: for court gossip, for poetic banter, for news of mutual acquaintances. Yet beneath the thin coat I also felt ribs, hard against tightened skin. Chaucer had lost a couple of stone that winter; there was less to him since his latest return from abroad, and his unfashionable surcoat, of undyed wool cut simply with straight sleeves, lent an almost rural aspect to his bearing. Normally he would dress like a bit of a fop. I wondered what explained the change.

For a while we just drank, saying nothing, two hounds sniffing around after a long separation. Eventually he leaned over the board. How has it been, John? You know . . .

I looked away. Let’s not bleed that wound, Geoff.

He let that hang, then touched my elbow. I hope it has started to heal, at least.

I had her things removed and sold at Candlemas—most of them. Candlemas: purification, purging, the scouring of the soul and the larder. I thought, as I hadn’t in weeks, of Sarah’s prayerbook, its margins and flyleaves full of her jottings. It was one of the few of her possessions I had kept.

Chaucer moved his hand away. I asked about Philippa. He picked a splinter from the table. "Keeps to court, hovering around her sister and the Infanta. It doesn’t help that I’m traveling all the time. Calais, the cinque ports."

And this recent trip, to Tuscany and Milan? The custom was able to spare you? Back in November Chaucer had arranged for a deputy to step in for him at the customhouse. His trip south had been planned hastily, and for reasons he had kept to himself.

Some negotiations for the chancellor: a bribe here, a false promise there. He pushed a lump of talgar across the table. The Welsh cheese was an epiphany on my tongue: tart, rich, deliciously illegal. "Though this trip was a bit less official than the last. Inglese italianizzato, diavolo incarnato." He feigned a sinister smile.

An Englishman italianized is the devil incarnate. A judgment you inspired, I suppose?

You’ve been practicing!

I hadn’t, though the odd lesson from Chaucer in recent years had taught me a few useless phrases. "Donde il formaggio?" I said awkwardly, pretending to look around for the cheese.

He smiled. "It’s dov’è il formaggio, John, not donde. Where is the cheese, not where is the cheese from." He pushed the talgar my way.

"Dov’è. Right." I knifed another wedge.

He went on about his trip. And the books! In the Visconti libraries you can’t reach out a hand without—speaking of books, I’ve brought you a little something. From his bag he removed a volume and set it between us. "Il Filostrato. A work that has reminded me of you since I first read it years ago, though I can’t quite say why. It’s a tragedy of the Trojan War, and a story of love. Not to your usual tastes, though I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it. And it will give me an excuse to teach you more Italian."

I thanked him and stroked the embossed spine and cover. Calf, dyed a deep purple, cool and smooth. The writer?

Giovanni Boccaccio, he said. I tried to meet him once, but he wouldn’t see me. A recluse, practically a hermit.

Boccaccio. A name, like the talgar, worth savoring. I mouthed the rubrics as I leafed, admiring the ghostly thinness of the abortive vellum. No full-page illuminations, but the larger initials were ornate, with gold flourishes, a full palette of inks, descenders reaching out to curl around the peculiar beasts in the margins. There was a poem on the second leaf, a single stanza in a hand I knew well.

Go, little book, to our unfathomed friend,

Above his silvered head to build a shrine,

Retreat of Wisdom, Ignorance to mend.

Full oft there shall you comfort and entwine

His long limbs in bookish fetters benign.

Thou shalt preserve those aquamarine gems,

Or Gower’s friend shall cast you in the Thames.

As always, Chaucer’s verse captured its subject with the precision of a mirror. My thinning hair, shot through with spreading grey. My long frame, which had two lean inches on Chaucer’s, and he was not a short man by any measure. Finally the eyes. Gower green, a limner I once knew named their shade, claiming no success in duplicating it. Sarah had always likened them to her native Malvern Hills at noon, though she had died without fathoming the truth about these eyes, and their diminishing powers. Only Chaucer possessed that knowledge, expressed in a touching bit of protectiveness in the couplet.

I looked up to see him staring vacantly at the far wall. I closed the book.

Why did you want to meet here of all places?

I’m less known in Holbourne, he whispered in French, teasing, where there’s smaller chance of recognition than within the walls.

Ah, I see, I replied, also in French. "I am the object of a secret mission, then. Like your visits to Hawkwood and the Florentine commune."

His smile dimmed. Hawkwood. Yes. You know, I spent some time with Simon while I was in Florence.

"God’s blood, Geoffrey!"

He looked uncomfortable. You didn’t write to him after Sarah died.

No.

He’s your son, John. Your sole heir.

The child who survived, when three others did not. I drained my jar, signaled the girl for another.

Have you heard from him? he asked, reading my thoughts.

A fresh dipper, and I drank deeply. Tell me about your sons instead, I said, in a feeble change of subject. How is Thomas faring at the almonry?

Well enough, I suppose, he said.

And little Lewis?

With his mother, the little devil. He gave a half shrug. "Some call him the devil, our Hawkwood. But I suppose our king knows what he’s doing when it comes to alliances."

What few of them he has left, I said.

He looked at me, smiling. No King Edward, is he?

I held up my jar. Full long shall he lead us, full rich shall he rule.

His smile faded. Wherever did you pick that up, John?

A preacher, versing it up out on Holbourne just now.

Our sermonizers are quite poetical these days, aren’t they? he scoffed. There was a certain strain in his voice, though I thought nothing of it at the time.

Fools, if you ask me, to versify on that sort of matter, I said.

Better to stick to Gawain and Lancelot, I suppose.

Or fairies.

Or friars.

We laughed quietly. There was a long silence, then Chaucer sighed, tapped his fingers. John, I need a small favor.

Of course you do. Go on.

I’m looking for a book.

A book.

I’ve heard it was in the hands of one of Lancaster’s hermits.

I watched his eyes. Why can’t you get it for yourself?

Because I don’t know who has it, or where it is at the moment.

And who does know?

He raised his chin, his jaw tight. I knew that look. Katherine Swynford, perhaps. If a flea dies in Lancaster’s household she’ll have heard about it. Ask her.

She’s your sister-in-law, Geoff. I felt a twinge of misgiving. However innocent on its face, no request from Chaucer was ever straightforward. Why not ask her yourself?

She and Philippa are inseparable. Katherine won’t see me.

So you’re asking me to approach her?

He took a small sip.

Why me? I said.

How to put it? He pretended to search for words, his hands flitting about on the table. "This job needs a subterranean man, John. A man who knows this city like the lines in his knuckles, its secrets and surprises. All those shadowed corners and blind alleyways where you do your nasty work."

I gazed fondly at him, thinking of Simon and so much else. It was one of the peculiarities of our intimacy that Chaucer seemed to appreciate talents no one else would value in a friend. Here comes John Gower, it was murmured at Westminster and the Guildhall; hide your ledgers. Hide your thoughts. For knowledge is currency. It can be traded and it can be banked, and more secretly than money. The French have a word for informers: "chanteurs," or singers, and information is a song of sorts. A melody poured in the ears of its eager recipients, every note a hidden vice, a high crime, a deadly sin. Or some kind of illicit antiphon, its verses whispered among opposed choirs of the living and the dead.

We live in a hypocritical age. An age that sees bishops preaching abstinence while running whores. Pardoners peddling indulgences while seducing wives. Earls pledging fealty while plotting treason. Hypocrites, all of them, and my trade is the bane of hypocrisy, its worth far outweighing its perversion. I practice the purest form of truthtelling.

Quite profitably, too. The second son of a moderately wealthy knight has some choices: the law, the royal bureaucracy, Oxford or Cambridge, the life of a monk or a priest. I would rather have trapped grayling in the Severn for a living than taken holy orders, and it was clear that my poetry would never see the lavishments from patrons that Chaucer’s increasingly enjoyed. Yet I shall never forget the thrill I felt when that first coin of another man’s vice fell into my lap, and I realized what I had—and how to use it. Since then I have become a trader in information, a seller of suspicion, a purveyor of foibles and the hidden things of private life. I work alone and always have, without the trappings of craft or creed.

John Gower. A guild of one.

You can’t be direct with her about it, Chaucer was saying. This is a woman who takes the biggest cock in the realm between her legs. She’s given Lancaster three bastards at last count—or is it four? He waited, gauging my reaction.

What is this book, Geoff? What does it look like? What’s in it?

His gaze was unfocused and vague. To be honest with you, John, I don’t know. What I do know is that this book could hurt me. He blinked and looked at some spot on the wattle behind me. Then, in a last whisper of French, It could cost me my life.

Our eyes locked, and I wondered in that instant, as I would so often in the weeks to come, what price such a book might extract from my oldest friend. He broke the tension with one of his elvish smiles. If you can do this for me, John, get me this book, I’ll be greatly in your debt.

As you are so deeply in mine, he did not say; nor did he need to, and in his position neither would I have. I left Monksblood’s that morning bound to perform this small favor, as Chaucer had called it, for the one man in all the world I could never refuse. The man who knew my own darkest song.

Chapter ii

Gropecunt Lane, Ward of Cheap

Eleanor Rykener grunted, spat, wiped her lips. The friar covered his shriveled knob. Wouldn’t meet her eyes, of course. Franciscans, they never liked to look. He dropped his groats on the straw. Why thank you, Brother Michael, she said, her voice a sullen nip. The friar stared coldly at some spot on her neck, then shrugged on his cowl, edged around the old mare, and left the stall.

When she had dressed Eleanor stepped out into the light rain, looking down toward the stone cross before St. Pancras. The friar wouldn’t give that a glance either as he slunk around the corner of the churchyard toward Soper Lane. She raised her face to the sky, cleansing his piety from her tongue.

Regular as these little oinkers here. Mary Potts leaned against a post, gesturing to a dozen pigs nosing street muck.

Eleanor tossed her gossip a tired smile. And never has the good grace to render me confession after I grant him service.

They stood in silence for a while, watching the flow of late-afternoon traffic up along Cheapside, the creak of old wheels, the low calls of sheep, the urgings of hucksters, though the din seemed always distant from the ladies of Gropecunt Lane, a quiet byway of leased horsestalls and abandoned shopfronts that absorbed sound the way a dry rag absorbs ale, and as central as St. Paul’s to the human business of London. Every now and then this business would be theirs, as some desiring man, face to the ground, mind on slit, would make the turn and find a maudlyn to take his groats and squirt. Despite the lane’s reputation, the girls kept things tidy, raking the dirt and pavers themselves, cleaning up after animal and man alike. It was their own small piece of the city, where jakes plucked coin from their purses and maudlyns tucked it into theirs, the ordinances be damned. A simple thing.

Afternoon, m’pretties!

Eleanor turned. Joan Rugg lifted her skirts as she hopped from stone to stone in a vain attempt to avoid the mud.

What now what now what now, Mary Potts murmured.

With a final grunt, Joan heaved herself onto the pavers fronting the stalls and straightened her dress, a shapeless thing of stained wool. The Dun Bell, Joan’s girls called their bawd, with three chins stacked against her neck, lips full and always moist, beady eyes that moved more quickly than any other part of her, and a mass of matted hair entwined through the band of a wide hat she never removed. This, a splendid circle of leather and wool adorned with flowers of faded silk, had been given to her by a lover in her youth, she liked to recall. On that misty day its perch lent her large form an air of botanical mystery, as if the viewer were approaching a mountaintop garden above the clouds, or some strange, Edenic island in the sea. You ladies seen our Agnes? she asked.

Not today, said Mary Potts.

Thought you sent her up Westminster on Tuesday, said Eleanor, suddenly concerned. As far as she knew Agnes Fonteyn had been consorting with one of the king’s substewards, a longtime jake who would request Agnes’s company for a few days at a time during royal absences.

Didn’t come through. Joan raised her sleeve to scratch at her forearm. But I had a particular request for her this morning, from a fine gentleman of the Mercery. And a procuratrix’d like to make arrangements, right?

You talked to her mother down Southwark? Mary asked.

Sign of the Pricking Bishop, Eleanor added quickly, naming a common house in the stews where Agnes’s mother had long peddled flesh.

Joan scoffed. Would’ve had to wait in line a half day to get a word in. That whore’s swyving makes her daughter look like St. Margaret.

Did you try her sister? Eleanor said. Lives just up Cornhull.

Joan wagged her head. Took a peek in her fancy house, asked about a bit in Broad Street, but no sight of her ladyship.

A dungcart turned up from St. Pancras on the way to the walls, banded wheels groaning under the weight, the waste of man and beast souring the air. When the clatter receded, Joan turned back to them. Can’t have my maudlyns vanishing on me, not with Lents about to pass, appetites built up as they are. Forty days of nothing, then a week of everything, in my experience.

Mary groaned, her arms wrapping a post. Shoulda been a nun, shouldn’t I, maybe took vows with them Benedictines?

"Ah, but then you’d really be getting it in every hole, my dear," said Joan wisely.

The two of them shared the laughter for a bit, attracting a few looks from other girls up the lane as Eleanor clasped her hands in worry. Joan put a hand to her chin. With a sidelong glance at Eleanor, she said, Agnes got a little spot, though, don’t she? Out in the Moorfields.

A small walk short of Bethlem, said Eleanor with a natural shudder. I’ve been there with her. This was Agnes’s lair, as she called it: an old hunter’s blind outside the city walls where some of her wealthier jakes liked to take her, along with any other maudlyns they could cajole. They were, for the most part, young, reckless men with too much time and coin on their hands. Or fellows whose names might start with Sir.

Go have a look then, will you? said Joan. Her sweetest wheedle.

Eleanor hesitated. Rather not go alone.

Joan heaved a shoulder at Mary. Take the child with you. Be back bell of six, or shortly after. Sky looks to be clearing, so we’ll likely be busy tonight, the blood of London rising strong.

Mary, playing the genteel, crooked her elbow. Eleanor took her arm, and they left Joan Rugg standing beside the stalls. Bell of six, now, the bawd called after them. Eleanor waved an acknowledgment, only too glad to escape her sticky work for a few hours, though quite worried for Agnes.

A muddy trudge in the drizzle took them along Cheapside past the Standard at le Vout, where two vagrants hunching in the stocks chewed at tack as a one-armed boy softened the biscuits in ale. A straight course up Wood Street and they were at Cripplegate. Eleanor looked up as they passed beneath the gatehouse, the prisoners idling behind the high grates, the keepers giving the two mauds barely a glance. Agnes likewise would have strolled from the inner half of the ward to the outer without a second thought from these men. Strange, that she would have let off her work for longer than a few hours, let alone a full day; she seemed always wanting more shillings, the busiest girl on Gropecunt Lane and happy about it.

Strange, too, that she’d said nothing to Eleanor about her plans, for the two maudlyns had long been intimate, swapping jakes, lending a coin here and there, looking out for each other in their carnal trade, and always mindful of the situations that had led them to it: Eleanor, an orphan, her younger brother apprenticed to a Southwark butcher who beat him mercilessly; Agnes Fonteyn, who had fled her mother’s bawdy house in the stews for a higher cut of her skincoin. Tightest yoke a’ mauds you’ll ever see, Joan Rugg liked to say, and it was true.

Once past Cripplegate they skirted the northern wall past the bricked-up postern at the foot of the causeway and soon came to the edge of an overgrown orchard. Here the lane opened out into the broad expanse of the Moorfields, a linked series of marshy heaths that formed London’s nearest hunting grounds, mostly deer and fowl. A few drier, higher bits could handle cows at pasture, though for the most part the whole area was a fen. That late afternoon Eleanor and Mary saw no one moving among the high tufts of moorgrass.

The first path off the causeway led to a spot beneath a large, lone oak. From there a smaller path branched off to the east. Ahead loomed the mass of Bethlem Priory, its walls heightened and buttressed since the order started taking in lunatics the year before. Eleanor recalled her last visit to Agnes’s lair, the mix of routine coupling and utter terror. The desperate gropings of an aging squire, the loose spread of his gut on her back like a jelly blanket—then a sound that shriveled the squire’s cock, and her own as well: a lunatic’s scream, echoing from the Bethlem walls. Since that night Eleanor had heard similar accounts of the priory’s madmen, fighting their chains as the canons extended their charity to the wrong of mind.

Eleanor saw the white rock that marked the final turn. They pushed through the heavy foliage until they reached a high wall of hawthorn. A strong scent of primrose masked a sweeter, sicker smell beneath. Mary touched her arm. Eleanor held her breath and stepped into the dense brush. A flash of bare skin on the ground, glistening, moist. Eleanor pushed aside the last branches. They saw the body.

She was facedown in the wetness, naked, her skin marbled with mud and rain. Her hair, caked in soil, had spread into three slicked highways from the crown of her crushed head, opened to the vermin. Beside her left hand lay a shoeing hammer, its handle resting carelessly over a root. Eleanor, in a daze, picked it up, felt its killing weight. As she stood feeble guard, Mary, with a heavy sigh, squatted in the mud beside the body. Oh, you poor thing, she said. Oh, Agnes, you were so lovely, oh, my beautiful.

Turn her over then, get her face out of the peat, said Eleanor, hammer still at the ready. Something didn’t make sense. Agnes’s hair—

Mary pulled at the girl’s shoulders. With a suck of mud she came free. Once she was flipped Mary used her hem to wipe the dark patches from the girl’s ruined face.

They stared down at her, at first disbelieving what they saw. Eleanor glanced into the hunter’s blind. A pile of women’s finery thrown over a stump: an ivory busk, a taffeta cape trimmed with fur, more silk than she and her fellow maudlyns could ever hope to afford, all in a style that Eleanor—who had a poor girl’s eye for new jet, could tell you who in town sold the latest dresses from Ghent and Bruges—had rarely seen in London. She looked back at the face.

This dead girl was indeed lovely. She was not Agnes Fonteyn.

Chapter iii

La Neyte, Westminster

Wat Tyler. Jack Straw. The city as powerless as a widow, Troy without its Hector, the commons running like barnyard animals through her streets, taking her bridges, torching her greatest houses, storming the Tower and murdering the lord chancellor and the lord treasurer. Though it had been four years since the Rising swept through London, the memories still haunted our great but tired city, pooling beneath the eaves, drifting along narrow alleys with the continuing threat of revolt.

No one had been more affected by the events of those grim weeks than John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. After stealing everything worth taking, Tyler and his gang burned Gaunt’s Thames-side palace to the ground, and the ruins of the Savoy would sit along the Strand for years: a charred reminder of the brute power of the commons, and the constant threat embodied by the city’s aggrieved poor.

Now the duke avoided London as much as possible, centering his life and his business around the castle of Kenilworth far to the north. When his presence was required in the city Gaunt would appear for a few days or a week at a time, the grudged guest of those magnates willing to tolerate his household, and betting on his survival. Often he would lodge at Tottenham, though that Lent he was residing at La Neyte, the abbot of Westminster’s moated grange a mile upriver from the abbey, and it was there I would be granted an audience with his sometime mistress, arranged the day before.

The duke himself was just leaving the abbot’s house as I arrived in the upper gateyard, his retainers gosling along behind him. He half-turned to me, his brow knit in fury as he acknowledged my bent knee with a curt nod. Those around him knew better than to speak, as did I.

In the summer hall I moved slowly along the wall, mingling with the line of bored servants as thick hangings brushed my cheek. The chamber teemed with lords of various ranks who had been seeking a word with the duke before his abrupt departure, and I tried to go unremarked by those remaining. My eyes, uncooperative, failed to spy a drip bucket, full of rainwater from the porous ceiling. It surrendered its contents to my left foot, then clattered across the floor. There was a hush. It was Michael de la Pole who broke it in his graceful way. Not to worry. The abbot has ordered some silken buckets, said the lord chancellor into the silence, giving me a slight smile. Laughter, though not at my expense, filled that portion of the hall, and the baron resumed his conversation.

Standing behind the baron, shifting a little as the hubbub returned, Robert de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, gave me an ugly look. I glanced away, though not before noting his discomfort. De Vere had likely been the target of Gaunt’s ire, and now here’s John Gower, come to brew more trouble, as if the particular group of magnates clustered in the hall at La Neyte that day did not promise enough. A duke, an earl, and a baron, a tensile triangle of mutual suspicion and dependence. Gaunt was still furious at de Vere for turning the king against him at the February tournament at Westminster, where a plot against the duke’s life was only narrowly averted—and this after all the business the year before at the Salisbury Parliament, where Gaunt’s supposed plot against his royal nephew nearly led to the duke’s hanging on the spot. The plot was spun of gossamer, of course,

Reviews for A Burnable Book

[books9n9pickles · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's been a long time since I enjoyed a book so much. I could hardly put it down and was sad when I finished--always a high compliment for a book.

I was initially attracted to this book shortly after reading Richard II. A traitorous book that supposedly prophesys the king's assassination is making the rounds in medieval London. Many are skeptical, but some may be inspired to act, and that means that just about everyone of every political persuasion wants it. There's just one problem: the book is missing.

This isn't a story of the royal and titled as most historical fiction about this time period is. Our protagonist, based on the real-life poet John Gower, is not nobility, and most of our other protagonists are maudlyns--prostitutes. One, Eleanor/Edgar Rykener, is even inspired by a historical account of someone trans/gender fluid (these terms are concepts not being around at the time, we don't know for sure, but Eleanor seems to prefer being a woman).

Sadly, I probably won't get around to a longer review.

[vesper1931 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

In 1385 to even think the King dead is treason a book appears which has predicted the precise death of the first 13 Kings of England, the last is Richard II, his life is now in mortal danger.
Geoffrey Chaucer persuades a fellow poet - John Gower - to find the manuscript and therefore prevent the death of the King.
An interesting story, but I felt at times there was too much description which slowed the pace of the tale

[jerame2999 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I made 200 pages. I may go back or I may not. I ultimately just didn't care about the characters or the story. Oh no the king will be killed... and? A large cast of characters but 200 pages in so thinly drawn they all seemed more stereotypes than people. I was hoping for more Chaucer and got one or two scenes without any real punch. I am sure that they're plenty of people who could love and appreciate this book, I am not among those people. Well written but ultimately boring.

[decaturmamaof2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really enjoyed this - can't wait to queue up volume 2!

[justagirlwithabook · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was really well done. Holsinger incorporates a lot of historical events and people that makes the fictional storyline come to life. Any book about books will have bookworms coming out of the woodwork, and this was a wonderful tale about a book and the people whose lives are directly impacted by it and its prophetic words. The story takes many twists and turns, and the reader finds themselves wondering how all the pieces are related and when they'll all come together (as they do, towards the end).

[murderbydeath · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was both everything I love and everything I loathe about historical fiction. Everything I love includes characters pulled straight out of history: Chaucer, Gower, Richard the II, Hawkswood, and plots that involve books and codes and secret symbols. Everything I loathe is, ironically, everything that makes this a more or less accurate work of historical fiction. Told from different points of view throughout the book, two of the perspectives are those of prostitutes and there's no sugar coating the language or the profession. It's raw and graphic and just not what I enjoy reading no matter the setting or the time period. There are also POVs from mercenaries and the acts they threaten to carry out and ultimately do carry out are disgustingly graphic and inhumane. Verisimilitude can go too far for my tastes and does so here. But, by far, the things I loved kept me glued to this book, even when the things I loathed would have me DNF it. It was so well written, I wanted to know what was going to happen to John Gower, and Simon, and Millicent. And of course, I wanted to know more about the Burnable Book. So, if your tastes are more tolerant than mine, I highly recommend this book. I'm not at all sorry I read it - it was a great story, I couldn't put down - even when it offended my delicate sensibilities.

[catzkc · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The author really made medieval London come alive from the page. He clearly has a good understanding of the times and the historical setting. It did take me a couple of tries to finish this, but I'm so glad I finally did!

On my first try, I gave up when the plot started really getting into the politics of the day, something I really didn't know anything about, which meant I quickly got lost. However, this is a book I could never quite get out of my head. Eventually, when I picked it back up, I took some time going thru the character list and reading a little bit about them on Wikipedia, and made note of all the names they went by (i.e., James Gaunt=Duke of Lancaster=Lancaster). I do recommend if you aren't familiar with the major players of the day to make a copy of the Cast of Characters and maybe even the family tree that the author has at the beginning of the book so you can easily refer to it.

Loved the detailed Author's Notes at the end too! I do have a little pet peeve of mine, when author's use phrases in a foreign language and don't translate them, which this author did at times. But that's my only real complaint about the book.

[othemts · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This historical novel is set in post-plague London during the reign of Richard II.  The key character in this novel is John Gower, a real life poet who Holsinger has also earning his keep by trading in information and intrigue.  The events of the novel kick off when Gower's friend Geoffrey Chaucer (Gower and Chaucer were friends in real life too) asks Gower to find a book that has prophecies of the deaths of English kings that would be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands.  Gower's investigations take him into brothels and the criminal underworld of London which Holsinger describes in all their gritty details.  Too often Holsinger tells instead of shows, so the narrative gets paused while a character explains exactly what has happened. The plot gets too complicated as loose threads are tied off too soon and new contrivances are added to keep the narrative moving.  Holsinger is good at getting the feel of medieval London and has a few good ideas, but the book never lives up to its ambition.  

[sensitivemuse · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Definitely not a book to be read in a quick setting. Are you into literary figures? Historical fiction? Historical mystery filled with spies and intrigue? Something that takes place in the Middle Ages? All of the above in one book? Sure! Let’s take it!I’d have to say, there can be no better description of the Middle Ages than in this book. Everything was so visual and well written. The setting itself has good amounts of description, the characters definitely helped as well. They even had the mannerisms and speech of the time. Speaking of characters.Oh Chaucer. No. Just no. I don’t like you. He’s not exactly painted in the most best of light here is he? Manipulative, wife stealer, even with his supposed close friend he’s not upfront and honest with. You definitely have sympathy with Gower here. Even though he has a questionable job and past with his son Simon, he’s still a much more likable character than Chaucer in my opinion. Other characters that I liked; Edgar/Eleanor - the story arc with Millicent and Agnes was a good one. I enjoyed their side of the story with the ‘dregs’ of society. Another character I liked, Hawkwood. Yes he’s an odious villain that oozed all the horrible things you didn’t like. But he was such an awesome villain! Cold, calculating, and not one to trifle with when you get on his bad side and think you can get away with (that poor sod - those who read the book should know what I’m talking about)The plot itself was pretty good. Lots of plot twists and turns. You’re left peeling layer after layer of intrigue and mystery while you get to the bottom of it. Once you had it figured out there’s still more left to figure out. I enjoyed it! There’s something about all the layers of intrigue that makes it a more compelling read.However, a couple of things that made this read a not so easy one. The amount of characters. Quite a few to keep track of. So this isn’t the type of book that you can drop and come back to after a while (I mistakenly did that unfortunately, as life got in the way). You need to take you time, get to know the characters, the plot and how everything comes together. It sometimes can get a little confusing so some extra attention is needed while reading this book. Also, have a dictionary beside you. I suppose to keep with the medieval thing, there’s some medieval terminology that you’ll need to familiarize yourself with. It adds more to the book but I could have done without it. To be on the bright side, my vocabulary has increased with various middle age words.Overall, take the time to read the book and enjoy. The spinning and weaving of the web and trying to find the center spot is fun and always is a treat to read when figuring out a historical mystery. Greatly recommended for Hist-fic fans.

[cariola_6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Although I'm not usually a reader of mysteries, historical or otherwise, I was intrigued by the appearance of poet John Gower as the main character and his friend, Geoffrey Chaucer, as a secondary character. Holsinger creates a detailed and fascinating portrait at medieval London (or, as he would have it, three cities: London, Westminster, and Southwark), from the court of Richard II to the stews of Gropecunt Lane. The first chapter is designed to draw the reader in, and that it did. A young woman, Agnes Fonteyn, is hiding in the bushes, watching a horrific scene. Another young woman, this one dressed in rich attire, has just shoved a book into Agnes's hands as her pursuer approaches. Viciously beating the stranger, he keeps asking a question that Agnes does not understand--"Doovray libroo?"--before brutally killing her with a hammer. And thus the mystery begins.Gower, a lawyer as well as a part-time poet, hears rumors of a mysterious book full of cryptic prophecies that describe the deaths of thirteen kings of England, the last being the current young king, Richard II. The book, and cloth that covers it, point towards the king's uncle, John of Gaunt, as the mastermind of the assassination plot. Gower's search for the book and his efforts to unravel its secrets take him from the Inns of Court to the remote libraries of Oxford, from the royal court to the brothels of Southwark. And he is not the only one interested in the book. His friend Chaucer has asked him to find it, and Agnes, her sister Millicent, and their friend, a transvestite prostitute named Edgar/Elinor, at first ponder its mysteries but then decide to seek a buyer. And there are many interested in this burnable book.Along the way, Holsinger provides plenty of subplots. There's Gower's relationship with his estranged son Simon; Elinor's attempts to save her butcher's apprentice brother Gerald from his brutal master; the power and pull of Kathryn Swynford, Gaunt's mistress; Simon's service to an English mercenary in Italy; and the sad story of the murdered young woman. So with all this going on, why did my interest start to wain about 2/3 through the book? I can only attribute it to my lack of interest in the mystery genre. Regular readers of historical mysteries will undoubtedly find it more appealing. The book is very well written and the world it creates fully fleshed out; the characters are each, in their own ways, fascinating and sympathetic; and the books structure, a series of short chapters moving amongst the various characters, works well. But I'm just not a fan of the genre and will likely pass on the sequel.

[mysterymax_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I looked forward to reading this. It had all the right ingredients - great reviews, historical, England, a protagonist named Gower, a book...but.The reviews all more or less hinted that the book was off to a slow start but you had to hang in. I just couldn't. Perhaps if I knew that period of English history better, but I had to keep referring to the list of characters. I finally gave it up.

[sarah_gruwell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Book was an ARC copy from the publisher in exchange for a honest review. Received through GoodReads. Thanks for the book!The book was a little hard for me to get into at first. Told from multiple points of view, there's a lot of world building and story foundation being laid in the first, I'd say, fourth of the book. And while I did become engaged with the characters and their struggles (I mean, the book starts with a murder so yeah, excitement is present!), I found myself more than once with my attention wondering. But once the mystery really hit its stride, it was a break neck ride to the end.The story in this novel is something else. Extremely complex and vivid, the narrative transports the reader into a maelstrom of intrigue, mystery, prophecies, and regicide. I found myself surprised more than once at where the story went. Twists and turns presented themselves throughout the entire work, right up until the very end. The reader can tell that the writer is a medieval scholar; every street, bishop's palace, hovel, aristocrat, and prostitute comes to vivid life. The reader can literally hear the roar of the London masses, see the glitter of royal processions, smell the ink used by the poets and scribes of the era, and experience the hardship of a prostitute's life right with the girls themselves.Despite a somewhat rocky start, this novel is a stand out for historical fiction. Once the action really starts flowing, the reader is kept on the edge of their seat and guessing about where the story is really going to go. A historical setting that literally breathes with life doesn't hurt either. If you enjoy historical fiction and mystery, definitely check this one out.

[victoriajz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

By its end I enjoyed it quite a bit. It took me a bit of time to get into it and understand the meaning of the letter interspersed within the book. I did like the Gower character.

[randalrh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I had to work my way through this, but it was worthwhile in the end. There is a lot of atmosphere crammed in, and characters who need a bit better motivation to do justice to the overall plot, but the plot itself, and the players in it, come together pretty well in the end. I'm not sure I like seeing it described as John Gower, #1, because Gower himself seems one of the more lackluster elements of the book.

[lschwarzman_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a well written, fun romp through the Medieval London following a book as it travels to England from Italy and becomes the potential downfall of the monarchy. It is rich in characters, from Chaucer to Eleanor/Edgar Rykener (read the book to find out about THAT character--no spoiler alerts here!). This is historical fiction at its best. I can't wait to read "The Invention of Fire."

[nataliesw · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this book a lot, mostly for the way Holsinger built the story on the fascinating history of the time.

[janeajones · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I found this to be a thoroughly entertaining, well researched medieval mystery set in the 14th c. London, Westminster and Southwark of Chaucer and his literary friend John Gower. Holsinger is a medieval literary scholar and has obviously delighted himself by delving into the intersecting milieus of court intrigue, legalistic bureaucracies, foreign intrigue and the stews of Southwark's underbelly. The characters are memorable, and the mystery is a bit of a wild wide. Highly recommended for those who enjoy this genre.

[katerobinson-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have great admiration for Bruce Holsinger's work as a professor and he didn't disappoint with the detailed research or lyrical writing in A Burnable Book.

[agarcia85257 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Summary - A Burnable BookAuthor - Bruce HolsingerSummary - England of 1385 and the young King Richard is busy trying to unite his island country with enemies surrounding him as well as from within his own court. The back biting and intrigue in his court leaves the young King with few to trust. His uncle and trusted advisor, John of Gaunt, is one of his few trusted allies.But another threat has come about. A book. A book of prophecies that details the deaths of the last dozen rulers of England. A book of prophecy that details in verse, the death of young King Richard. Across the country songs are sung of the verses from this book and it falls to poet John Gower to find and take hold of this book, Liber De Mortibus Regum Anglorum. The Book of the Deaths of English Kings.The book itself, Gower learns, is considered to be sacrilege and have a copy in your possession is punishable by death. Gower must find the book, decipher the final verses that detail the death of King Richard and save the life of the King. In doing so, find a way to say the life of his estranged son.Review - The Burnable Book is an excellent read. Impeccably researched and paced, the novel rolls along with a steady wave of relentlessness that is difficult to achieve in historical novels that are not embroiled in erotica. Though John Gower is the primary protagonist, the novel is filled with actual historical figures and they are more to the novel than pop in and pop out characters. One of the things that Holsinger does so well also is develop the backstories to minor characters as the women of Gropecunt Lane, you can guess what business they are in.The Burnable Book is a real good read, strong in story and powerful in characters.

[pife43-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One of those books that I will have to return to one day to read again. It requires more than a "quick-read" approach, which is how i began reading. I was impressed with the details of the timeframe that the story takes place in. Much of the story is seen through and approached through the eyes of prostitutes, other parts are narrated by higher society members, which gives a nice, well rounded account. With an intricate plot, the story unfolds at a pace that kept me interested and wanting more.
I love the historical era of the story, and as a result, was tempted to return to one of my all time favorites, "Dream of Scipio", by Iain Pears.
This book by Bruce Holsinger is a perfect example of why I love historical fiction so much. I learned alot, was taken to another world, another place and time, and was treated to a wonderful mystery, well conceived, timed, and written.
I won this book as a "Giveaway", and am totally and completely satisfied with the results.
Thank you, Mr. Holsinger, for such a rich and satisfying gift.

[santhony_35 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is an interesting piece of historical fiction/mystery set in 14th century England. Among its characters are actual historical figures Geoffrey Chaucer, John of Gaunt, John de Vere and King Richard II. The story line centers upon a mysterious book that purports to be a prophesy of the death of the 13 English Kings since William the Conqueror, including the current, living King.Possession of such a book would be deemed treason and several different factions battle for ownership of the work, for various reasons. Court intrigue is the order of the day, as the book finds itself in the possession of a group of prostitutes. Parts of the story are intriguing, and there are several different threads, some of which are certainly more entertaining and even educational then others. All in all, it is a pretty average effort in the mystery genre, moved up slightly by its setting in medieval England.

[csweder · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Glad it is finished.

It could have been that this is not the correct book for an audio book, regardless I didn't enjoy it.

[thejohnsmith · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It took a good few chapters for me to become fully committed to this tale of devious schemes, murder and intrigue in Mediaeval England but I’m glad I stuck with it as it turned out to be a satisfying story that eventually hit the spot.

[gwendydd · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Let me preface this review by saying that I am either the best or worst type of reviewer for this book. I went to graduate school for medieval history, and wrote my dissertation about prophecies in late medieval Britain, so I know a lot about the period and subject matter of this novel. I generally don't like historical fiction: I find that very few authors actually do a good job of portraying the mindset and habits of thought of medieval characters, for the very good reason that even historians often find the actions of medieval people to be inexplicable, and it often takes entire academic books to describe small details of medieval behavior. I also wish more academics would write historical fiction, because I think historical fiction often does a disservice to its readers by misrepresenting the period, and as someone who has taught college-level medieval history, I found myself spending a lot of class time helping students unlearn the things they think they know about the middle ages from reading historical fiction and watching movies. I don't like the fact that modern culture puts a huge rift between academic history and popular history, and I think academics should be reaching out to the general public more. I would not have read this book if it had not been written by someone with an academic background.So with that manifesto out of the way, I can tell you what I thought of the book.Meh.It was okay. The story was suspenseful, I suppose, but for the first half of the book there were too many different storylines, and it was absolutely impossible to understand how they fit together, so that made things confusing and decreased the suspense. The characters weren't terribly interesting - they were all pretty one-dimensional. I found it jarring that Gower's storyline was in the first person, while the other storylines were in the third person. There didn't seem to be any good reason to do it that way.I was really annoyed that almost all of the female characters were prostitutes (or mistresses, which amounts to the same thing). Late medieval London was actually a really interesting time and place for women, and there are so many more vivid and surprising occupations that Holsinger could have chosen (young girls from the country moved to London to work as household servants to raise money for marriage; women worked as brewsters and hucksters; a single woman could have a lot of independence). I suppose it is nice that women played a big role in the story - and even influenced history - but Holsinger really missed a great opportunity to dispel some myths about medieval women.I also think Holsinger goes too far with ideas of encryption, spying, and trained assassins. Those are all very modern concepts, and although there were some analogues in medieval society, Holsinger's portrayal of them in this book is way too modern, and felt like a bit of a cop-out at the end - it feels like he wrote himself into a hole, and couldn't find a good medieval way to get himself out of it.Finally, the prophecies... this is my area of expertise, and I thought it was really fun that the ludicrously obscure subject of my dissertation should play such a major role in a novel. But Holsinger doesn't represent medieval prophecies very well. The prophecy that plays such a major role in this book makes way too much sense. Late medieval prophecies in Britain were utter, incomprehensible doggerel. They were intentionally written to be as obscure, vague, and open to interpretation as possible. The prophecy in A Burnable Book doesn't really resemble the prophecies that were actually being written at the time. Another aspect of prophecies that Holsinger didn't use in the novel is that they were usually written by, and read by, the lower classes. Class warfare definitely plays a part in the novel, but all of the classes seem equally concerned with this prophecy. Holsinger doesn't devote much attention to the power structures at work with prophecies: they were a way for lower classes to express their opinions about politics, and although the upper classes took them seriously, they weren't concerned with specifics as much as they were concerned with the dissemination of prophecies. I'm definitely nit-picking here.So all in all.... the book was fine, I don't regret reading it, but I was disappointed with it as a means of merging academic and popular culture, and didn't find the story itself to be all that great.I listened to the audiobook, and Simon Vance is as impeccable as ever.

[goth_marionette · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was very excited to read this book because of the time period and that Chaucer was included. It was a pleasant book. It is a great light read. I enjoyed the character development and the plot and while it was engaging it was not engrossing. I would recommend it as a nice light read for fans of medieval mysteries.

[dono421846 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unlike many instances of the genre, this tale of intrigue and murder centering on a book is credible. No outlandish secret societies are required, but only the ordinary political machinations taking shape through some lines of poetry. Not a perfect fiction, but wholly engaging. Some may find the language a tad difficult at the outset, but one becomes accustomed to the fourteenth century imagery employed.

[mary6508 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was eager to read this book because I'd had a class on Chaucer in college, and it sounded like fun. But I actually found it kind of boring. I felt the writing assumed that the reader knew a lot about the time period and English history. Also, many of the period colloquial terms that were used were never explained. For instance, if I hadn't already read Chaucer, I wouldn't have known what swyvving was. Perhaps the author should have added a glossary. I'm sure some history buffs must have really enjoyed this book, but I was bored. I only finished it because I had to write a review. My rating is really more of a 2 1/2 than a 3.

[farree_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Here we have a nicely done historical / mystery / intrigue / espionage novel set in the late 14th century, with several historical personages represented. I particularly enjoyed the interchanges between John Gower and his various antagonists (Chaucer, De Vere, Katharyn Swinford, Bishop Braybrooke, and others). The book does read like an American wrote it (doesn't read with the "English Accent" of 19th century novels of Dickens, Collins, LeFanu, etc.), but that doesn't really detract from the story. I give it:

[janerawoof · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Actually 2.5. This started out as a 3 or 3.5, but as it progressed I became impatient with it. The premise of a treasonous [or 'burnable'] book, analogous to the prophecies of a Nostradamus, was interesting; gnomic verses are open to multiple interpretations. Each of thirteen prophecies tells of the death of one of England's kings, from William the Conqueror until the present Richard II. Richard II's regicide is predicted in the thirteenth prophecy. The others have already occurred. The novel is told partially from the perspective of John Gower, a poet, "trader in information", and friend of fellow poet and author Geoffrey Chaucer. Gower wishes to obtain the book, as do others, including a group of prostitutes. The women want to sell it to the man paying the most for it. Everyone wants to find out the identity of the assassin and prevent the king's death on St. Dunstan's Day. The book is wrapped in an embroidered cloth. To what extent is that connected with the book? The story spans England to Italy. After much deceit, political intrigue, treachery, more dead bodies, St. Dunstan's Day dawns, with the procession of the king and his court to hear mass. Will the assassination be prevented? For awhile, the first death, the search for the book, discovering the prophecies were written in a coded form, and the meanings were fascinating, but then explanations got tiresome and too arcane for my taste. I was irritated at the switching back and forth from Italian plot to that set in England. I absolutely did not like any of the business with the prostitutes; some of the descriptions were much too earthy for my taste. The characters were all very flat. I thought the story was poorly paced; good beginning, long, boring stretches, then a too rushed conclusion.

[jbd1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of the better examples of this genre in a while, written as it is by an excellent scholar and writer who's clearly done his research. That said, there was just something about it that kept me from getting completely immersed, and it wasn't the sort of book I just wanted to read straight through without putting down for a moment. Perhaps a bit overly complicated, or something.There are utterly delightful elements, though, such as sometime-narrator John Gower's visit to Richard de Bury's library in Oxford, which I enjoyed tremendously. Overall, a perfectly fine read, and better than many of its type.