Few women of her time lived to see their name in print. But Katherine
was no ordinary woman. She was Sir Walter Raleigh’s mother. This is her story.
Set against the turbulent background of a Devon rocked by the religious
and social changes that shaped Tudor England; a Devon of privateers and
pirates; a Devon riven by rebellions and plots, A Woman of Noble Wit tells how
Katherine became the woman who would inspire her famous sons to follow their
dreams. It is Tudor history seen through a woman’s eyes.
As the daughter of a gentry family with close connections to the glittering
court of King Henry VIII, Katherine’s duty is clear. She must put aside her dreams and
accept the husband chosen for her. Still a girl, she starts a new life at
Greenway Court, overlooking the River Dart, relieved that her husband is not
the aging monster of her nightmares. She settles into the life of a dutiful
wife and mother until a chance shipboard encounter with a handsome privateer turns her world upside down.…..
Years later a courageous act will set Katherine’s name in print and her youngest son
will fly high.
Trigger Warnings: Rape.
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¸.•*´¨)✯ ¸.•*¨) ✮
( ¸.•´✶
Rosemary Griggs
Fun Facts
(Stuff you may or may not already
know!)
Jungle
living
For
many years our second home was a collection of ramshackle buildings on stilts
connected by a walkway, all set in twenty acres of secondary rainforest in
Belize, Central America. There was no
road; the only way to get there was by boat across the river. We woke every
morning to a chorus of parrots, soon followed by toucans who spent half an hour
banging their beaks together in a towering trumpet tree. Sometimes a group of Montezuma’s Oropendulas,
large brown crow-like birds with yellow tails, would tip upside down while
making their strange gobbling calls. A
tapir made its home in a pond in the wetland area at the back of the property
and at night we heard the kinkajou, known locally as the nightwalker, crashing
through the trees. We often found jaguar footprints around the buildings and
three times in broad daylight we caught sight of the elusive beast with the
strongest jaws of any large cat. There were spiders, scorpions, and every sort
of biting insect you can imagine. But
the most dangerous of all was a highly venomous snake, a pit viper called the
Feur de Lance, or locally the Tommy Goff.
I soon adopted the local gardening tool of choice, a machete, and just
as well I did. One day I was clearing
up beneath our walkway when I encountered the snake with its arrow-shaped head and vivid diamond-patterned
back. I called out to my husband who was in
the house up top, but the snake started to rear ready to attack. “Too late,” I
cried as my machete flashed through the air and the snake’s head went
flying. Ever after our gardener/handyman/caretaker would always
call for me if ever he saw any type of snake,
“Miss Rose, Miss Rose. Come kill
this snake.” But the Tommy Goff was the
only one I would ever kill, and then only in self defence.
A
night with lionsMy
adventures in the wild were not confined to Belize. In the mid-1990s we set out on an African
Safari. At our first lodge in Zimbabwe, we narrowly escaped being tipped out of
our open Land Rover by a buffalo, hotly pursued by lions. While on foot we survived an encounter with a
group of female elephants. Next, we canoed on the mighty Zambezi where
crocodiles shot from the banks right under us.
The safety briefing advised that, should we fall into the water, we must
keep absolutely still and wait for the other canoe to rescue us. On no account must we try to swim for
shore! We were taught to tap the side of
the canoe with our paddles to make the hippos, surprisingly the most dangerous
of Africa’s big five, poke their heads up.
We could then avoid getting between them and the deep water they would
seek if startled. Scary stuff! But most
terrifying of all was our night with the lions.
At the end of a day on the water, our support team would set up camp for
us and provide an amazing silver service dinner under the stars before we
retired to our tent. It was a hot night
so the side of our tent was rolled up, with only a flimsy fly-mesh between us
and the African night. We woke to
terrifying sounds. Our guide appeared
briefly to tell us that we were in for a noisy time. Lions had made a kill — probably a buffalo — on the river bank and
were calling in the rest of the pride to share it. All would be well, he said, if we stayed
inside the tent. I didn’t need telling twice!
A little later the blood-curdling roars stopped abruptly. Something was moving beyond the fly-mesh.
Shadowy forms of lions were pacing to and fro.
I could smell them. I could hear
their laboured breathing, oh, so close.
We waited, frozen, for what seemed like hours until, as dawn lit the
sky, as suddenly as they came they were gone. There were footprints, bigger
than my hand all around the campsite. Apparently, a crocodile had stolen their
kill and the lions were raging round hoping for a chance to steal it back. I
won a prize in a Wanderlust magazine competition for my story of that
wild night on the banks of the Zambezi.
As
“Auntie Rosemary” I met Dilberta the Elephant and the Gladiators
One
of the great things about a career as a generalist in the civil service is that
you switch from one Department to another as you climb the greasy pole for
promotion. It brings the discipline of researching and assimilating lots of
detailed information very quickly, a skill that is invaluable in the research
that underpins my writing. One of my favourite postings was to the Department of Environment in the early 1990s to work on environmental education. Awareness of “green” issues, things like the
ozone layer and climate change, was in its infancy. I was charged to help engage the public and
particularly young people in what they could do to help. I worked with
environmental groups to publish guidance. Recycle, re-use, reduce were the
watchwords. As “Auntie Rosemary”, I
received entries for a competition to win places at a summit where children
could put their questions to the Secretary of State. I was in the thick of a long campaign to
promote the competition which included a visit to the London Zoo with the Minister,
to meet “Dilberta the Elephant” (sadly Dilberta is no more) and a photo shoot with “The Gladiators” who were at the
height of their fame as TV stars. My children were so envious!
The
Queen at the other end of the Mall
Most
of my civil service career was in and around Whitehall, in a range of very
different buildings, from old-fashioned brown-doored “corridors of Power” to state-of-the-art
glass-fronted offices in a newly refurbished building with a waterfall at its
heart. My first senior civil service posting was to the Cabinet Office at a
time when some staff was housed at a very prestigious address —Admiralty
Arch. Actually, the working space was
basic in the extreme. My office was
cramped with a window looking out only onto traffic streaming under the arch to
continue down the Mall to towards Buckingham Palace. But it was very handy for lunchtime walks in
St James Park and my husband used to joke that there were two Queen’s - one at each end of the Mall.
Mistaken
for a time-traveller
You
might think that after a career like that I’d be only too pleased to settle for
a quiet retirement pottering in my garden.
But that was not for me. First, I
led tours at magnificent Dartington Hall. Then I started to research and make
sixteenth-century clothing to wear as a volunteer at a local National Trust
property. That was where I first met
Katherine Champernowne, the subject of my novel. I now bring this remarkable Devon woman to
life for audiences all over the county and use her clothes to open up
conversations about how people like her lived.
I usually travel to speaking engagements in full costume— there’s
quite an art to getting my farthingale into the car. On one afternoon after my appearance at a
fortified manor house, my long-suffering husband had gone to collect the car. I
was waiting beside the Devon lane that runs past the gateway when a car slowed
to a stop and the driver wound down the window.
He stared at me for several minutes, open-mouthed, before he stuttered “Are
you a Time Traveller?”
¸.•*´¨)✯ ¸.•*¨) ✮ ( ¸.•´✶
Rosemary
Griggs is a retired Whitehall Senior Civil
Servant with a lifelong passion for history. She is now a speaker on Devon’s
sixteenth-century history and costume. She leads heritage tours at Dartington
Hall, has made regular costumed appearances at National Trust houses, and helps
local museums bring history to life.
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