Friday, 21 August 2015

Cloaks, Daggers and Masked Maurauders by Imogen Robertson


The Harrogate History Festival is coming up in October and I’m going along to see if I can grab a selfie with Neil Oliver and Melvyn Bragg. Ideally both at once. 

I’m also chairing an event about historical crime fiction ‘Cloaks, Daggers and Masked Maurauders’ with Robert Goddard, Michael Jecks, Shona MacLean and Andrew Taylor. I do hope that some of you can some along to the festival. There are some fantastic people appearing and you can guarantee the bar will be full of friendly writers between talks. 

So my panel is made up of superb writers who are all critical and commercial success stories - a testament to the success of the (sub)genre. And if you needed any more convincing that historical crime is still drawing the crowds, no less than half of the shortlisted authors for the HWA Debut Crown are writing crime. Antonia Hodgson, MJ Carter and Ben Furgusson in fact. So why is it in such rude health?

The genre makes sense to me as a reader and as a writer. Crime fiction has the virtue of some clear genre rules, a contract with the reader. There will be a crime. You will find out the who, where, what, how and why of that crime before the book is finished, and you will be able to follow the investigation of that crime. The Detection Club have a fuller and funnier set of rules you can read here - but you get that idea.

Crime, especially murder stories, means high stakes, a strong, clear narrative drive and characters under pressure. That always sounds like a good read to me. And why does it works so well in a historical context? Well, it it seems to me the great virtue of the crime novel is that a detective is given (or claims) the right to ask questions and ask them of unusual people in unusual places. That detective is then the avatar for writer and reader, looking at how things work with an outsider’s eye and that perspective can be a great help when writing historical fiction. 

Outsiders see what insiders do not - I’m sure that’s was why when I was writing The Paris Winter I found the memoirs of foreigners living in the city much more useful than those of the French. Detective fiction is a licence to uncover, to snoop, to examine and to speculate and I think historical fiction is driven by a similar sense of curiosity - a fascination with the small details that imply larger stories. 

But perhaps something entirely different will come across in the discussion in Harrogate. I’ll be asking the writers about how they mix fact and fiction in their work, what draws them to certain subjects, individuals and periods, why they are attracted to crime fiction, and the difference between characters in a standalone novel and those that carry a series, but I’d love to know what readers of the History Girls would like to ask them.   So what do you think? Questions for the individual writer or the whole group, please and I shall take them with me. 




Thursday, 20 August 2015

North-East Passage - by Ann Swinfen

In the early summer of 1553 three ships – the Edward Bonaventure, the Bona Confidentia and the Bona Esperanza – set sail from London on a voyage into the unknown. As they sailed past Greenwich Palace, the young king Edward VI, an enthusiastic supporter of the venture, lay dying, too ill even to look out of the window and see them pass. Of the three ships, only one would return.


The voyage had been several years in the planning, and its purpose was kept secret. Chief instigator was Sebastian Cabot, now an old man, who, at the age of fourteen in 1497 had returned with his father John Cabot from an expedition to the Americas. Like Columbus five years earlier, Cabot senior had hoped to reach the fabled lands of the Indies. Instead he planted the English flag on the rather bleaker terrain of Newfoundland.

The Cabots were an Italian family and, although raised in Bristol, Sebastian spent much of his adult life outside England, which did not offer him the opportunities for exploration which he craved. His exceptional talents were recognised in Spain, however, where he was for many years Pilot Major, in overall charge of all Spain’s maritime expeditions.

In 1494, under the aegis of  the Borgia Pope, Alexander VI, the Treaty of Tordesillas had arbitrarily divided the newly discovered areas of the globe into two sections, one to be ruled by Spain, the other by Portugal. England never entered the equation. However, stirrings of the same excitement about world exploration had begun in England as in the Iberian peninsula. This was well before the days of the piratical Drake, but it did not require a genius to see how well Spain in particular was doing out of the gold and silver it was looting from South America.
 
Sebastian Cabot
As early as 1538, Cabot was making approaches to England for a return from Spain, but was not encouraged under Henry VIII’s regime. After Henry’s death in 1547, however, circumstances changed. The boy King Edward and his advisors were keen to develop English exploration and later that year Cabot was in England, allegedly on a brief leave of absence from his service to the Spanish king. He never went back.

Although Cabot had served a monarch whose interest was in conquest and exploitation of newly discovered lands, Cabot’s own views were quite different. He wanted to establish peaceful trading links with other countries, with respect for their culture and religion – a novel attitude for the time. Moreover, knowing that Spain and Portugal had an iron grip on southern routes to the fabled rich lands of the far east, he realised that English expeditions via these southern routes would risk attacks from the Iberian nations.

England lay in the north. Why not attempt to find a route to the north-east, the north-west, or even over the North Pole itself, as by far the shortest route to faraway Cathay?

It was a daring – some said insane – concept.
 
An optimistic view!
But Cabot and his fellow enthusiasts were not deterred. Many of his supporters were merchants, and they had good cause to be interested in new trade routes. Henry VIII had destroyed England’s economy by a series of pointless and disastrous wars in France. Having spent the loot he had seized from the monasteries, he had debased the coinage to pay for his misguided exploits. The new government had to rescue the economy and started by restoring the value of English currency. Worryingly, almost the whole of the country’s overseas exports depended on a single commodity, woollen cloth. The trade had flourished throughout the European continent, as the quality of English woollen cloth was second to none, but the restoration of the currency made it suddenly much more expensive and exports crashed. The merchants were desperate for new markets and the far east seemed promising.

To send an expedition over the top of the world where no one had ever ventured before was very risky and expensive, far too expensive for a single merchant or even the Crown to undertake. Cabot and his colleagues came up with a novel idea. They would set up a company – a “mystery” as they called it – to which many would contribute capital. This company would employ its own staff who would trade on behalf of the company, not individual merchants. Those who had invested would take a share of the profits in proportion to their investment. And so the first joint stock company was born, financed by stockholders.

There was some debate as to whether the expedition should travel east or west, but on the advice of the best geographers and cosmographers of the time (including a young John Dee), it was decided that a north-east route around the top of Europe and down into the China seas offered the most promising prospect.

At the time it was customary to allocate the senior position in major undertakings to a gentleman, since it was felt that such a person would possess the requisite authority and qualities of leadership. The man chosen as Captain General was Sir Hugh Willoughby, a courageous and successful military leader, but a man with no maritime experience whatsoever. Each ship had an experienced captain. However, the “experience” of English captains at the time was not extensive. They were accustomed to sailing the main routes to Continental Europe and to the Mediterranean. A few had ventured along the west African coast, despite harassment from other nations, but few had sailed far out of sight of land.
 
Sir Hugh Willoughby
Second in importance to Willoughby, as Pilot Major of the voyage, was a young man called Richard Chancellor, one of the new breed of intelligent men who studied geography and cosmography (including celestial navigation). He had been trained by Cabot and probably had a much clearer idea of what the expedition entailed than Willoughby. He would have known how ignorant Europeans were about this area of the globe and how severe the weather would become if the ships did not either break through to the warmer waters around Cathay or return to England.

The largest ship was the Edward Bonaventure. On this Chancellor sailed, with Stephen Borough as captain, at twenty-seven already an experienced seaman. The middle ship, the Esperanza, was regarded as the flagship, as it carried Willoughby, and was captained by William Gefferson, while the smallest ship, the Confidentia, was commanded by Cornelius Durforth. Gefferson and Durforth were experienced, but only within the contemporary parameters of experience.
 
Tower of London 1554
Heavily loaded with cargo which the sponsors considered suitable for trade and for gifts to monarchs in the unknown lands which lay ahead, the three ships set sail from the shipyards at Ratcliffe, just downstream from the Tower, on 10 May, 1553. They made their way in a somewhat leisurely fashion down the Thames estuary and out into the North Sea. The plan was to sail across to the coast of Norway, then follow it north until it veered east. Thereafter, they would be sailing into unknown territory. Unfortunately, bad weather drove the ships back to the east coast of England. The first three weeks of June were lost, frustratingly, confined to English ports.

Not until 23 June was the expedition able to sail forth at last into the North Sea. Worryingly it was already past the summer solstice. They were full of confidence, however, and Chancellor, who was extremely skilled in the use of the latest navigational instruments, recorded their position meticulously. When they reached the rugged and unfamiliar coast of Norway, Chancellor even landed when they were about halfway up the Norwegian coast and took further measurements. For the moment all seemed to be going well.

Amongst the scattered islands further north they were again delayed by unfavourable winds. It was the end of July by the time they neared the top of Norway’s west coast and Willoughby called a conference of the expedition’s leaders. Once they rounded Finnmark, the northernmost portion of Norway which wraps around northern Sweden and Finland, they would enter uncharted waters. There was, however, one safe port here, Vardøhus (Wardhouse to the English). Cabot had instructed the small fleet to stay together, but if anything should happen to separate them, it was agreed now that they would make for Wardhouse and wait till all were reunited.
 
Vardøhus today
It was a wise plan, for once they rounded the North Cape, a terrible storm blew up, accompanied by thick mist. Chancellor and Borrough immediately reduced the canvas on the Edward, but to their horror they watched the other two ships racing away from them under full sail. They never saw them again.

Once the storm had eased, the Edward made for Wardhouse and waited for the Esperanza and the Confidentia. When Chancellor felt he could wait no longer, he set sail once more along the unfamiliar coast, heading east. It was now into August as the sole remaining ship sailed along a barren and unpopulated coast until it reached a wide opening into a huge gulf – the area now known as the White Sea. To their immense relief, the Englishmen found human habitation at last, as they dropped anchor near the Orthodox monastery of St Nicholas, close to where Arkhangelsk was later founded. To their astonishment, they learned that this was Russia, ruled by Tsar Ivan IV, or Ivan the Terrible as he has come to be known.

The Englishmen knew there was a backward and barbarous country called Russia or Muscovy, somewhere vaguely to the east of Poland in Continental Europe. They had no idea that it reached so far north. Indeed the young and warlike Tsar had been busy defeating his neighbours and extending his territory ever since he had come to the throne. Chancellor carried a warm and friendly letter from young King Edward to any ruler who might be met with, and he was anxious to travel to Moscow to meet and treat with this ruler. However, although the local people received the travellers kindly, they were clearly terrified of Ivan. The Englishmen could not travel through the country until Ivan granted his permission.

As the waiting extended into weeks, the Edward was sealed in by the ice, the river Dvina which led into the interior froze solid, and the winter snows of Muscovy covered the land. At last a small party led by Chancellor was able to set out, and discovered that travel in these northern lands was much easier in winter. Bundled in furs they skimmed across an ice-bound land in horse-drawn sleighs.
 
Ivan the Terrible
In Moscow they were well received by Ivan, who had his own reasons for welcoming an alliance with England, and before long he agreed to grant free-trading rights to the merchants of the new company, although the formalities would not be completed until the second expedition. Far from being a primitive country, despite the violent and tyrannical rule of its Tsar, Muscovy was rich (at least in the palace) in gold and silver dishes, rich clothing and tapestries, abundant food and drink. (Rather too much drink.) The Russians also considered themselves to be the true Christians, heirs not only of St Peter’s Rome but of Constantinople, now fallen to Islam. The Catholic church was a mere upstart, and the strange Protestant sects quite beyond the pale.

When Chancellor and his small party returned north to the White Sea they were relieved to find that the Edward had not suffered from its icy winter. As soon as the sea was clear, they set out for home, an eventful voyage, including a skirmish with pirates.

They were to discover an England profoundly changed since they left. King Edward was dead. The brief attempt to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne (in accordance with Edward’s wishes) had ended in mass executions, including that of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, a major patron of the expedition. Queen Mary was on the throne, busily turning England back into a Catholic country and executing as heretics any who opposed her.
 
Mary Tudor
But what of the two missing ships? During the spring of 1554, as the Edward sailed home, a group of Russian fishermen discovered the ships anchored in the mouth of the river Varzina. All those on board were dead, yet curiously they seemed to be reading or engaged in games of dice or cards. Willoughby was slumped at his desk in front of his papers, including his log of the voyage. This log revealed that the two ships had sailed before the storm away to the north-east, probably as far as Novaya Zemlya. When they realised they had far overshot Wardhouse, they turned back, following a zigzag course westwards, some distance off the north coast of Russia, by-passing the White Sea, where the Edward lay at anchor. When they discovered the Varzina estuary, they took refuge there from the increasingly bad weather, planning to overwinter in its sheltered waters.

The area appeared bleak and uninhabited, but according to the log Willoughby sent out three scouting parties to attempt to contact any human habitations. They found no one. The mystery was: How had they died? For a long time it was assumed they had died of cold or starvation, but that coastal area is not as cold as many parts of Russia. Besides, they had plenty of warm clothing. There were still plentiful supplies of food on board. Recently, another theory has been put forward, which seems convincing. The bare tundra supports no trees, so once the men exhausted their supplies of firewood, they would need to look elsewhere. The beaches in the area provide ample amounts of sea coal washed up from coastal seams, a fuel familiar by now in England. On board the ships every hatch and door was kept tightly closed against the cold. If the men burned sea coal on their stoves to keep warm, it is likely they died of the insidious effects of carbon monoxide poisoning.

However, the fate of the two ships remained for the moment unknown as the Edward reached an England so very different from the one they had left the year before. Was this first attempt to sail eastwards around the top of the globe successful, or would the whole enterprise be abandoned?

They had failed to find the north-east passage.
 
Seal of the Muscovy Company
What they had succeeded in doing was to lay the foundations of a trading agreement for the first joint stock company, the Muscovy Company, which would survive until 1917 and which provided the structure for the many trading companies which followed, including the most famous, the East India Company. They also laid the groundwork for all future joint stock companies, whatever their business, and for the British Empire, which was to stretch across the globe, following in the wake of its merchant adventurers.

More voyages of the Muscovy Company were soon to follow, marked by both success and disaster, including one remarkable journey 500 miles east of the White Sea.


But that is another story.

Ann Swinfen

Wednesday, 19 August 2015

'Life in Squares' - how I learned to love the Bloomsbury Group - by Christina Koning

I must confess that I started watching ‘Life in Squares’, the new three-part drama about the Bloomsbury Group, which was recently shown on BBC2, with considerable reservations. What on earth was there left to say about these - to be frank - rather self-indulgent and privileged people, that hadn’t already been said in a host of books by and about them, and latterly, in films and television programmes in which the whole gang - the Woolfs, the Bells, Duncan Grant, Keynes, Strachey, Roger Fry - were made much of? Wasn’t it time to call for a moratorium on the Bloomsburies and all their acolytes, past and present? From which it may be obvious that, with certain honourable exceptions (yes, I mean you, E.M. Forster), I’m not a fan of this particular ‘set’, whose achievements, though undeniably impressive, seem to me to have been over-valued, to the detriment of other, no less impressive, talents in twentieth century Art and Literature.

‘Life in Squares’, I thought, would be just another breathless hagiography, celebrating the already over-celebrated lives of the Blessed Virginia and her crowd. I promised myself I’d give it ten minutes, and then switch over to something more enjoyable. An hour later, I was still watching - and unashamedly riveted by - the successive dramas unfolding in Amanda Coe’s treatment of the lives of what was then a disparate group of Cambridge friends (and their sisters), meeting for tea and chat about art and books, in the Gordon Square house belonging to the orphaned Stephen siblings. With so many characters to incorporate - the list above is only partial, leaving out quite a few of the era’s major figures (no mention of D. H. Lawrence, T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, or Wyndham Lewis) - Coe wisely chose to focus on the central relationship, between Virginia Stephen (later Woolf), and her sister Vanessa. Interestingly enough, and despite Virginia Woolf’s far greater posthumous fame, it is Vanessa who emerges as the more dominant character. From her impetuous - and soon to be regretted - marriage to the philandering Clive Bell, to her no less extravagant love for the painter Duncan Grant, she comes across as passionate, headstrong and likeable.

Part of this is due, no doubt, to Phoebe Fox’s sympathetic portrayal - helped by her strong physical likeness to the beautiful Vanessa. Nor is she the only piece of great casting in this superior mini-drama: James Norton gave a wonderfully dissolute performance as Duncan Grant, convincing this viewer, at least, to reconsider him, not only as an artist, but as a key figure in what was to become a kind of blueprint for the Bohemian lifestyle, as the Bloomsburies metamorphosed into the ‘Charleston set’. Having visited Charleston - home to the Bells and Duncan Grant - and Monk’s House, at Rodmell, where the Woolfs established themselves during the same period, I was delighted to see both places featuring strongly in this television drama. That gave me another reason for continuing to watch, as well as the fact that I was now hooked on the tangled love affairs and intermittent crises which were unfolding. The period covered - from the 1900s to the 1940s - is one in which I have been interested for a long time. I was glad to see it reconstructed so accurately and (dare one say it?) aesthetically. From the Art Nouveau silks and velvets sported by Vanessa as a young woman, to the more austere wartime garb worn by her older self (of which more later), this was a feast of period detail: beautifully lit and shot. 

Of course, there were a few things I’d like to have seen done differently. The decision to cast a second group of older actors - with the wonderful Eve Best playing Vanessa - in order to convey the passage of time, was not wholly successful, and might have caused confusion to anyone not familiar with the story. The need to compress the events of forty years into three hours led, inevitably, to certain things been glossed over - or left out altogether. The 1920s and 1930s - arguably the most important period, as regards the literary and artistic output of the group - was shown only in passing. Individual episodes - such as Duncan Grant’s decision to become a conscientious objector, at the outbreak of the First World War - were barely touched on. The relentless focusing on the Grant/Bell menage meant that even Virginia Woolf’s suicide got short shrift. But overall, this was a well-written and engaging dramatisation of a fascinating period. It certainly converted this Bloomsbury sceptic to a more appreciative frame of mind. Now - where’s my copy of To the Lighthouse?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0649cyj    


Tuesday, 18 August 2015

Inspiration - Celia Rees

A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to accompany my friend, the artist Julia Griffiths Jones, and photographer Toril Brancher on a trip to Slovakia. This was a working trip. Julia was moving her installation, Room within a Room,  from a house in The Museum of the Slovak Village, located in Jahodnícke háje  to the Orava Village Museum, Zaberec


Orava Village Museum
Julia and I have been friends for a long time and although she works in a different medium we share many things in common. I find it easy to talk to her about my work. She understands the strange and sudden enthusiasms, the need to feed obsessions, the anguish when work doesn't go well, the elation when it does. She has always been a huge support as I hope I have been to her. She puts me back in touch with the well spring of creativity which should be the most important thing, the only important thing, the thing that makes the day to day donkey work bearable. She has also been a very useful source of information. Her background in textiles made her invaluable when I was researching quilts for Witch Child and I was touched and very honoured when she based a piece of work on my books Sorceress and Pirates! for her Stories in the Making Exhibition. 




Julia says of her own work:

My work is concerned with the translation of Textile techniques such as stitching, quilting, patchwork, embroidery, into a wire and metal form; thus changing its original nature and function but retaining the meaning and the decoration. I am very inspired and influenced by Textile work created by women alongside their domestic duties as much as for need as for warmth. This interest began when I was a student at the Royal College of Art.
I won a scholarship to research and study Textiles in Poland and Czechoslovakia. Here I saw Folk Art for the first time; it was everywhere woven through all aspects of life. Gradually I began to transfer my drawings into three dimensions using wire and became totally enthralled by the possibilities of drawing in space using line and colour. My training and qualifications are in Textile Design so this change in materials was a huge departure for me but a very crucial one as through it I began to create, I believe, a unique language and a deeply satisfying one.
In 2007 I began drawing from the collection of The National Wool Museum, and this experience inspired me to digitally print my drawings onto wool and cotton.The Museum then commissioned me to make five pieces of work which were installed throughout the mill as a contemporary trail in 2009.

My current project is to research and explore new techniques and materials, thus developing my experimental work in wire to be able to create a room within a room, a museum, an installation of suspended objects, in metal, which preserves by its durable nature the visual motifs found in textiles from Wales and Eastern Europe and which will be the result of over thirty years of drawing and research.
Room within a Room, photograph: Toril Brancher, July 2015
It is best to let the work speak for itself. It is  difficult to see the whole room in a photograph but Toril has done a fantastic job in managing to capture something that works very much in 3 dimensions:  delicate, floating, occupying the space with the viewer.

Room within a Room, photograph: Toril Brancher, July 2015

Julia bases her work on traditional costume, folk motifs, embroidery and decoration which she translates first to drawing, then into wire. I love to see the actual objects and Julia's interpretation. While I was at the museum, I went to some of the houses and rooms that Julia had visited in her earlier times in Slovakia and where she had drawn these slippers tucked under a bed, embroidered pillow cases, table cloths, shirts, trousers, skirts and blouses; these images that had so fascinated her, now translated into the medium of wire.

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Slippers, Julia Griffiths Jones, photograph: Toril Brancher, July 2015

Slippers

Julia with trousers and jacket, photograph: Toril Brancher, July 2015
Boy wearing trousers
Metal working is a male preserve. One of the important things about Julia's work is she combines male and female domestic art together in one form.

Wire working has a distinctive place in Slovak history and culture. From as early as the sixteenth century, the Drotari (wire workers or tinkers) were travelling from farm to farm,  village to village, selling their goods and metal working skills, moving out of their native Bohemia, travelling west to Germany, east to Russia, spreading all over northern and central Europe. Eventually, their restless wandering would take them to America, where their extraordinary skills gained new markets. Noted for their inventiveness and ingenuity, they even created the shopping trolley.

I had been to Slovakia with Julia before in 1999 when she showed me the Wire Museum in Zilina. Readers of this blog will know how much I love museums, the stranger the better. I especially like museums that are about just one thing. The Wire Museum is devoted entirely to objects made from wire twisted and formed into all kinds of things both decorative and practical: bowls and birdcages, baskets and jewel boxes, life-size human figures, fairy tale creatures, animals and birds. 






On this previous visit in 1999, I had been writing Witch Child. Every historical novelist has to answer  important questions, like Where do my characters live? What are their houses like? I was moving my main character, Mary, from 17th Century England to America where the colonists would have to build their houses from scratch. I was in a heavily forested area, one subject to extremes of climate, hot in summer but very cold in winter. Very similar. I found myself studying the wooden houses in the outdoor museums and thinking that the houses my characters built would need to be like these: sturdily constructed from forest trees, the gaps in between the shaped logs stuffed with moss to keep out the winter cold.


So I invented a new character, Jonah Morse, based on a real apothecary who had travelled from London to Russia, to the court of the Czar. He could have travelled through these regions, I reasoned, and being an observant kind of fellow, noted how the houses were built and advised his fellow settlers in America to do likewise.


So, in Witch Child, that is what the houses are like, this is how they are built. It might seem a small  thing but it's that kind of detail that lends a story veracity. Inspiration is everywhere, all around us; it is there for the finding in the places we visit and the things we see. I would never have visited Slovakia if Julia hadn't asked me to go with her and the houses in Witch Child would have been made differently and not so well. I love the way a passing thought, a sudden observation, spins a tale of its own.

Celia Rees

http://www.celiarees.com





Monday, 17 August 2015

THE FACE OF AN ICON by Penny Dolan




Some faces haunt you for life. Near my desk, among a variety of women’s pictures and portraits, hangs a small icon of the Virgin. She was a prize won at my convent school, where the nuns ran a class raffle each month. 

The prize was always a holy picture, framed using a cheap technique known as “passe-partout”. Originally, this term referred to a bevelled cut-out cardboard “mat”, which saved an etching or drawing from damage by contact with the glass. A gummed paper tape held the picture in place on the underlay. Later on, passe-partout was sometimes used to describe the tape and the framing technique itself.   

It was simple and cheap and, back before the age of clip-frames and large posters sticky-tacked to walls, passe-partout was a popular craft, used for pictures cut from magazines or for valued sketches and paintings. The tape had now become a narrow band of gummed paper or cloth tape, neatly mitred at the corners, and glued around the edges of the “glass sandwich” to hold the sections together.

My Virgin is clearly a cheap copy of an icon. I’d kept her because of her beautiful expression - neither coy nor plaintive - even though that frame is scuffed and torn and a dangerous glass splinter marks the damage when the icon once fell on its corner. She’s an image that has always been there in my life, a reminder of a time when the people spent their leisure hours on such small crafts and teenage girls were pleased to win such objects as prizes for a charity raffle. I liked her being there. That was all.

However, as I sat idly watching Joanna’s Lumley’s “Trans-Siberian Train Trip” series on tv, my very same Virgin appeared on the screen. After the surprise, and the nostalgia, I started trying to find out more about her. Known as The Virgin of Vladimir, she is a famous Russian icon and in the programme, she seemed linked to a pretty Romanesque church at Vladimir. However, the Virgin – or Theotokos - is quite a well-travelled lady. 

One devotional story claimed that the icon was painted from life by St Luke himself, in Jerusalem, and that the wooden panel came from the supper table used by the Virgin, Jesus and St Joseph.

Historical studies, however, suggested that the icon was painted in the early 12th century and later sent by the Greek Patriarch of Constantinople to the Grand Duke Dolgoruky of Kiev, who placed the Virgin within the Mezhyhirskyi monastery 

Unfortunately, when Prince Andrew, the Duke's son, stole her and tried transporting her past the city of Vladimir to Rostov, the horses refused to move. That night he had a dream where the Virgin ordered him to build a church in her honour. The city seemed to be under her protection, although she got little honour when the Mongol hordes attacked in 1238.

However, her reputation went before her. When Tamerlaine invaded in 1395, the Virgin was taken from Vladimir to the new capital Moscow in a great procession. After the huge welcome, King Vasili I spent the night weeping in front of the image. By morning, so the legend says, Tamerlaine’s hordes had withdrawn: the city - and Russia - was saved. 

Naturally, the Muscovites were unwilling to return the icon; instead she was placed in the Cathedral of the Dormition in the Kremlin, and she is reputed for saving Moscow from Tatar hordes in 1451 and 1480 and on other occasions.  

Reading this, I recalled the tv programme and realised that "my" Virgin attracted legends. Even the worldly oligarch, showing Miss Lumley around his family church at Vladimir, recounted a more modern miracle. Back in 1941, he said, during the Great Patriotic War, Stalin was afraid the city would fall to Nazi forces. Although religion had been strongly discouraged, Stalin was desperate enough to turn to the faith of his childhood. He gave orders that the Virgin of Vladimir was to be placed in an aircraft and flown three times round the city. Needless to say, the Nazi troops suddenly retreated, and the people of Moscow were saved, he said.
 

Restored again and again, only the Virgin's face and hands seem to be original and she has been repainted after fire damage. Part of the surface has been concealed under a metal cover, probably of gold or silver and heavily layered with jewels but there was no suggestion as to when or where this valuable treasure was removed and disappeared. .

Recently, the Orthodox Church has had a more visible role within the Russian state structure and the Virgin of Vladimir has become an acceptable national symbol. Even so there must be complications to this whole history that I do not understand, especially as Vladimir itself is part of the Ukraine.. 

Nevertheless, back before I saw the programme, and started investigating the Virgin of Vladimir’s history, I knew her not as a national or even a political figure but only as an inspiring image. I have kept my cheaply-framed icon, tattered and cracked, all these years because the Virgin’s eyes have a kind and sympathetic intelligence, a gaze that is good to have by you while you work. I was also pleased to learn the icon is known as the Virgin of Tenderness.

Others have been drawn by the Virgin of Vladimir's powerful gaze. You may well have seen her eyes on screen too: in the logo of a film production company.
Penny Dolan.