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I read portions of hundreds of books every year, as part of the research for my own historical novels. I rarely review books because it wouldn’t be fair to the authors to rate or recommend their work after reading a few chapters or gleaning the info I needed. Flood, by Ann Swinfen, beat the odds because it was both great background information on culture and environment of the 17th century (my field of study), but it was beautifully constructed and a story well told. I read the entire book in only a few sittings.
Flood is a fictional story set in real events of the mid-1640s, the hostile
takeover and destruction of centuries-old family farms and businesses located
in England’s
East Anglian fens, which are seasonal wetlands, rivers, canals, and
saltwater/freshwater marshes. The rich and powerful believe themselves entitled
to take livelihoods and lives in their pursuit of profit. And the people they
come against will not be victims.
When Swinfen describes village customs or
the extended-family relationships in a small village, she uses imagery that
stimulates the senses: the stink of skinned eels, the unexpected delicacy of a
wildflower, the trusting nuzzle of a dairy cow, the sharp dig and long-term cramps
of torture restraints.
The author used the events surrounding the real Witchfinder General, who tortured and killed hundreds of innocent men and women in the 1640s. The protagonist and her friend were accused of witchcraft and Swinfen describes the experience of one who survived the testing and trials.
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Read
an article about the Fenland Riots, by Ann Swinfen,
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The book’s action and romance began early, but
they were both carefully paced. The conflict and drama steadily simmered to a
boiling point—ironically, in freezing flood waters. The characters weren’t too holy
or too evil, and weren’t predictable. I would have liked an unambiguous
resolution or epilogue at the end of the book, but since real life is usually
unresolved, I can draw my own conclusions, or research the end of the scheme
for myself. (And I did.)
The genius of Swinfen’s 17th-century
Flood story is that it so closely
parallels the politics and economy of the 21st century. (I don’t
think she intended that—the book is not a political thriller.) I compared yeoman
farmers and small business owners, the “Adventurers” and the One Percent vulture
capitalists, the rape of the environment (fens then and mineral or fuel mining
now), the economically depressed villagers and the long-term unemployed, the
soldiers who joined the military for one reason and were virtually enslaved for
another reason, the corrupt courts, the politicians bought off by corporations
and plutocrats, the marriage of religion and government causing oppression,
protesters trying to take back a lifestyle and heritage stolen from them—why
does this sound so familiar? But Swinfen’s fictional story in real events rings
true four centuries later because although cultures change, people do not.
I bought the Kindle edition. But I wish I’d
bought the book, which is more substantial in my opinion. Flood is a keeper. Highly recommended! (5/5 stars) Flood is available at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
The author has given me permission to share
an excerpt from the first chapter. I chose this section for its descriptive prose. There are many other excellent scenes.
Flood, by Ann Swinfen
©
2014 Ann Swinfen, all rights reserved.
Excerpt
by permission of author.
Barley was sown
for beer and beans and peas for the pot. The medlands were filled with the
carefree scamperings of the new lambs, while the young calves, one moment
quietly following their mothers, would suddenly flick their tails in the air
and gallop across the grass in joyous freedom of their youth, innocent of the
heavy bodies and lumbering gait that would burden their mature years.
‘It will be the
first of May next week, and soon after that Rogationtide,’ Gideon Clarke
reminded my father, as they sat on a bench, leaning against the warm southern
wall of our house and smoking their long pipes while I cleared weeds from my
rows of onions and carrots.
‘And have the
Puritans banned that too?’ Father asked.
‘No doubt. I have
not heard. In any case, I mean to beat the bounds with all who will accompany
me.’
‘We will come.
The whole village.’ My father had no need to ask the rest of us. We had not
missed the beating of the bounds even during the War.
I stood up,
easing my back and dusting the soil from my hands.
‘And shall we
have a Maying?’ I asked.
‘Fetching in the
May, and a maypole, and a summer queen? Every bit. Would you be our queen,
Mercy?’ Gideon was laughing and I blushed, with his eyes on me. For the last
few years Alice
had been the queen, but she was a married woman now.
‘That would be
for the village to choose,’ I said with a fine show of modesty. ‘But I do think
we should have a Maying. Beat the parish bounds to show that we are not afraid
of these men who would steal our land. And hold a Maying to show we are not
afraid of the godly Genevans who would put an end to all joy.’
‘The surveyors
have been gone these three days.’ Tom had come out of the barn and joined us.
‘’Tis to be
regretted. I would have liked to lift two fingers to them as we beat the
bounds, but – surveyors or not – I agree that we should have both the Maying
and the beating of the bounds. Let them think what they will.’ He did not say
who he meant by ‘they’, but we understood him well enough.
Preparations
went ahead swiftly. Before dawn on May Day, all the young people of the village
went out to fetch in May blossom from the hedgerows, to deck our houses and the
church. It was the first time in my whole life that I went without Alice, but I took our
little Kitty with me. She was one of the village paupers, a church-door
foundling, though it was whispered she belonged to Joseph Waters’s daughter,
who had gone off, soon afterwards, with a travelling pedlar. Kitty had
scrambled up, hand-to-mouth on parish charity, and had come to us, at eight
years old, as general servant. She was eleven now. Not a stupid child, and
willing. She had never been a-Maying before and skipped along at my side, her
eyes bright with the excitement of a few hours away from washing greasy pots
and muddy flagstones.
‘Is this what we
want, mistress?’ She broke a cluster of whitethorn blossom from the branch and
held it out to me.
‘Aye, but not
like that. We need long stems so we can weave them round the pillars and altar
rails in the church. But take care! The thorns are sharp.’
‘I remember last
May.’ Her face glowed. ‘And we will have some for the master’s house too?’
I laughed. Kitty
was in awe of Father. In her eyes our house belonged solely to him. The rest of
the family counted for little.
‘We’ll gather
plenty, then we can pin it up round the doors, and along the mantel.’
‘Can we put some
over the barn door too? I know the beasts will love to celebrate May Day.
Especially Blackthorn and Blaze.’
I smiled at the
thought of the staid cow and our quiet gelding rejoicing in the Maying. ‘Aye,
if we gather enough. We need sweet eglantine as well. There’s a hedge of it
further along. And sops-in-wine.’
‘Is that a
flower?’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know it.’
‘It grows in low
clumps. A deep red flower with white patches. So it looks like red wine with
sops floating in it, such as rich invalids are given.’
‘Like the bread
sops we put in pottage?’
‘Aye, like
that.’
The heady scents
of spring followed us along the lane. The young people of the village, all
those unmarried, had turned out every one. Parliament might try to ban our
merry-making, but for this last year at least we would have our Maying. There
must have been twenty of us, all who had grown up together within the
boundaries of this parish, and later in the month we would follow Gideon with
his cross and prayerbook, and beat the young children at the parish bounds,
that they would know their land and their rights and never forget them.
From time to
time some of our companions would pair off and slip away behind a hedge, for
May is the time for courting. And if we heard squeals and laughter, we smiled
and passed on along the lane. There would be new babes in the village, come the
turn of the year, and perhaps a few hasty weddings beforehand. Though I was
fond enough of the village boys I had known all my life, none could tempt me
away to tumble in the young grass, despite hints and a few stolen kisses.
The lads were
collecting supple young birch branches, just coming into leaf, which would provide
a strong framework for our garlands and wreathes. Tom, with his friends Toby
Ashford and Jack Sawyer, cut down a straight young beech to make our maypole,
and carried it back between them to set up on the green, accompanied by the
blowing of horns and beating of drums. While they dug a hole and set the
maypole, firming it in with the edge of their boots, the rest of us decorated
the church, winding the branches through the carved openings of the ancient
altar rail, garlanding the font and pillars, and draping swags of blossom
across the altar. By now the sun was
fully up and we went home to decorate our doorways and eat our breakfasts. I
gave Kitty the rest of the branches and flowers to swag the animals’ quarters,
while I joined Tom in the kitchen for a hasty meal of porridge and ale. As we
were eating, Gideon came in, his eyes lit with laughter.
‘So, it is to be
your turn this year, Mercy. The village has chosen you our summer queen.’
He took my hand
and kissed it, dropping on one knee. ‘Your humble servant, Your Majesty!’
I looked down at
his thick curls and felt my breath catch in my throat. I feared he was merely
humouring me, as he used to do when I did well in my lessons, but he held my
hand tightly, and his lips lingered on my skin. Then he turned my hand over and
kissed the palm, so that a shudder ran through me.
‘So many years
in Alice’s
shadow,’ I said, as lightly as I could. ‘At last I will lead the revels! I hope
I will not disgrace the village.’
Gideon stood up,
and released my hand slowly.
‘You will wear
your crown with beauty and dignity,’ he said, looking at me intently.
I could not hold
his gaze, but dropped my eyes and felt the heat of my skin burn from my neck to
my hair.
__________________
Dr. Ann Swinfen (http://www.annswinfen.com) published
three novels with Random House, but her three latest – The Testament of Mariam, Flood,
and The Secret World of Christoval
Alvarez – she has published herself under the imprint Shakenoak Press.
Loving the whole independent publishing process, and the control it offers to
authors, she thinks it unlikely she would ever return to conventional
publishing. Some of her short stories which previously appeared in magazines
and on BBC radio are now published on Kindle. She has also reissued her
backlist titles as paperbacks and Kindles.
