The Serpent's Tale — Review by Chris

She's back, that feisty, clever, relentless coroner of the 12th century. In The Serpent's Tale, readers encounter Vesuvia Adelia Rachel Ortiz Aguilar nearly two years after her first experience with the English crown and has settled in the fens with a couple of familiar faces (Glytha, Mansur) and one very special one we've yet to meet.

Alas, her idyllic life in Oxfordshire as the local doctor is short-lived. Henry — King Henry II of England, to be precise — has a problem only Adelia can solve: someone has killed Rosamund, Henry's beloved mistress. Adelia needs to find out who.

Oh, if only it was that simple.

First of all, she is a woman in primitive England, little more than chattel and certainly not all that valuable, except to a couple of men (and thank heavens one is a monarch). Second of all, she's educated, which was singular enough in her hometown of Salerno — but in the backwaters of England, it's unheard-of. Third of all, she is on the king's business. And anyone who's anyone knows that heavy is the head that wears the crown — and all the easier to topple said crown, or even said head.

So, she again teams up with Mansur — er, Doctor Mansur — to examine Rosamund and investigate the murder. For it is murder, complete with a mysterious hag in the forest providing delectible morsels for the king's "pretty." Rowley, the king's man to the end, heads the traveling party and again proves invaluable.

This second investigation takes Adelia and her entourage to Godstow Abbey, a cloister of smart, educated women (nuns and pensioners) who are as rare a treat as Adelia. With Adelia's keen eye and clever mind, we meet Mother Edyeve, whom author Ariana Franklin describes as having "the disinterested calm of elderly people who had seen everything and were now watching it come around for the second time." She is surrounded by interesting people, as the abbey is its own village with two churches and many villagers.

So much happens, from the moment Adelia assures Rowley of Rosamund's fate, to the arrival at Wormhold Tower with its labyrinth (and innuendos that are worth a chuckle or two), to the surprising arrival of an unexpected visitor and the aftermath.

More than fair Rosamund fall prey to the brutality of murder, and Adelia sees the series of unnatural deaths as a progression. Why are they being killed? What is the connection?

Who is foul enough to take another's life: Queen Eleanor, on the cusp of a civil war with a country less than a generation past its last such internal battle? Was it Lord Wolvercote, who hungrily eyed the abbey for its land and cursed the women who ran it (and who protected the young woman whose parents promised her to be his dowery, er, wife)? Was it Master Warin, whose young cousin befell his own treacherous (and suspicious) end? Could it be the Abbot of Eynsham, whose ambition was as bright as his cruelty?

Woven into this tale is a new perspective: the life of royalty and its court. From the moment members of the royal court sweeps in with too many people and an incredible amount of expectation, the world changes for everyone.  Not only are the king and queen's sycophants swept along in the wake, but also the innocents who become temporary toys. One learns that the only thing worse than being ignored by the rulers of the land is being noticed by them. Adelia does not escape Eleanor or Henry's attention, and she pays dearly for every moment in which she draws their eyes. However, Franklin shows the distinct difference in personality and expectation between the monarchs locked in their dance of power, intrigue and love — and the people who surround them.

The book sweeps along at a quick pace, but it never loses its readers. I personally fell very much in love with Henry, a man Adelia rightly sees as too far ahead of his time and his people — but in the right place for a monarch. Adelia herself admires and appreciates him, and I share her sentiment. The final scene of the book is revealing and delightful, and leaves me hungry for the next tale of our Mistress of the Art of Death.

One last thought: while you needn't read the first book to understand this one. However, you may choose to, if only to revel in the characters — and you won't be disappointed. Just don't let it hold you back from this delightful volume.

An Innocent, A Broad — Review by Chris

I am a huge fan of Denis Leary, whose No Cure for Cancer is one of the most amazing stand-up performances I have seen. In that show, he talks about his young son born prematurely in London. I am touched by that part of the show — Denis shows an amazing range of delivery, and who can resist a man's love for his infant son?

Imagine my surprise when I discovered his wife Ann wrote a memoir about that experience. Her first book was mentioned in an announcement for her new novel. So, I had to read it — I wanted to learn about the experience from the other perspective.

One of the most important elements of a memoir is the honesty. I don't mean A Million Little Pieces Dishonesty, where characters and situations are created for the "storyline." I mean honesty about herself and the situations around her. This was a very touching and tense story, and author Ann Leary could have taken the easy road with sympathy and saccharin-sweet reflections and observations. But then, with that sentimentality, could she have survived nearly three decades married to Denis?

I was prepared to like Ann Leary. I wasn't disappointed (until the cat incident, see below). She was an honest person about her own strengths and weaknesses. She did not always show her best side, and I was glad to read that; if she had presented herself as a flawless individual, I would have stopped reading pretty early on. She showed her interactions with the medical staff and she didn't always come off looking good; one can forgive her because she was trying to be active in her son's treatment. Those exchanges showed how patient and understanding the staff was with her.

She was very, very kind to her husband. When he was there, he was on — and I really enjoyed his presence in the story. He grounded her and was a fabulous husband and father. Heck, between his stand-up and her memoir, I'm a little in love with him myself. He asked the important questions. For example, when her water broke, he asked, "Are you sure you didn't pee?" Her answer made me laugh out loud, but also made me anxious for her. I'm sorry to say that he was gone most of the time, which was hard on Ann and on the story.

It also was an interesting comparison of the British and American medical systems. Ann is complimentary of the British system, which we see from the perspective of the person involved with it. As the current presidential candidates talk about this hot-button topic on the campaign trail (or not, depending on the financial crisis of the week), it's nice to see what other countries do for their sick people.

I was really in her court -- until she waxed on about killing a geriatric cat. I have a sense of humor, but not about that. Wishing ill on a 20-year-old arthritic, nearly crippled feline is not funny in the least. The incident took place near the end of the book, and it changed the way I saw her. I liked her up to that part, then I couldn't like her anymore. It was ugly and selfish and I saw her in a different, less flattering light after that.

As far as memoirs go, it was a good book. It wasn't mind-blowing, life-changing or otherwise pivotal. It was just an interesting tale told from a different perspective than I had heard to date. Just skip the parts about the cat and perhaps you'll like her at the end of the book.

On Chesil Beach — Review by Chris

On Chesil Beach is a lovely little book that provides a perfect snapshot of a young British couple in the summer of 1962.

This book will have readers ask the question, “Could I ever have been (or could I ever be) that young?”

No matter what we try to tell ourselves, the answer is always “yes.” We would like to think ourselves more mature and sophisticated that that, but that’s like thinking we really do sound like Aretha Franklin in the shower. Ian McEwan presents these characters with such honesty and clarity, we readers will recognize how such a story can take place.

The short, poignant novel is a story about Florence and Edward, both 22-year-old Brits, who marry in 1962. Florence and Edward have lived in their family homes all their lives and experienced the intimacy and inner workings of their families, but they really don’t know how husbands and wives work together. As Charlie Rich crooned, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors — much to the dismay of those who have to walk behind them for the first time.

The tapestry of story is beautiful and compact as it weaves between the immediate present, as the two literally approach the marriage bed on their wedding night, and the experiences that had brought them to that point. They are told from the perspectives of Florence and Edward, and McEwan moves seamlessly between their thoughts.

Reading their story 45 years hence, a reader can appreciate the mores of the time and how (or whether) times have changed since. To date, Florence hadn’t given Edward more than a longing look; once he tried to advance to second base and was soundly thwarted. He laments that it took him weeks to regain ground with Florence, but that is what one expected of a respectable girl.

Now, though, the vicar gave them permission to share their bodies with each other, and McEwan allows readers into the minds of Florence and Edward, which ring with great clarity and honesty.

It is clear why Edward wants and expects his bride to respond to his advances, and his interpretations of her actions are completely understandable and truly heartbreaking.

It is also clear why Florence reacts as she does as she tries to approach her marital duties, and readers can truly sympathize with her bravery in the face of her fear: in the span of a 20-minute church ceremony, she is expected to go from virgin to sexual being without preparation of body or mind.

The true beauty of the compact novel is in its unfolding of the story. Whether you like the story’s resolution, you will be glad you read it. I highly recommend this book.