Years ago, I thought I wanted to become an archaeologist. While I soon discarded the idea as impractical—too much dirt, too much sun, too much science—the fascination never left me.
Then last winter on a Holy Land tour, I stood amidst excavated ruins of an ancient Roman city in Jordan and made a surprising discovery.
“I am an archaeologist!” I said aloud to a fellow member of the tour group. He looked at me as if I were a bit delusional and said nothing. I went on rattling off the new connections my brain had just made.
Archaeology attracted me in the first place because I longed to discover old worlds and give them new life! While I abandoned all dreams of the occupation so named, I have spent my life digging up the past, interpreting it in the light of the present, searching for guidance for the future.
Looking down physically at last on the stones and debris of biblical times I saw an incredible metaphor. A historical novel is an archeological dig spurred on by the intoxicating joy of discovery!
My work may give me a backache from too much sitting or twisting around to reach some enticing book on the top shelf in the old library. But my fingernails stay clean, and I have no sunburn.
I don’t dig through physical dirt and layers of stones with unpronounceable geologic names. I wander through old buildings, dusty libraries, stuffy museums, in search of the artifacts and companions Pieter-Lucas and Aletta touched, the air they breathed, the thoughts they entertained. At my desk I spend hours devouring history books, armed with markers and red pens and yellow note pads. Sometimes I reread the same chapter or scene a dozen times before its details are fixed in my mind.
Always I am sifting through the stuff, relentless till I’ve discovered some irresistible gem. It may be a major character to give direction to the story. Often it is a tidbit of description or some obscure anecdote or a morsel of sixteenth-century philosophy that turns a key to a locked door in the story forming in my notebooks and my singularly focused brain.
You are about to go with me on a dig into the sixteenth-century world. Here you will find yourself without most of the conveniences you have come to believe are necessary to sustain life. Even coffee and tea have not yet made their way to the shores we visit. Family names were developing at this time, based on life occupations, geographical location, or some distinguishing characteristic. Many families simply did not yet have one. Language was in flux and rules of spelling almost did not exist; therefore, often names were spelled differently in every resource I consulted. On a few occasions I have opted for one of the archaic spellings to give the story local color.
Microbes had not yet been discovered, nor the theory of circulation of the blood. The local pharmacy was an herb garden, usually in the courtyard of a convent, and at times superstition played as much a role in medicine as the herbs. Security was maintained by armies and stone walls and simple citadels built on imposing hills. Highway robbers were an expected part of traveling. Supernatural creatures were not only credible, but they influenced daily decisions. Baths were not a part of daily hygiene, breakfast was not a common meal, and children were often dressed to look like miniature adults.
Thought processes were not restricted like ours by schedules or scientific or psychological data. Values were drawn in sharp sketches of black-and-white with little allowance for gray zones. Everything theological was in constant turmoil. Holding together the society where you lived was often more important than discovering how true were the rules by which this gluing was accomplished.
Once more you will meet a few characters stepping directly from the history books and archives: Willem van Oranje and his family—Juliana, Jan, Ludwig; King Philip and his infamous Duke of Alva, along with Don Frederic, Romero, Requesens, and Valdez; a few city officials from Leyden; some artists of enduring note—the Van Eyck brothers, Lucas van Leyden, Pieter Brueghel. Interacting with them, you’ll find old friends that spring only from The Seekers series: Pieter-Lucas and Aletta with their families and friends—little Lucas and Kaatje, Dirck, Gretta, and Robbin Engelshofen, Hendrick van den Garde, Mieke. A cast of new players has been added: the family of Joris—Hiltje, Christoffel, Clare, and Tryntje; the glipper priest of the Pieterskerk; Jakob and Magdalena de Wever, and the Children of God that meet in their attic; the baker from the sign of The Pretzel; the unruly gang of taunting boys.
Once more I invite you to grab an archeologist’s shovel, don a sun hat, and join me on one more journey into discovery—this time in The Citadel and the Lamb.