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Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell Sunday Book Circle - Part I

Hamnet is about William Shakespeare’s son who had died young, how he had died, and how his family had reacted to his death.

I’m not sure what I think of this novel. The prose is good, the historical context and world-building is well done, but it kind of drifts around time and place seemingly to extend the novel. This is another book that needed more blood on the cutting room floor. There were also some very obvious “literary” choices that I was rolling my eyes at. But I’ll talk about what I liked first.

O’Farrell’s prose has a nice dreamlike quality to it that fits this story very well. We don’t actually know what happened with Hamnet. Nor do we have a lot of details on Shakespeare’s life. Creating a sense of unreality fits with those facts. Her poetic prose is the kind of stuff I love for a literary novel. It’s my preference if the novel is going to take itself seriously because dry prose can get boring with these very cerebral novels. Dry prose works better in genre fiction than in the literary because literary novels are typically not plot based. Genre can move a reader through a novel based on plot alone. While literary novels tend to be weak when it comes to plot, so either they need a stronger plot or really amazing prose. O’Farrell does a much better job utilizing sound in her prose than a lot of literary novelists these days which rely too much on theme. So I enjoyed Hamnet a lot more than I did a lot of other literary novels that have come out in recent years.

The prose does a lot of work for the mystical elements of the novel such as Agnes’ mother, Agnes herself, and the connection between Judith and Hamnet. These mystical elements are very enjoyable. They can be a bit too female focused at times. As if women are mystical if only they would pay attention to it. There are no male characters who are mystical and that seems lopsided. The closest we come to one is Hamnet’s connection to Judith, but that is an old mystical idea having more to do with twins than it does with the individuals themselves. The magical quality of a twin is inherent in knowledge of their status as a twin and had their twin died before anyone was aware they existed, no magical quality would exist. Agnes and her mother are both essentially witches, but both were effective enough with treatment of ailments to go unscathed if not mostly shunned by society. Without going into Agnes’ head, the witch quality of the two of them is down to their abilities as an apothecary. Except Agnes knows things. She doesn’t always state what she knows, but she knows way more than is normal. For example, she knows her husband has sex with other women while in London.

I actually don’t know if I believe she does know this for a fact. It mostly seems like a supposition she has. Especially when he is gone for too long. He didn’t exactly admit to it either. Don’t get me wrong, I think given the situation most men would be sleeping around, given the time period too, and it would still be hurtful to Agnes for him to do so, even if it was SOP for most men to do that. A lot of people like to pretend that because adultery was more common for men in the past that there were no hurt feelings, but this isn’t true. Even Catherine of Aragon was upset by Henry VIII’s infidelity. She just knew that saying anything would get her punished. What I’m saying is that the story doesn’t necessarily prove Agnes’ predictions true, so her reaction is almost too much.

The biggest example of her visions failing her is that she didn’t know she was going to have twins. She assumed the two people beside her bed when she died would be her two children, but when she struggles to give birth the second time, she believes she may have been wrong. That instead of her children that it was her mother-in-law and the midwife. So even Agnes admits that her predictions are not absolute or at least not clear. That’s pretty typical of a character that predicts the future. Not everything is clear or what they thought it was turns out to be something different. Writers love the puzzle of tricking the clairvoyant. So this can be a bit of a cliché. At the same time, audiences also expect it. I imagine most audiences, myself included, would be put out by a story that didn’t do this with a clairvoyant character. I don’t believe there is a way to solve this conundrum. Either the use of a clairvoyant character is trite or the audience feels like something has been left unfinished in the story.

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The King's Guardess
Chapter 19: The Prize to Be Won

Steam rose in lazy swirls from the bathwater, curling around the figure of Renault as he reclined with a cloth draped over his face. The silence of the chamber was thick, almost tangible. With a sudden movement that sent ripples across the surface, Renault yanked the cloth away, his brow knitted with distress.

"Ugh," he groaned, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. His thoughts churned like the water around him. “What is wrong with me? This was always the plan. She deserves this. She—”

Images of Gerardine cascaded through his mind unbidden: her stoic presence in his father's dimly lit bedroom, the unwavering gaze as she witnessed the old king's last breath; her commanding voice during those dusty afternoons of swordplay, "Pick. Up. Your. Sword."; the way she flung her hair back, beads of water glittering in the sun; her triumphant grin, sharp enough to cut steel, as Sir Heloise lay in the grass defeated; the memory of her bow, so full of rage, after his fist met her cheek; the fire in her eyes when she hurled juggling balls at him in a fit of pique; her laughter – that rare, uninhibited melody which seemed to come from a place deep within her.

And then, the image that made his cheeks flare hotter than the bathwater: Gerardine beneath him, her identity no longer hidden by armor or pretense, but revealed in the moonlight as undeniably, breathtakingly woman.

 

 

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The King's Guardess
Chapter 18: The First Laugh

Gerardine jumped as the council chamber doors exploded open with a bang that could wake the dead. She let loose an unladylike "Holy fuck", just as Renault barreled out. The hall, thick with the musty scent of old books and older men, instantly brightened with his grinning presence.

"Sir Gerard!" he boomed, striding across the chamber like a conqueror. Before she could react, he was upon her, his hands clasping her upper arms as if they were comrades just seeing each other for the first time in years. "We're going hunting."

"Ah, joy," Gerardine groaned, her voice dripping sarcasm as Renault's infectious excitement failed to penetrate her annoyance. Yet, when he tugged her from her post, her body complied with an uncharacteristic limpness—resistance was futile against the human whirlwind that was Renault.

"Come on, no sour faces," he chided cheerfully, reading her like an old friend, much older than they actually were. "Don't worry! No horses and horsing around this time."

"Promise?" she asked, her eyebrow arching in mock hopefulness. Renault only laughed in response, leading her away from the drudgery of duty to the promise of adventure—or at least, his version of it.

***
Deep within the forest, trees whispered secrets to each other as Renault and Gerardine treaded through the underbrush. Bow in hand, Gerardine's eyes couldn't help but wander over to Renault. Clad in his hunting leathers, he cut a dashing figure among the greens and browns of their woodland playground. He was all focus, eyes scanning, every muscle tensed for the hunt. And then there was her, trying to remember why she had agreed to this.

Catching her gaze, Renault's eyebrow quirked up. "What?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

"Nothing," Gerardine responded too quickly, her cheeks warming just a smidge. "I'm just waiting for your next prank, sire."

Renault's smile bloomed like a rose in summer. Eyes closed, head raised to the heavens as if in silent thanks, he proclaimed, "I'm giving you a reprieve for the day."

"Generous," Gerardine deadpanned, offering him a blank-faced stare that should have been enough to wilt flowers. "How kind of you, your majesty."

His laughter echoed through the forest, birds taking flight from their sanctuary in the trees. There was something unsettlingly charming about Renault in these moments—unburdened by the weight of his crown, free in a way that made Gerardine's heart perform strange little flips. But she'd never admit to that, not even under pain of torture.

"Oh, am I getting to you?" Renault's voice was a tease, his grin wide as he leaned in, close enough that Gerardine could count every speck of mischief in his eyes.

"Perhaps my nerves," she retorted, arching an eyebrow in mock defiance, "but not my funny bone."

 

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The King's Guardess
Chapter 17: Take a Break!

Renault sat at the head of the long, oak council table, a mischievous glint in his eye as he manipulated a peculiar bag with his fingers. With a squeeze, it erupted into a scandalous sound that echoed off the stone walls, and he couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face. The gathered councilors, however, were far from amused, their brows knitted together in collective annoyance.

"What?" Renault asked innocently, looking around at the sea of scowling faces.

"Sire, could you please focus?" implored the councilor with glasses perched precariously on his nose. His tone held the same weariness one might reserve for a child who had asked 'why' too many times.

But Renault, undeterred by the plea for seriousness, refilled the rubbery pouch with another gust of breath and pressed it once more, releasing yet another flatulent symphony into the solemn chamber. "Is this funny?" he queried with the enthusiasm of a bard presenting his finest ballad.

The councilor with the impressive beard, whose face was lost somewhere within the thicket of hair, leaned forward. "What is that?" he grumbled, voice deep and resonating like an old war drum.

With a flourish fit for a jester, Renault waved the strange object through the air. "It's a sheep’s stomach treated with wax," he explained, as if unveiling a grand invention.

The oldest councilor, wrinkles mapping out the trials of countless tedious meetings, sighed deeply. "What do you plan to do with it?" he asked, dread seeping into his voice.

Renault's smile broadened, eyes twinkling with the promise of mischief. "I’m going to fill it with air and then put it on Sir Gerard’s seat at dinner. It will make it sound like he farted."

As if on cue, the councilors released a chorus of groans, a sound Renault was becoming all too familiar with. He scanned their faces, puzzled. "What?"

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