Redeeming the Rogue Knight and Cats
When a hero is in danger of coming across as unlikeable, received wisdom suggests giving him a ‘save the cat’ moment. It doesn’t literally have to be a cat, of course, but he should do something that reveals a soft, squishy, lovable interior under the shell of hardness or coldness, or whatever face he’s presenting to the world (I suspect Mr Darcy might have got further much quicker with Lizzie if she’d spotted him dangling his cravat over the arm of a chaise-longue for a kitten to bat).
The only hero of mine who really needed to STC was Roger Danby, who many readers had already encountered in The Blacksmith’s Wife as the villain. He had a cat moment early on but he didn’t save it (he couldn’t as he was tied to a bed at the time).
The cat was in the story purely because I thought an inn would have a cat to keep the mice down but he doesn’t drive the plot, isn’t rescued and existed because I wanted him to. Later in the story Lucy uses him to have a dig about Roger’s attitude.
Gyb sidled into the room and jumped on to the table. He dropped a dead rat in front of Roger. Lucy swiped him away with an angry snarl.
‘Your cat is far too forward,’ Roger remarked.
‘He isn’t mine.’ Lucy watched the cat saunter off, rat in mouth. ‘He showed up one day unasked and unwanted and decided to stay. I might as well make use of him. If he doesn’t like it, I’m sure he’ll leave.’
‘So I’m not the first stray you’ve taken pity on,’ Roger observed in mock seriousness.
‘Not the first battered tom who would have his end away with any female that takes his fancy?’ Lucy retorted.
‘Is that what you think of me?’ Roger asked, grinning, his eyes bright.
‘Aren’t you?’ Lucy held his gaze with a challenge.
Roger laughed and carried on eating.
According to sources, at the time the story was set, the most common name for a cat was Gyb. They went for very dull names in my opinion (Dogs had much better names and if I use on again I’m definitely going for Nosewise). Gyb was based on one of my cats, named Captain Jamie Ankles which is much better. He weighs in at around 7kg and has a purr that sounds like a petrol-powered lawnmower starting up. I’ve woken up to him sitting on my chest more than once. The other cat is called Doctor Sausage and he hasn’t made it into a book yet but if I ever want a cat that can bring down a bird half his size he’s my man. Seriously, I caught him trying to get a pigeon through the cat flap once.
Both of them delight in trying to sit on my arm as I type and I’m amazed my editor hasn’t found a few fkbfkhjaklenbfs that have slipped past the spellcheck.
Elisabeth Hobbes Writes History 