Rosemary Sutcliff was one of the favorites of my adolescence. A historical novelist, she wrote the finest treatment of the Arthurian legends I’ve ever read, Sword at Sunset, as well as a whole slew of other novels. When she writes about sub-Roman Britain, you can smell the woodsmoke. She beats people like Cornwell into a cocked hat, and yet has largely disappeared from print. Such are the vagaries of publishing.