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545 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 23, 2013
Elizabeth of York: I’m so sad my Uncle Richard died! We were true lovers forever! Never mind that he possibly killed my brothers and definitely seized my brother’s throne, or that people were seriously unhappy about the possibility of our incestuous union! Now I have to marry that miserly Henry Tudor. He has no clue how to be a real king. Noob.
Henry: I will never be safe on the throne! Nobody loves me! They’re plotting to put ANOTHER York boy on the throne and you know something about it! I’ll never trust you!
Elizabeth of York: Who’s they?
Henry: It’s your mother! Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!
Elizabeth of York: Mother, do you know what’s going on?
Elizabeth Woodville: What, innocent old me? Do you really want to open that can of worms?
Elizabeth of York: Alright. I’m going to conveniently forget that I helped you get my younger brother Prince Richard out of the country all those years ago in The White Queen. Henry, my husband, I know nothing, and also, I’m pregnant.
Henry: Really?! I love you, mother of my child!
Margaret Beaufort: Now get in that confinement chamber so I can appropriate all your power.
It does not matter that in my heart I am passionate and independent. My true self will be hidden and history will never speak of me except as the daughter of one king, the wife of another, and the mother of a third.
Philippa Gregory is pretty much the reason I read historical fiction. I owe my (limited) knowledge of the Tudor line to her. Once again, she wove a tale of romance, betrayal, the joys and sorrows of being a high woman in court, and what it means to put family, or a throne, above all else. What's more, this particular tale has a bit of mystery to it because no one knows for sure that "the boy" who claimed to be the lost Prince Richard of York was or wasn't the prince. However, it is obvious that records scribed by Tudors and their allies are heavily biased and, on some level, inaccurate. Gregory uses this lack of knowledge to her advantage and gives us her own version of what happened, while still taking care to stick to the true dates and battles, etc of the time. There was less romance in this particular book of hers, especially in comparison to The Other Boleyn Girl, but I was still able to make a visceral connection to Elizabeth and form a cranky seed of intense dislike towards Henry VII and Henry VIII (even though he was only a little boy in this book). In the end, Gregory writes well enough and descriptively and passionately enough for me to never, ever, ever consider naming any child of mine Henry.