THE KINGS CURSE PHILIPPA GREGORY PDF
Touchstone eBook. Join our mailing list and get updates . king, Henry VII, and one is. Arthur, named . curse from that murderous woman. “What did she say. KInG'S. CuRSE. PhILIPPA GREGORy. A TOuChSTOnE BOOK. Published by Simon & Schuster new york London Toronto ISBN (ebook) . This is the story of deposed royal Margaret Pole, and her unique view of King Margaret has to find her own way and hide her knowledge of an old curse on all.
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The King's Curse (The Plantagenet and Tudor Novels, #7) Libraries · Download eBook of Dying Breaths by M.J. Rose A Burnable Book by Bruce Holsinger A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman The King's Curse by Philippa Gregory. The King's Curse by Philippa Gregory - From the #1 New York Times bestselling author behind the acclaimed Starz series The White Queen comes the story of. Aug 22, The King's Curse by Philippa Gregory (PDF). The 7th book in The Plantagenet and Tudor Novels (the author's reading order suggestion).
Love the way Philippa Gregory writes this complex history from the perspective of one women in such a readable novel style. The book was hauntingly beautiful, drawing you in once again to the Tudor court. It was interesting to see a perspective shift, rather than from the Howard's point of view. Gives great perspective on Margaret Pole's family life. Enjoyed every page. This story gives new light to the Tudor story.
Henry was a monster, made me think of Hitler. Home DMCA. The White Queen. The White Princess. The Kingmaker's Daughter.
Three Sisters, Three Queens. The Red Queen. The Lady of the Rivers. The Taming of the Queen. The Other Boleyn Girl.
The King's Curse. The Last Tudor. The Boleyn Inheritance. The Constant Princess. The Virgin's Lover. The Queen's Fool. The Other Queen. The Wise Woman. I doubt that anyone has observed this small rebellion of mine; I certainly hope not. But my brother could not be rechristened by marriage. Whoever he married, however lowly she was, she could not change his name as my husband has changed mine.
He would still hold the title Earl of Warwick, he would still answer to Edward Plantagenet, he would still be the true heir to the throne of England. When they raised his standard and someone, sooner or later, was bound to raise his standard half of England would turn out just for that haunting flicker of white embroidery, the white rose.
That is what they call him: the White Rose. So since they could not take his name from him, they took his fortune and his lands. Then they took his liberty, packing him away like a forgotten banner, among other worthless things, into the Tower of London, among traitors and debtors and fools. But though he had no servants, no lands, no castle, no education, still my brother had his name, my name.
Still he was Earl of Warwick, the White Rose, heir to the Plantagenet throne, a living constant reproach to the Tudors, who captured that throne and now call it their own. They took him into the darkness when he was a little boy of eleven and they did not bring him out until he was a man of twenty-four.
He had not felt meadow grass under his feet for thirteen years. Then he walked out of the Tower, perhaps enjoying the smell of the rain on the wet earth, perhaps listening to the seagulls crying over the river, perhaps hearing beyond the high walls of the Tower the shouts and laughter of free men, free Englishmen, his subjects.
With a guard on either side of him, he walked across the drawbridge and up to Tower Hill, knelt before the block, and put his head down as if he deserved to die, as if he were willing to die; and they beheaded him. That happened yesterday. Just yesterday. It rained all day. Try to be brave, Think of the baby. Try not to be afraid. I twist my head to speak over my shoulder.
I have nothing to fear. I know that I am safe with you. He hesitates. He does not want to remind me that perhaps I do still have something to fear. Perhaps even his lowly estate is not humble enough to keep me safe.
I meant, try not to show your grief. Why not? It comes out as a childish wail. My brother, my only brother, is dead! Beheaded like a traitor when he was innocent as a child. Why should I not grieve? His mother tells everyone that he is well, he just has a touch of fever, he is strong and healthy and resting out the cold winter days beside a warm fire; but no one believes her.
Everyone knows that he is sick with guilt at the murder of my brother and the death of the pretender who was named as a traitor, accused of joining in the same imaginary plot. I note, with wry amusement, that the queen and I, who have both lost a brother, go white-faced and tight-lipped about our business, while the man who ordered their deaths takes to his bed, dizzy with guilt.
But Elizabeth and I are accustomed to loss, we are Plantagenets—we dine on a diet of betrayal and heartbreak. Henry Tudor is newly royal and has always had his battles fought for him. Good luck, Elizabeth says shortly. She makes a little gesture towards the swell of my belly.
You could go into confinement here. You would be well served and I would visit you.
Do change your mind and stay, Margaret. I shake my head. I cannot tell her that I am sick of London, and sick of the court, and sick of the rule of her husband and his overbearing mother. Very well, she says, understanding all of this. And will you go to Ludlow as soon as you are up and about again? And join them there?
She prefers me to be at Ludlow with her boy Arthur. My husband is his guardian in that distant castle, and it comforts her to know that I am there too. But you know Sir Richard will keep your boy safe and well whether I am there or not. He cares for him as if he were a prince of pure gold.
My husband is a good man, I never deny it.
The King’s Curse
She only wanted a man who would keep me from public view, but she happened upon one who cherishes me at home. And she got a bargain. She paid my husband the smallest possible fee on our wedding day; I could almost laugh even now, to think what they gave him to marry me: two manors, two paltry manors, and a little tumbling-down castle!
He could have demanded far more; but he has always served the Tudors for nothing more than their thanks, trotted behind them only to remind them that he was on their side, followed their standard wherever it might lead without counting the cost or asking questions.
Early in his life he put his trust in Lady Margaret Beaufort, his kinswoman. She convinced him, as she convinced so many, that she would be a victorious ally but a dangerous enemy. As a young man he called on her intense family feeling and put himself into her keeping.
The King's Curse
Still, even now, even in unassailable triumph she clutches at cousins, terrified of unreliable friends and fearsome strangers. I look at my cousin the queen. We are so unlike the Tudors. They required us both to deny our breeding, our childhoods, our pasts, to take their name and swear fealty, and we have done so.
But even so, I doubt they will ever trust us. Elizabeth, my cousin, looks over to where the young Prince Arthur, her son, is waiting for his horse to be led from the stables. I wish all three of you would stay. He has to be in his principality, I remind her.
He is Prince of Wales, he has to be near Wales. I just. The country is at peace. The King and Queen of Spain will send their daughter to us now. I do not add that they will only send the young Infanta now that my brother is dead.
The Plantagenet and Tudor Novels
And I shall have to walk on it, in the Tudor procession, and smile. There was a curse, she says suddenly, drawing close to me and putting her mouth to my ear so that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my cheek. Margaret, I have to tell you. There was a curse. She puts her hand in mine and I can feel her tremble. What curse? It was that whoever took my brothers from the Tower, whoever put my brothers to death, should die for it.
Horrified, I pull back so that I can see her white face. Whose curse? Who said such a thing? The shadow of guilt that crosses her face tells me at once. It will have been her mother, the witch Elizabeth. There is no doubt in my mind that it is a murderous curse from that murderous woman.
What did she say exactly? She slips her hand through my arm and draws me to the stable gardens, through the arched doorway, so that we are alone in the enclosed space, the leafless tree spreading its boughs over our heads.
I said it too, she admits. It was my curse as much as hers. I said it with my mother. I was only a girl, but I should have known better. We spoke to the river, to the goddess.
We said: Our boy was taken when he was not yet a man, not yet king—though he was born to be both. And then take his grandson too and when you take him, we will know by his death that this is the working of our curse and this is payment for the loss of our son.
You said that? She nods, her eyes dark and fearful. Well, King Richard died, and his son died before him, I assert boldly. A man and his son. Your brothers disappeared while in his keeping. If he was guilty and the curse did its work, then perhaps it is all done, and his line is finished. She shrugs. No one who knew Richard would ever think for a moment that he had killed his nephews.
It is a ridiculous suggestion. He devoted his life to his brother, he would have laid down his life for his nephews. He hated their mother and he took the throne, but he would never have hurt the boys. Not even the Tudors daresay more than to suggest such a crime; not even they are bare-faced enough to accuse a dead man of a crime he would never have committed. If it was this king.
My voice is no more than a whisper, and I hold her so close that we could be embracing, my cloak around her shoulders, her hand in mine. I hardly dare to speak in this court of spies. If it was his order that killed your brothers.
Or his mother, she adds very low. Her husband had the keys of the Tower, my brothers stood between her son and the throne. We shudder, hands clasped as tight as if My Lady might be stealing up behind us to listen. We are both terrified of the power of Margaret Beaufort, mother to Henry Tudor. But Elizabeth, if it was they who killed your brother, then your curse will fall on her son, your own husband, and on his son also.
I know, I know, she moans softly. My boy? What if I have cursed my own boy? I whisper. What if there are no Tudor boys, and in the end nothing but barren girls? We stand very still as if we have been frozen in the wintry garden. In the tree above our heads a robin sings a trill of song, his warning call, and then he flies away. Keep him safe! Keep Arthur safe in Ludlow, Margaret! I stand at the great door of our ramshackle old house to wave them good-bye. Prince Arthur kneels for my blessing, and I put my hand on his head and then kiss him on both cheeks when he stands up.
He is thirteen years old, taller than me already, a boy with all the York good looks and the York charm. Be good, I command him.
And take care jousting and riding. I promised your mother that no harm will come to you. Make sure it does not. He rolls his eyes as any boy will do when a woman fusses over him, but he ducks his head in obedience and then turns and vaults onto his horse, gathering the reins and making it curvet and dance.
We will, we will, my husband says. He smiles down at me kindly. And send me the news the moment that the child is born. I put one hand over my big belly, feeling the baby stir, and I wave to them. I watch them as they go south down the red clay road to Kidderminster.
The ground is frozen hard; they will make good time on the narrow tracks that wind between the patchwork of frosty rust-colored fields.
He rides beside my husband, the men of his household around them in tight protective formation. He carries a fortune in treasure wherever he goes; he is the Tudor prince of England and served like an emperor.
The Tudors shore up their royalty with the trappings of wealth as if they hope that playing the part will make it real. Around the boy, around the mules carrying his treasure, ride the Tudor guard, the new guard that his father has mustered, the yeomen in their green and white livery.
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When we Plantagenets were the royal family, we rode through the highways and byways of England with friends and companions, unarmed, bare-headed; we never needed a guard, we never feared the people. The Tudors are always on alert for a hidden attack.
They came in with an invading army, followed by disease, and even now, nearly fifteen years after their victory, they are still like invaders, uncertain of their safety, doubtful of their welcome. I stand with one hand raised in farewell until a bend in the road hides them from me and then I go inside, gathering my fine woolen shawl around me.
I will go to the nursery and see my children, before dinner is served to the whole household, and after dinner I will raise a glass to the stewards of my house and lands, command them to keep everything in good order during my absence, and retire to my chamber with my ladies-in-waiting, my midwives, and the nurses. There I have to wait, for the four long weeks of my confinement, for our new baby.If you have read The Kingmaker's Daughter, you know about her tragic childhood - her mother died young, her father disappeared into the tower for treason, and her maternal aunt, wife of Richard III died broken-hearted before the Battle of Bosworth.
DPReview Digital Photography. He would still hold the title Earl of Warwick, he would still answer to Edward Plantagenet, he would still be the true heir to the throne of England. Mary Boleyn was a great find and this novel has given rise to three biographies about her, and established her as a historical character instead of being the sister that nobody knew about. People have begun to dance, endlessly and without stopping. Translated Versions. Highly recommended.