Cover image for The burning times : a novel of medieval France
Title:
The burning times : a novel of medieval France
Author:
Kalogridis, Jeanne.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Simon & Schuster, [2001]

©2001
Physical Description:
394 pages ; 25 cm
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780684869230
Format :
Book

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Central Library X Adult Fiction Central Closed Stacks
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Summary

Summary

Of the Black Death, they said it was the end of the world; I knew better. The world can withstand the sickness of the body, but it remains to be seen whether it will survive the sickness that eats at the souls of our persecutors... So professes Mother Marie Franoise, born Sybille, a poor midwife who is taught pagan ways and magic by her grandmother and is forced to take refuge among the Franciscan sisterhood as the Inquisition threatens. Her extraordinary life story unfolds when a monk is charged with determining whether the mysterious abbess is a saint or a witch. Sybille is possessed of exceptional powers, and she is in full command of them -- practicing white and black magic, winning the hearts of people with her wisdom, and terrorizing church authorities with her cunning. But even witches are not immune to earthly love, and Sybille embarks on a passionate, dangerous quest to be reunited with her beloved. As she confronts an exceptional destiny -- one that will require her to face the flames in order to save others like her -- she relates a tale of impossible triumph that forever changes the inquisitor who hears it. The Burning Times brilliantly weaves the mythology of the Knights Templar, witchcraft, and gnosticism against a backdrop of actual historical events: the Black Death, the Hundred Years' War, and the catastrophic defeat of France by England. Demonstrating the same meticulous research and page-turning plotting that made her Diaries of the Family Dracul series a success, Jeanne Kalogridis crafts a vivid portrait of this turbulent and fascinating period in world history and, at the same time, delivers a searing love story with a redeeming moral of itsown: The greatest magic is that of compassion.


Author Notes

Jeanne Kalogridis is the author of The Diaries of the Family Dracul, a historical trilogy about Vlad the Impaler. She lives in Southern California.

Her latest novel is entitled The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici. (Publisher Provided)


Reviews 4

Booklist Review

The conflict between the Catholic Church and the "old religion" that focused on the worship of the goddess and her consort came to a head during the fourteenth century. The best modern estimates are that 40,000 people suspected of being witches or goddess worshipers were put to death during this period, known as "the burning times." In her first book since completing Lord of the Vampires (1996), the last in the Diaries of the Family Dracul trilogy, Kalogridis brings these years to life. Incorporating historical events such as the Black Death, the Inquisition, and the Hundred Years' War, Kalogridis relates a romantic tale of a little girl growing up amid the peasants in medieval France. Sybille, having learned as a child the arts of magic from her grandmother, a midwife and witch, is forced to take refuge among Franciscan nuns. But under orders of the pope, she and her followers are jailed and tortured. In captivity, Sybille tells her story to a young monk, and in the process, both their lives are changed forever. --Nancy Pearl


Publisher's Weekly Review

Dracul, turns from fangs and bloodsucking to gnosticism and witchcraft in this paranormal romance-cum-medieval fantasy. In 14th-century France, Franciscan abbess Marie Fran‡oise is arrested by the Inquisition on charges of heresy and communion with the devil. As the inquisitors prepare to burn her at the stake, Dominican scribe Michel is ordered to secure Marie's confession. Yet Michel is inexplicably drawn to the abbess, convinced of her holiness and determined to find her innocent. Marie, whose true name is Sybille, confesses to her pagan upbringing at the hands of her loving yet hedonistic grandmother. Following her sexual initiation into the cult of Diana, known as the "Race," and the burning of her grandmother at the stake, Sybille flees to a nearby abbey, impersonates a nun and tends to the victims of the plague with her magical touch. Hailed as the Goddess Diana incarnate by her fellow nuns, who are revealed to be female members of the beleaguered Knights Templar, she continues her quest for her "Beloved," Luc de la Rose, whom she must couple with in order to continue the Race. The author is at her best relating in gruesome detail the sweeping effects of the Black Death on provincial life. Otherwise, this meandering narrative is plagued by the sophomoric use of proper nouns (Evil, Race, Sight, etc.), overwrought dream sequences and one-dimensional characters. Kalogridis aims to depict Sybille as an incandescent and mysterious heroine, but she comes across as a melodramatic caricature. Agent, Russell Galen of Scovil, Chichak and Galen. (Apr.) Forecast: Fans of Kalogridis's vampire trilogy will be drawn to this novel but they won't be satisfied with it. Negative word-of-mouth may contribute to depressing sales. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

In her latest novel, Kalogridis makes an abrupt departure from "The Diaries of the Family Dracul" series, which told the stories of Vlad the Impaler. Set in 14th-century France, The Burning Times recounts the story of Sybille, born a commoner but descended from a very old and revered race of psychically gifted men and women who have the power to heal the sick and see the future. Unfortunately, not everyone honors those with such power, and when her grandmother is tortured and burned at the stake by the Inquisition, Sybille inherits her powers and becomes the physical embodiment of the Goddess. In her search for her Lord and soul mate, Sybille disguises herself as a Franciscan nun to escape the terror of the Inquisition. Although the theme of good triumphing over evil is an old one and has been told countless times through the centuries, the author presents a fresh and dramatic new view of an old, old story. The backdrop of the Hundred Years' War and the outbreaks of the Plague provide a dramatic and colorful setting to this story. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 12/00.] Jane Baird, Anchorage Municipal Libs., AK (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


School Library Journal Review

Adult/High School-Carcassonne, France, October, 1357: Michel is a dedicated Dominican monk learning the rules of the Inquisition. He adheres to the church doctrine to rid it of heretics. In only his second inquisition, the scribe encounters Mother Marie Franchise (born Sybille) in the depths of a dungeon. She stands accused of witchcraft and will confess only to the novice. Over three days, she tells the story of Marie Sybille de Cavasulle, born with a caul over her face. She speaks of her grandmother's lessons in magic and healing, and talks of descending from a race of goddesses, all of which led her from her village to seek her future disguised as a nun searching for her people and her soul mate. In learning about her life, Michel learns about his identity. So begins an adventure full of dangers, mythology, witchcraft, and Gnosticism. Kalogridis re-creates with colorful accuracy the Inquisition, the Black Death, and the Hundred Years' War. Although the dream sequences are confusing, the historical depictions are done well. While not a must, this engrossing tale is a nice addition.-Linda G. Sinclair, Alexandria Library, VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Chapter One It is a hard, deafening rain. Fast, malignant clouds shroud the moon and stars, and the softer velvet black of the night sky; profound darkness veils all, save for those instants when lightning illuminates the distant mountains, and I see: My galloping mount's coat gleaming like onyx, his wet mane whipping like a Medusa's crown in the angry wind; see, too, the road to Carcassonne before us, studded with stones, brambles of wild rose, and bushes of rosemary that yield their astringent fragrance as they are crushed beneath the horse's hooves. Rosemary brings memories; roses are not without thorns; stones are hard. Hard as the rain: in the flash, it appears long, jagged, crystalline -- a hail of icicles, of small, frozen lightning bolts. They pierce and sting, and though it seems right that this moment should be physically painful, I feel a welling of pity for the stallion. He is exhausted, gasping from the long, strenuous run; even so, when at last I rein him in, he fights me, rearing his head. As he slows reluctantly, lifting strong, graceful legs to pace sidelong, I put one palm flat against his shoulders and feel the muscles straining there. He is sensitive, my steed, in the way most animals are, though he does not possess the Sight: he cannot see those pursuing us, but he can sense the Evil residing in one particular heart. He shivers, but not from the autumn chill, and rolls his great dark eyes to look questioningly back at me; I can see terror in the whites. We have fled our enemies this long; why, now, do we wait for them? "They will not hurt you," I tell him softly, and stroke his neck as he whinnies in protest. His coat is cold and soaked from sweat and rain, but underneath, the muscles emanate heat. "You are a fine horse, and they will take you where it is warm and dry, and feed you. You will be treated kindly." Would that I should encounter the same. In that instant, I want to weep, hard and bitter as the rain; hard, so very hard. The stallion senses this and, distressed, increases his pacing. I collect myself and give his wet neck another stroke. My pursuers would say I was casting a spell on the poor animal; but I know it is only the opening of one's heart to another creature, the unspoken sharing of calm -- a true calm I must look deep within myself to find. One cannot lie to animals. I am almost near the end of my journey, but the Goddess has spoken: there is no further use in running. Should I continue to flee and my Enemy to chase, none of it will save my poor Beloved. Surrender provides my only chance -- a slender one, fraught with risk, and my Sight will not reveal the outcome. I shall live, or I shall die. Soon the horse and I fall silent and still. The rain has eased, and in the absence of one noise, I hear another. Thunder, but there is no lightning in the sky. No; not thunder. Hoofbeats -- not one pair, but several. We wait, my steed and I, until they come closer, closer, closer.... And out of the darkness appear four, seven, ten cloaked men on horseback -- the very ones I have Seen in my mind's eye all the dark hours of my flight now materialized in the flesh. A black cloud slips to reveal a slice of new moon, and the glint of metal: nine of these men are gendarmes from Avignon, from the pope's personal cadre. I am encircled. They close in, drawing the noose tighter, and lift their swords. New moons are for beginnings; this one bodes an end. I and my stallion remain perfectly composed, perfectly still. Suspicious, some of the gendarmes face outward: where are my protectors? Certainly, they lie in wait nearby, ready to spring on my captors; certainly, they would not have simply abandoned me, a small and unarmed woman, their supposed witch-queen. Ah, no; 'twas I who tried to make my escape without them -- but so loyal were they that they soon found and joined me. And when the Goddess demanded my surrender -- mine, not theirs, for She had need of their service elsewhere -- I sent them away. At first they refused to leave me; indeed, Edouard swore he would die first. I could only close my eyes and open my mind, my heart to theirs, that they might hear the Goddess as I did. Edouard sobbed as though his heart would break; the others' faces were obscured by their hoods, but I sensed the silent tears streaming down their cheeks. We said no more; needed say no more, for all was known. Thus my brave knights rode away. And now I watch three of the Enemy's men leap from their horses to plunge swords into sparkling blackberry brambles, into thick, tall foliage, blades whistling as bits of leaf and stem go flying. One man climbs up into a nearby olive tree and hacks off branches until he is satisfied no one waits in ambush. Mystified, they return to their mounts' sides and stare at me as I continue to sit, calm and quiet as my stallion. Darkness or no, I see fear upon the gendarmes' faces. They wonder why I do not simply bewitch them -- turn them into swine, perhaps, and escape. All of them, that is, except the tenth man, who feels quite certain this capture is his doing. This is the cardinal Domenico Chrétien. Unlike the others, who are cloaked in somber black, he wears upon his back and head the color of blood. His countenance is broad and plump, with upper and lower lips of crude thickness, and eyes hidden in deep folds. His body is likewise soft, belying the heart within. Commandingly, he calls: "The Abbess Mother Marie Françoise?" This is the Enemy. We have met only once upon this earthly plane, though on another we are old acquaintances. It is difficult not to look upon him with familiar contempt. So filled with self-loathing is he that he would kill anyone who reminded him of what he is. There is only one alive capable of greater harm to my people -- the one I have come to stop, lest I and my Race be obliterated from the face of this world. "The same," I reply to his question. I struggle, and manage to conquer my hate; to do otherwise would make my soul as closed as his. "You are under arrest on the charge of heresy, witchcraft, andmaleficium directed at the Holy Father himself. What say you?" "That you know better than I of what I am guilty." A humble admission on the face of it, but my Enemy understands this veiled rebuke, and his expression subtly darkens, though he dare say nothing in front of his men -- his men, who have no idea what is actually happening here, who would not believe if they were told. "You will come with us, Abbess." I do not resist; indeed, I give a nod of compliance. Even so, I am pulled roughly off the horse, who rears, knocking down one of the guards and causing minor alarm until he is at last subdued. As I had told him, he is a fine mount; the gendarmes appreciate this, and one of them takes hold of his reins and speaks soothingly until the animal is reassured. As for me, I am stripped of the cloak that hides my dark habit, veil, and wimple, and my arms are bound behind my back; then I am flung facedown over the back of a different horse and tied to the saddle. One man murmurs: "Now there's the perfect position for a highborn lady." The others snort faintly at this, but no one laughs, even though I am bound, outnumbered, and apparently at their mercy. In the silence that quickly follows, I hear their fear. It is a difficult ride home. My face slaps against wet horseflesh, and when the rain begins again in earnest the back of my habit is quickly soaked through, leaving my spine aching with cold. Water runs down my arms and legs and neck. Inverted, my veil grows heavy with rain and soon falls; my wimple slips, leaving my shorn head exposed, letting the rain spill into my ears and nose and eyes. I try to comfort myself: it is the Goddess's will. It is my life's mission, foretold from my birth. On the way to my destiny, the horse from time to time steps upon and crushes pungent herb; I close my stinging eyes in pain at its perfume. Rosemary brings memories. Copyright © 2001 Jeanne Kalogridis. All rights reserved.

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