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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.

The White Princess Philippa Gregory Pdf

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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.

I am so tired; all I want to do is sleep.

I want to sleep all the day, from dawn until twilight that every evening comes a little earlier and a little more drearily. In the daytime, all I think about is sleeping.

But in the night all I do is try to stay awake.

I go to his quiet shuttered rooms to look at the candle as it gutters in the golden candlestick, burning slowly through the marked hours, though he will never see light again. The servants take a taper to a fresh candle every day at noon; each hour burns slowly away, although time means nothing to him now. Time is quite lost to him in his eternal darkness, in his eternal timelessness, though it leans so heavily on me.

All day long I wait for the slow rolling-in of the grey evening and the mournful tolling of the Compline bell, when I can go to the chapel and pray for his soul, though he will never again hear my whispers, nor the quiet chanting of the priests.

Then I can go to bed. But when I get to bed I dare not sleep because I cannot bear the dreams that come. I dream of him.

Over and over again I dream of him. All day I keep my face smiling like a mask, smiling, smiling, my teeth bared, my eyes bright, my skin like strained parchment, paper-thin. 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.

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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: Treason!

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.

The White Princess by Philippa Gregory (PDF)

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. 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.

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Note this: he has not denied his betrothal to you. 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: you will smile and look joyful as a bride coming to her betrothed. 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. Your loving mother Elizabeth R Dowager Queen of England 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. 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.

The White Princess by Philippa Gregory

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? He imprisons young Edward called "Teddy" , the son of George, Duke of Clarence and a potential York claimant to the throne, in the Tower of London as public support for the fallen Yorks seems to surge.

Henry discovers that Elizabeth's mother has been secretly rallying and financing York supporters in exile, and sends her to Bermondsey Abbey. Elizabeth is torn between her mother's Yorkist cause and her own loyalty to Henry and their son, and is tortured by a secret.

Though the Dowager Queen has purposely kept her daughter in the dark about her plots, Elizabeth knows that her mother had sent her younger brother Richard to safety in Flanders, while an impostor went missing and was presumably murdered in the Tower. Elizabeth and Henry have a daughter, Margaret and a son, Henry.

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Elizabeth's mother dies. Rebellion builds as a boy claiming to be the lost Richard appears and is acknowledged by Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy , the sister of Elizabeth's father, Edward IV.

His claim is embraced by James IV of Scotland and other monarchs, and lords supposedly loyal to Henry begin to escape to Scotland. With the forces against him growing and his support waning, a volatile Henry grows increasingly mistrustful of Elizabeth and her extended family. Despite the odds, Henry is ultimately triumphant and takes the pretender Richard prisoner.But in the night all I do is try to stay awake. Margaret Beaufort, The Red Queen. Vicious Circle. All day I keep my face smiling like a mask, smiling, smiling, my teeth bared, my eyes bright, my skin like strained parchment, paper-thin.

Anyway, he has won the crown. After the death of King Richard of York, a heartbroken Elizabeth is forced to marry the new king Henry to secure the safety of her family.