The White Princess opens as the news of the battle of Bosworth is brought to Princess Elizabeth of York, who will learn not only which rival royal house has triumphed, Tudor or York, but also which suitor she must marry: Richard III her lover, or Henry Tudor her enemy. The White Queen by Philippa Gregory. In the darkness of the forest the young knight could hear the splashing of the fountain long before he could see the. The haunting story of the mother of the Tudors, Elizabeth of York, wife to Henry VII. Beautiful eldest daughter of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville - the White.
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Philippa Gregory. Nenhuma oferta encontrada. ISBN ISBN- Ano: / Páginas: Idioma: inglês. Editora: Touchstone. Read "The White Princess" by Philippa Gregory available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. Adapted for the STARZ original. Author: Philippa Gregory The Devil's Queen (The Medici Queen). Read more White Queen Psychology and Other Essays for Alice. Read more.
News of a pretender prince worries Henry as all of the York heirs were proclaimed dead.
The rebels call for Teddie and claim that he has escaped the tower. Even when Henry parades Teddie around the city, the rumors do not stop.
Finally they capture the pretender prince and learn his name is Lambert. The King is merciful to Lambert, but promises to punish the people who taught him. This time, the prince is from France and calls himself Richard.
Elizabeth has two more children, Margaret and Henry, as the rebellion continues in England. Henry goes to war against France and the latter asks for a peace treaty, agreeing to hand over the pretender prince. However, the prince escapes France. Meanwhile, Henry and Elizabeth learn that her mother has been secretly providing money and correspondence to a fake prince.
He sends her to the Bermondsey Abbey. Elizabeth confronts her and reveals that she and her mother sent Richard away to safety instead of sending him into the tower. Support this blog. Share it with your friends. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam.
Learn how your comment data is processed. Skip to content. Philippa Gregory Publisher: Touchstone Date Published: July 23, Language: English ISBN Summary Reviews Download. Summary of the Book When Henry Tudor picks up the crown of England from the mud of Bosworth field, he knows he must marry the princess of the enemy house—Elizabeth of York—to unify a country divided by war for nearly two decades.
At night I fall into my bed as if I were drowning in deep water, as if I were sinking below the depths, as if the water were possessing me, taking me like a mermaid, and for a moment I feel a deep relief as if, submerged in water, my grief can drain away, as if it were the river Lethe and the currents can bring forgetfulness and wash me into the cave of sleep; but then the dreams come. I dont dream of his death it would be the worst of nightmares to see him go down fighting.
But I never dream of the battle, I dont see his final charge into the very heart of Henry Tudors guard. I dont see him hacking his way through. I dont see Thomas Stanleys army sweep down and bury him under their hooves, as he is thrown from his horse, his sword arm failing, going down under a merciless cavalry charge, shouting: I dont see William Stanley raise his crown and put it on another mans head.
I dont dream any of this, and I thank God for that mercy at least. These are my constant daytime thoughts that I cannot escape. These are bloody daytime reveries that fill my mind while I walk and talk lightly of the unseasonal heat, of the dryness of the ground, of the poor harvest this year. But my dreams at night are more painful, far more painful than this, for then I dream that I am in his arms and he is waking me with a kiss.
I dream that we are walking in a garden, planning our future. I dream that I am pregnant with his child, my rounded belly under his warm hand, and he is smiling, delighted, and I am promising him that we will have a son, the son that he needs, a son for York, a son for England, a son for the two of us.
Well call him Arthur, he says. The pain, when I wake to find that I have been dreaming again, seems to get worse every day. I wish to God I could stop dreaming. My dearest daughter Elizabeth, My heart and prayers are with you, dear child; but now, of all the times in your life, you must act the part of the queen that you were born to be. The new king, Henry Tudor, commands you to come to me at the Palace of Westminster in London and you are to bring your sisters and cousins. Note this: I expect it to go ahead.
I know this is not what you hoped for, my dear; but Richard is dead, and that part of your life is over. Henry is the victor and our task now is to make you his wife and Queen of England.
You will obey me in one other thing also: A princess does not share her grief with all the world. You were born a princess and you are the heir to a long line of courageous women.
Lift up your chin and smile, my dear. I am waiting for you, and I will be smiling too.
I read this letter with some care, for my mother has never been a straightforward woman and any word from her is always freighted with levels of meaning. I can imagine her thrilling at another chance at the throne of England. She is an indomitable woman; I have seen her brought very low, but never, even when she was widowed, even when nearly mad with grief, have I seen her humbled. I understand at once her orders to look happy, to forget that the man I love is dead and tumbled into an unmarked grave, to forge the future of my family by hammering myself into marriage with his enemy.
Henry Tudor has come to England, having spent his whole life in waiting, and he has won his battle, defeated the rightful king, my lover Richard, and now I am, like England itself, part of the spoils of war. If Richard had won at. Bosworth and who would ever have dreamed that he would not? I would have been his queen and his loving wife. But he went down under the swords of traitors, the very men who mustered and swore to fight for him; and instead I am to marry Henry and the glorious sixteen months when I was Richards lover, all but queen of his court, and he was the heart of my heart, will be forgotten.
Indeed, I had better hope that they are forgotten. I have to forget them myself. I read my mothers letter, standing under the archway of the gatehouse of the great castle of Sheriff Hutton, and I turn and walk into the hall where a fire is burning in the central stone hearth, the air warm and hazy with wood-smoke.
I crumple the single page into a ball and thrust it into the heart of the glowing logs, and watch it burn. Any mention of my love for Richard and his promises to me must be destroyed like this. And I must hide other secrets too, one especially.
I was raised as a talkative princess in an open court rich with intellectual inquiry, where anything could be thought, said and written; but in the years since my fathers death, I have learned the secretive skills of a spy. My eyes are filling with tears from the smoke of the fire, but I know that there is no point in weeping. I rub my face and go to find the children in the big chamber at the top of the west tower that serves as their schoolroom and playroom.
My sixteen-yearold sister Cecily has been singing with them this morning, and I can hear their voices and the rhythmic thud of the tabor as I climb the stone stairs.
When I push open the door they break off and demand that I listen to a round they have composed.
My ten-year-old sister Anne has been taught by the best masters since she was a baby, our twelve-year-old cousin Margaret can hold a tune, and her ten-year-old brother Edward has a clear soprano as sweet as a flute. I listen and then clap my hands in applause. And now, I have news for you. Edward Warwick, Margarets little brother, lifts his heavy head from his slate.
Not for me? Not news for Teddy?
Yes, for you too, and for your sister Maggie, and Cecily and Anne. News for all of you. As you know, Henry Tudor has won the battle and is to be the new King of England. These are royal children; their faces are glum, but they are too well-trained to say one word of regret for their fallen uncle Richard. Instead, they wait for what will come next. The new King Henry is going to be a good king to his loyal people, I say, despising myself as I parrot the words that Sir Robert Willoughby said to me as he gave me my mothers letter.
And he has summoned all of us children of the House of York to London.