It’s the time of year and this is short, because I could go on and on, but I don’t need to.

I live in Britain, in a small, unremarkable town. When I go into town to do some shopping I pass a cottage where Oliver Cromwell lodged on his way to one of the Civil War battles. On the other side of the road is another building where Charles I stayed on his way back. They’re a restaurant and a pub now, but they have their blue plaques.

When I visit my mother in Leicester, I pass the church where men on the way to the Battle of Bosworth used the walls to sharpen their swords. I pass a place called Butt Lane, where the archers practised every Sunday, as they were required to do by their overlord. And at this time of year every village, every town, every city has a simple stone monument surrounded by poppy wreaths.

I’m reminded of history, of my ancestors, of the people who helped to make me what I am.

So what can I do in return? The very least I can do is to ensure that when I write a historical novel I don’t traduce their times, the things they believed in or  what they did. The very least is to try to get it right, take all the known facts and the attitudes of the times and take care not to distort them. I won’t do it even in the sacred name of entertainment.

Lynne Connolly