De Engelse schrijfster, critica en advocate Hilary Mary Mantel werd op 6 juli 1952 als Hilary Mary Thompson in Glossop, Derbyshire, geboren.. Mantel groeide op in een katholiek gezin met wortels ​​in Ierland. Haar ouders zijn echter Brits. Op de leeftijd van elf, nam Mantel de naam van haar stiefvader aan. De familie achtergrond is de drijvende kracht achter de meeste van haar romans. Thema’s van haar romans gaan over de ‘rotte compromissen van de volkskerk “en de” panische fantasieën van het islamitisch fundamentalisme “(Patrick Bahners). Mantel studeerde rechten aan de London School of Economics en Politieke Wetenschappen aan de Universiteit van Sheffield en behaalde daar in 1973 haar bachelor. Ze werkte als maatschappelijk werkster. In 1974, begon ze te schrijven. In 1972 trouwde ze met en vanaf 1977 woonde zij met haar echtgenoot Gerald McEwen vijf jaar in Botswana, daarna vier jaar in Jeddah in Saoedi-Arabië. Van 1987 tot 1991 werkte ze als filmcritica voor The Spectator. In 1987 werd ze bekroond met de Shiva Naipaul Memorial Prize, In 1996 ontving zij de Hawthornden Prize, in 2006 de Commonwealth Writers ‘Prize en de Orange Prize for Fiction. In datzelfde jaar werd ze bekroond met de Commander’s Cross van de Orde van het Britse Rijk. In 2009 won zij met haar roman Wolf Hall de Booker Prize, de meest prestigieuze literaire prijs voor een Engels werk.

Uit: Wolf Hall

“PUTNEY, 1500
So now get up.”
Felled, dazed, silent, he has fallen; knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard. His head turns sideways; his eyes are turned toward the gate, as if someone might arrive to help him out. One blow, properly placed, could kill him now.
Blood from the gash on his head— which was his father’s first effort— is trickling across his face. Add to this, his left eye is blinded; but if he squints sideways, with his right eye he can see that the stitching of his father’s boot is unraveling. The twine has sprung clear of the leather, and a hard knot in it has caught his eyebrow and opened another cut.
“So now get up!” Walter is roaring down at him, working out where to kick him next. He lifts his head an inch or two, and moves forward, on his belly, trying to do it without exposing his hands, on which Walter enjoys stamping. “What are you, an eel?” his parent asks. He trots backward, gathers pace, and aims another kick.
It knocks the last breath out of him; he thinks it may be his last. His forehead returns to the ground; he lies waiting, for Walter to jump on him. The dog, Bella, is barking, shut away in an out house. I’ll miss my dog, he thinks. The yard smells of beer and blood. Someone is shouting, down on the riverbank. Nothing hurts, or perhaps it’s that everything hurts, because there is no separate pain that he can pick out. But the cold strikes him, just in one place: just through his cheekbone as it rests on the cobbles.

“Look now, look now,” Walter bellows. He hops on one foot, as if he’s dancing. “Look what I’ve done. Burst my boot, kicking your head.”
Inch by inch. Inch by inch forward. Never mind if he calls you an eel or a worm or a snake. Head down, don’t provoke him. His nose is clotted with blood and he has to open his mouth to breathe. His father’s momentary distraction at the loss of his good boot allows him the leisure to vomit. “That’s right,” Walter yells. “Spew everywhere.” Spew everywhere, on my good cobbles. “Come on, boy, get up. Let’s see you get up. By the blood of creeping Christ, stand on your feet.”