Therein Lies the Pearl follows two resilient women in a medieval world ruled by men and sharpened by war who discover that survival, faith, and quiet courage can shape history just as surely as swords. What first drew you to the period surrounding the Norman Conquest?

From traditional sources, everybody knows of the events leading up to and including the Norman Conquest of 1066: the death of the childless king, the men fighting for the crown, the subsequent rebellions and invasions. But what if you could experience a past event from the perspective of someone left out of the history books? Someone whose voice had been ignored because they were not powerful, wealthy, or famous?

The origins of Therein Lies the Pearl started with a visit to Edinburgh Castle. There, a small Romanesque structure made of stone sits at its summit, the place known as St. Margaret’s Chapel.

The first time I sat on the wooden bench beneath the stained glass window, I found myself lost in thought, wondering about this woman who had been called the “Pearl of Scotland.” From my Catholic upbringing, I knew a few skeletal details of her life–like the fact that she wanted to be a nun but somehow wound up married to a king and that she later came to be known as the patron saint of mothers and families. On a more personal level, I also liked the idea that her feast day was celebrated in my own birth month of November. Beyond that, I had no concept of just how fascinating her life had been.

There was no question in my mind that I wanted to write a book about Margaret, one where she would be a central character. But let’s face it, sometimes virtuous people can be boring (from a reader’s standpoint), so I needed something to spice things up a bit.

In came Celia.

Celia is not conventionally “likable.” Why was that important to you, and what does Margaret bring to the story that contrasts with Celia?

The feisty girl from Normandy is a completely fictional character. Unlike Margaret, she is thoroughly immersed in the secular world, and her very survival depends upon pluck, grit, and daring. In the beginning, Celia served as the perfect foil to the would-be nun, but oddly enough, the more pages I wrote (in my marble notebooks), the more the two women seemed to be mirror images of one another. The circumstances that surrounded each may have been vastly different–Saxon princess vs. simple farm girl–but the truth was they each had to find ways to maneuver amidst a world that did not have their best interests at heart.

When their lives eventually did intersect, they were supposed to be enemies. At least that was the distinction placed upon them by the men in power. However, the more time they spent together, observing and evaluating one another, the easier it was to shed that imposed label. And the bond they formed, based on mutual respect and admiration, could not be broken by any king, priest, or duke. Even death itself wasn’t able to diminish their connection.

What were some themes that were important for you to explore in this book?

One of the most obvious themes, of course, is female resiliency and agency in a male-dominated world. Despite their limited power in effecting sweeping changes, Celia and Margaret have an impact on their immediate surroundings because of their uncommon courage and unwavering devotion to doing what they believe is right.

Another theme involves strength. The word itself resists a single interpretation. Celia seems to embody the stereotypical picture of the undaunted warrior, but Margaret, in her own way, is just as strong. In fact, Celia initially judges her incorrectly, thinking that Margaret’s piety and contemplative nature convey weakness. As time passes, Celia realizes how wrong she was. Margaret possesses a sustained inward power that commands respect through consistent action, not outward noise or aggression.

Lastly, I think one of the greatest messages of the novel is to live for the moment. As recounted on certain pages in the novel, what we want in life and what we get may not always match. But we mustn’t go through our days worrying about that imbalance. Instead, we must “keep reaching out toward life, blissfully thankful for the ignorance.”

Why is it important to tell history from the margins?

I think that question lies at the heart of the historical fiction genre.

If you want a telescopic version of events, pick up a non-fiction text and read a generalized presentation of what took place. Get to know all the “big names,” the movers and shakers of history. But if you want to listen to voices that, perhaps, were not given a chance to speak in such chronicles, then grab a historical fiction novel and experience the event from the microscopic lens of someone who is living, breathing, and navigating his/her way through those same events on a personal and intense level. Telling history from the margins offers the reader a more nuanced understanding of the past–like getting to experience the Norman Conquest from the perspective of two women who carve their destiny armed only with strength, resilience, and faith.

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