Rowena Defense Squad

Possibly elements of this essay have been pent up within me for lo, two decades. You have been warned.

Poor Rowena. She’s been criticized almost since Ivanhoe’s publication for being less awesome than Rebecca. In part, this criticism seems harsh to me because everyone is less awesome than Rebecca; that’s just the way it is. But also: I think Scott himself is unfair to Rowena, because he gives a very different portrait of her character in what he shows than in what he tells. And I think we should feel free to ignore the latter in favor of the former.

I’ve just reached Chapter 23 in the Ivanhoe read-along, and said to myself: “Oh, that’s where everyone gets their ideas about Rowena being blonde and boring: from Scott himself! For shame, Sir Walter!” Based on 19th-century pseudo-science (sorry/not sorry, Sir Walter), Scott claims that she is naturally “mild, timid, and gentle,” and only outspoken because she has been spoiled and unused to contradiction. But his own dang novel contradicts him. I am here to argue that Rowena is smart, politically savvy, and that she has the courage of her moral as well as emotional convictions. I’m going to try to keep relatively pithy, with items, like a medieval charter.

Item: social intelligence/courage. Even veiling herself in Cedric’s hall shows, I think, that Rowena has a keen sense for interpersonal dynamics and the atmosphere in a room. We’re told later that she’s monolingual, but she is clearly picking up on the essence of Bois-Guilbert’s conversation with the prior. Also, her refusal to attend Prince John’s banquet is not childish pique; she hasn’t been insulted! That’s a political statement! She’s not interested in the honors these men can give. True, it’s a risk that she can take when Cedric can’t; she has plausible deniability (women’s frailty, whatever) and she doesn’t have possessions to take. But I think we need to take this refusal seriously as a deliberate choice.

Item: more political sense than Cedric. Rowena, we are told, views the ~restoration of Saxon monarchy~ through her marriage to Athelstane as “neither practicable nor desirable.” TRUE. And Cedric ought to be able to see this, and doesn’t. One thing that drives me up the wall about Bad King John™ historical fiction and Robin Hood movies is that no one seems to remember the interregnum! Everyone suddenly has collective amnesia about how England had twenty years of civil war as a result of rival claimants to the throne after the death of Henry I. That only ended with the accession of Henry II, 1154. The Stephen/Matilda wars would have been ongoing throughout the prime of Cedric’s parents, into his childhood. And he just wants to... restart that kind of division? Absolutely wild. Apparently it’s fine because his cause is right. I wish that kind of attitude didn’t seem so familiar. But Rowena is smarter, and she loves her sweet, smart, code-switching boyfriend, and sees a culturally hybrid way forward for England where Cedric can’t. I support her.

Item: moral/emotional convictions. I do not think that we should take lightly the fact that Rowena is deeply attached to Ivanhoe. If she were as mild and yielding as Scott suggests, I do not think that we would meet her as a woman firmly resisting her guardian’s attempts to use her as a political pawn. Moreover, she has declared, repeatedly, that she will take permanent religious vows if marrying Athelstane is the alternative. Now, being a nun in the twelfth century could be a great life, but Rowena is clearly willing to do this without any sense of vocation in order to avoid civil war. That’s hardcore of her. Also a big deal: crowning Wilfred and declaring that no one could be worthier of chivalric honors. Stick with me here: I know she’s partial. But also: he has been one of the most high-profile allies of a king who is borne no love by his brother. Since Wilfred is a culturally-hybrid Saxon, absolutely no one likes him, except the servants he grew up with and Isaac, whose life he has saved. [Pause for me to cry about it. Thoughts on Isaac and Wilfred as culturally-hybrid figures are another essay.] Also: when Cedric’s party picks up Isaac’s party in the woods, Rowena is very committed to doing more than the bare minimum. Not only does she successfully argue for taking the whole group with them, but she asks Rebecca to ride with her, publicly demonstrating their social equality. I’m supposed to believe that a woman who chooses to do that is “mild” and just sometimes “despotic” because she’s been spoiled? Absolutely not, Sir Walter Scott. Rowena deserves better.

CHAPTER 10!!! first draft

     “Jared. Up.” Said his captain, kicking him awake. He’d managed to snatch a few winks of sleep but their break was now over and they needed to make it over the next ridge by sunset. This was starting to grow tiresome, he’d joined so he could kill the Dark Lord’s men not to march all day. It had been three weeks and not so much as a sign of the enemy.

     “Aye sir.” He sighed with his eyes still closed. Slowly he began to wake up and bring his head up off of his ruck. Still groggy he looked around to get a sense of how much he needed to hurry. From the looks of things no one was in a rush. The rest of the men in his unit were still shaking rocks out of their boots or fastening their swordbelts.

     His stomach growled, complaining that he’d chosen to skip eating in favor of sleep. Shut up, He thought. We’re used to being hungry. Not that his rations were worth eating in the first place; hard, usually rotten, bread, and tough smoked meat. He used to eat better than this back home. Home…

     And like that it was back. The anger, the heat filling his bones, the guilt weighing down his shoulders. The images of a city on fire. The war drums and screaming. Their home collapsing into rubble. Looking at his hands they still bore the scars from digging through the rubble. I need a fight, He thought, clenching his teeth.

     Now more awake then he’d like to be he rose to his feet, put on his swordbelt, slung his ruck over his back, picked up his shield and spear, and fell into line. It wasn’t lost on him that he probably never would have even touched a sword, let alone armor, had he not joined the legion. For all the unscrupulous ways he’d found to make a living in the city, he still would never have come close to affording all of the fancy equipment he had on now. It didn’t matter that his was a recirculated set - the poor sap before him having died in it. Often he found himself wondering how, seeing as the armor was without any holes or even serious scratches.

     “COMPANY! FALL IN!” A loud and familiar voice bellowed. His captain, Yorek, a hard old bastard that had actually earned Jared’s respect when he didn’t have him flogged for breaking one of his soldiers noses the day his city fell. Standing a head taller than Jared and twice as wide, Yorek could have snapped him in half but instead saw potential in that kind of aggression. Jared could see the old man’s eyes over the whole crowd of young men that made up his company. Deep set, dark, and glowering, always looking for someone stepping out of line or slacking off, sharp as a hawk’s.

      Readying himself for the rest of the march, miles of burying the anger for another day, he fastened his heavy iron helmet. “Forwaaaaard! March!” Yorek screamed.

      Jared took a deep breath knowing that he needed to calm himself or the anger would exhaust him. As the company began moving forward he could see Yorek begin putting on his helmet when suddenly the captain froze. Jared’s eyes strained as he tried to see what was going on and to his horror, there he saw a long black arrow, pinning Yorek’s hand to his eye. A shocked look on his face before toppling over. There was a moment of horrible silence before the world exploded.

      His company erupted in panic. Young men running, praying, begging for their mothers. Jared was battered and crushed by the crowd as they moved this way and that. No sense of order or direction. Above the shouting he could here officers trying to order the men back into lines, but more than that he heard them - the wardrums. The noise that had signaled the destruction of his world just weeks earlier.

     The anger was back and it was hungry. Soon the sky was filled with arrows and screams of pain and death. Dropping his ruck and spear, there was no room for it in these close quarters, he drew his sword and looked for something to kill. His fellow soldiers were no longer allies, they were now simply in the way. He began shoving his way through the throng of panicking young men. Shoulder checking them, grabbing some by the breastplate or collar and tossing them aside.

    He grabbed a tall blonde boy by the scruff of his neck, he was built like an ox but as Jared turned him he was crying like a child who'd just had a nightmare.

    “Either kill something or get out of the way!!!” Jared roared. Before the boy could respond, an arrow burst forth from his cheek, splattering blood on Jared’s face. Shaken out of his bloodlust for a moment Jared let go of the boy and let him fall. Standing there in stunned silence for a moment before regaining his murderous composure Jared pressed on toward the edge of the crowd.

      Eventually he made his way through his comrades and into the jaws of the enemy. Where he had longed to be since that fateful day. Now he'd get some small semblance of revenge, some kind of satisfaction, some skulls to splinter. Before him stood a teaming mass of dark shapes that used to be human. Poor souls twisted by the Dark Lord’s will, hollow shells now only driven to destroy his enemies.

      A bent and blackened sword flailed over one of their heads as it charged at him with savage abandon. Sidestepping the overhead strike of the creature he delivered a vicious backhanded strike to the unarmored creature's neck.  Say what you want in regards to the frailty of men's bodies or spirits but they learn quickly and the legion had learned very quickly that the only way to kill these things was to take their heads…

      The anger that had been welling up in him was now full blown fury, uncapped and terrifying rage. Now it was him swinging his blade with savage abandon and a wanton appetite for carnage. Soon he was covered in dark and fetid gore, bits of rotten flesh clinging to his armor and sword. For an onlooker he would have been almost indistinguishable from one of the dark creatures.

      He couldn't tell you how long he fought for or if any of his comrades had struggled alongside him, so singularly focused was he. But when the air had stilled and the sun settled low in the sky he stood alone, as dark as his enemies, and unable to moves his arms. His legs shook from exhaustion and his body wept from a dozen wounds.

      Falling to one knee and bracing his weight on his sword, shoving the tip into the ground, he felt his vision begin to grow dark at the edges. He felt the life draining from him, and worse than the pain or the fading reality was the realization that even after all that killing, he still felt angry…

      No one knows how long he lay their on the side of the road but it couldn't have been long because as he awoke he saw a beautiful face with hair like fire sitting over him wrapping his arm in a bandage. As he came to, the face came into focus. Wisps of curly red hair hanging over eyes - green as a field in spring - after a moment of him awkwardly starring at the first beautiful thing he'd seen in months, she finally glanced up and caught his gaze lingering.

      “Am I dead?” He asked, still not believing the current circumstances. She smirked and turned her gaze back down to the deep cut in his arm.

      “Yes. Barely.” She replied looking back up at him with a mocking tint in her eyes. For the first time in a long time he found himself smiling. They locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity before her face slowly changed from a happy half smile to an emotionless dead expression before finally saying,

      “Jared. Wake up. Jared. Jared”

      Confused, he cocked his eyebrows, not understanding what was happening. “Jared. Jared. Can you hear me?” Suddenly he was violently sucked out of his memory and into the waking world. Shooting up with a scream he saw sitting before him another pair of green eyes, but these were different. Darker, harder, filled with worry.

       They belonged to his Skye. She sat at his side and though startled at first her smile quickly appeared at the sight of him being conscious.

       “Welcome back,” she said smiling. “How do you feel?” Panting and still trying to make sense of things, he simply replied.

       “Hungry…” Was all he said.