The Tudor Throne

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In the wake of King Henry VIII's death, England's throne is left in a precarious state-as is the peculiar relationship between his two daughters. Mary, the elder, once treasured, had been declared a bastard in favor of her flame-haired half-sister, Elizabeth, born of the doomed Anne Boleyn. Yet the bond between the sisters was palpable from the start. Now reinstated, Mary eventually assumes her place as queen. But as Mary's religious zeal evolves into a reign of terror, young Elizabeth gains the people's favor. ...
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In the wake of King Henry VIII's death, England's throne is left in a precarious state-as is the peculiar relationship between his two daughters. Mary, the elder, once treasured, had been declared a bastard in favor of her flame-haired half-sister, Elizabeth, born of the doomed Anne Boleyn. Yet the bond between the sisters was palpable from the start. Now reinstated, Mary eventually assumes her place as queen. But as Mary's religious zeal evolves into a reign of terror, young Elizabeth gains the people's favor. Gripped by a tormenting paranoia, Mary is soon convinced that her beloved Elizabeth is in fact her worst enemy. And the virginal Elizabeth, whose true love is her country, must defy her tyrannical sister to make way for a new era. . .

A brilliant portrait of the rule of "Bloody Mary" and her intricate relationship with Elizabeth I, the adored "Virgin Queen," here is a riveting tale of one family's sordid and extraordinary chapter in the pages of history.

Praise for Brandy Purdy and The Boleyn Wife

"Recommended for readers who can't get enough of the Tudors and have devoured all of Philippa Gregory's books." --Library Journal

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780758255747
  • Publisher: Kensington
  • Publication date: 7/1/2011
  • Pages: 384
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.20 (h) x 1.40 (d)

First Chapter

The Tudor Throne



Copyright © 2011 Brandy Purdy
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-5574-7

Chapter One


All I have ever wanted was to be loved, to find on this earth a love as true and everlasting as God's.

As Father lay dying, I remembered a time when he had well and truly loved me; a time when he had called me the most valuable jewel in his kingdom, his most precious pearl, dearer than any diamond. Those were the days when he would burst through the door, like the bright golden sun imperiously brushing aside an ugly black rain cloud, and sweep me up into his arms and ask, "How fares my best sweetheart?" and kiss me and call me "the pearl of my world!" Easter of the year I turned five, upon a whim of his, to illustrate this, he had me dressed in a white gown, cap, and dainty little shoes so densely encrusted with pearls I seemed to be wearing nothing else, they were sewn so thick and close. And when I walked into the royal chapel between him and my mother, holding their hands, turning my head eagerly from left to right to smile up at them, I walked in love.

On my next birthday, my sixth, I awoke to find a garden of fragrant rosemary bushes, one for each year of my life, growing out of gilded pots, their branches spangled with golden tinsel and glowing mysteriously from within with circles of rosy pink, sunny yellow, sapphire blue, emerald green, and ruby red light, emanating, I discovered, from little lanterns with globes of colored glass concealed inside. My father had created a veritable fairyland for me, peopled with beautiful fairies and evil imps, grotesque goblins and mischievous elves, leering trolls, playful pixies, crook-backed gnomes, and gossamer-winged sprites, and the Fairy Queen herself, flame-haired and majestic in emerald green, all made of sugar and marzipan in a triumph of confectioner's art. I stood before them timid and unsure, hardly daring to move or breathe, in case they truly were real and might work some terrible magic upon me if I dared interfere with them, until Father laughed and bit the head off a hobgoblin to show me I had nothing to fear. And there were four gaily costumed dwarves, two little women and two little men, every seam, and even their tiny shoes and caps, sewn with rows of tiny tinkling gold bells, to cavort and dance and play with me. We joined hands and danced rings around the rosemary bushes until we grew dizzy and fell down laughing. And when I sat down to break my fast, Father took it upon himself to play the servant and wait upon me. When he tipped the flagon over my cup, golden coins poured out instead of breakfast ale and overflowed into my lap and spilled onto the floor where the dwarves gathered them up for me.

In those days we were very much a family and, to my child's eyes, a happy family. Before I was of an age to sit at table and attend banquets and entertainments with them, Mother and Father used to come into my bedchamber every night to hear my prayers on their way to the Great Hall. How I loved seeing them in all their jewels and glittering finery standing side by side, smiling down at me, Father with his arm draped lovingly about Mother's shoulders, both of them with love and pride shining in their eyes as they watched me kneel upon my velvet cushioned prie-dieu in my white nightgown and silk-beribboned cap, eyes closed, brow intently furrowed, hands devoutly clasped as I recite my nightly prayers. And when I was old enough to don my very own sparkling finery and go with them to the Great Hall, I cherished each and every shared smile, sentimental heart-touched tear, and merry peal of laughter as, together, we delighted in troupes of dancing dogs and acrobats, musicians, minstrels, morris dancers, storytellers, and ballad singers.

And we served God together. Faithful and devout, we attended Mass together every day in the royal chapel. My mother spent untold hours kneeling in her private chapel before a statue of the Blessed Virgin surrounded by candles, a hair shirt chafing her lilywhite skin red and raw beneath her somberly ornate gowns, and hunger gnawing at her belly as she persevered in fasting, begging Christ's mother to intercede on her behalf so that her womb might quicken with the son my father desired above all else.

When the heretic Martin Luther published his vile and evil blasphemies, Father put pen to paper and wrote a book to refute them and defend the holy sacraments. When it was finished he had a copy bound in gold and sent a messenger to present it to the Pope, who, much impressed, declared it "a golden book both inside and out," and dubbed Father "Defender of the Faith." To celebrate this accolade, Father ordered all the pamphlets and books, the writings of Martin Luther that had been confiscated throughout the kingdom, assembled in the courtyard in a great heap. In a gown of black velvet and cloth-of-gold, with a black velvet cap trimmed with gold beads crowning my famous, fair marigold hair, I stood with Mother, also clad in black and gold, upon a balcony overlooking the courtyard, holding tight to her hand, and clasping a rosary of gold beads to my chest as I, always shortsighted, squinted down at the scene below. I felt such a rush of pride as Father, clad like Mother and I in black and gold, strode forth with a torch in his hand and set Luther's lies ablaze. I watched proudly as the curling white plumes of smoke rose up, billowing, wafting, twirling, and swirling, as they danced away on the breeze.

I also remember a very special day when I was dressed for a very special occasion in pomegranate-colored velvet and cloth-of-gold encrusted with sparkling white diamonds, lustrous pearls from the Orient, regal purple amethysts, and wine-dark glistening garnets, with a matching black velvet hood covering my hair, caught up beneath it in a pearl-studded net of gold. I was being presented to the Ambassadors of my cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. Though he was many years older than myself, it was Mother's most dearly cherished desire that we would marry; she had always wanted a Spanish bridegroom for me and raised me as befitted a lady of Spain, and the Ambassadors had come to judge and consider my merits as a possible bride for Charles.

As I curtsied low before those distinguished gentlemen in their somber black velvets and sharp-pointed beards like daggers made of varnished hair, suddenly the solemnity of the moment was shattered by Father's boisterous laughter. He clapped his hands and called for music, then there he was, a jewel-encrusted giant sweeping his "best sweetheart" up in his strong, powerful arms, tossing me up high into the air, and catching me when I came down, skirts billowing, laughing and carefree, for all the world like a woodcutter and his daughter instead of the King of England and his little princess.

"This girl never cries!" he boasted when Mother sat forward anxiously in her chair, a worried frown creasing her brow, and said, "My Lord, take care, you will frighten her!"

But I just laughed and threw my arms around his neck, his bristly red beard tickling my cheek, and begged for more.

The musicians struck up a lively measure, and he led me to the center of the floor, took my tiny hand in his, and shouted that I was his favorite dancing partner, and never in all his years had he found a better one.

As the skipping, prancing steps of the dance took us past the Ambassadors, suddenly he ripped the hood and net from my hair and tossed them into their startled midst. He combed his fingers through the long, thick, rippling waves, then more gold than red on account of my youth—I was but nine years old at the time—and his pride and joy in me showed clear upon his face.

"What hair my sweetheart has!" he cried. "My Lords, I ask you, have you ever seen such hair?"

And indeed he spoke the truth. In my earliest years I had Mother's Spanish gold hair lovingly united with Father's Tudor red, blending beautifully into an orange-yellow shade that caused the people to fondly dub me "Princess Marigold." "God bless our Princess Marigold!" they would shout whenever I rode past in a litter or barge or mounted sidesaddle upon my piebald pony, smiling and waving at them before reserved dignity replaced childish enthusiasm.

Though it may seem vain to say it, I had such beautiful hair in my youth, as true and shining an example as there ever was of why a woman's tresses are called her crowning glory. But before my youth was fully past it began to thin and fade until its lustrous beauty and abundance were only a memory and I was glad to pin it up and hide it under a hood, inside a snood or net, or beneath a veil.

But oh how I treasured the memory of Father's pride in me and my beautiful hair! The day he danced with me before the Ambassadors became one of my happiest memories.

I would never forget the way he swept me up in his arms and spun me round and round, my marigold hair flying out behind my head like a comet's tail, as he danced me from one end of the Great Hall to the other.

I never thought the love he felt for me then would ever diminish or die. I thought my earthly father's love, like our Heavenly Father's love, was permanent, unchanging, and everlasting.

"This girl never cries!" Father had said. Little did he know I would make up for a childhood filled with unshed tears by crying whole oceans of them in later years, and that most of them would be spilled on account of him, the callousness and cruelty he would mete out to me in place of the love and affection he once gave so freely and unconditionally to me.

But that was yet to come, and in those early days I truly was a princess. I sat on my own little gilded and bejeweled throne, set upon a dais, and upholstered in purple velvet with a canopy of estate, dripping with gold fringe, above me, and a plump purple cushion below me to rest my feet upon. And I wore gowns of velvet, damask, and brocade, silk, satin, silver, and gold; I sparkled with a rainbow of gems, and snuggled in ermine and sable when I was cold; gloves of the finest Spanish leather sheathed my hands; I walked in slippers made of cushion-soft velvet embroidered with pearls, gems, or gilt thread, and when I rode, boots of Spanish leather with silken tassels encased my feet; and underneath my finery only the finest lawns and linens touched my skin. But it was not the prestige and finery I liked best; being my father's daughter was what delighted my heart most. And during the bad years that followed the blissful ones, I used to think there was nothing I would not give to hear him call me "my best sweetheart" again.

Having no son to initiate into the manly pursuits, Father made do as best he could with me. He took me with him to the archery butts, and when I was nine he gave me my first hawk and taught me to fly her. We rode out at the head of a small retinue, me in my velvet habit, dyed the deep green of the forest, sidesaddle upon my piebald pony, the bells on my goshawk's jesses jingling, and the white plume on my cap swaying. And Father, a giant among men, powerfully muscular yet so very graceful, astride his great chestnut stallion, clad in fine white linen and rich brown hunting leathers, with bursts of rainbow light blazing out from the ring of white diamonds that encircled the brim of his velvet cap, and the jaunty white plume that topped it bouncing in the breeze.

We were following our hawks when we came to a large ditch filled with muddy water so dark we could not discern the bottom. Father made a wager with one of his men that he could swing himself across it on a pole. But when he tried, the pole snapped beneath his weight, and Father fell with a great splash, headfirst into the murky water. His legs and arms flailed and thrashed the surface frantically, but his head never appeared; it was stuck fast, mired deep in the mud below.

Edmund Moody, Father's squire, who would have given his life a hundred times over for him, did not hesitate. He dove in and worked to free my father's head. I could not bear to stand there doing nothing but watching helplessly, praying and wringing my hands, fearing that my beloved father might drown, so I recklessly plunged in, my green velvet skirts billowing up about my waist, floating on the muddy water like a lily pad. As I went to assist Master Moody, the tenacious mud sucked at my boots so that every step was a battle, slowing me down and showing me how it must be holding Father's head in a gluelike grip.

But through our diligent and determined efforts, Father was at last freed. Sputtering and gasping, coughing and gulping in mouthfuls of air, Father emerged and, leaning heavily between us, we helped him onto the grass, and he lay with his head in my lap as I tenderly cleaned the mud from his hair and face. An awed and humble cottager's wife brought us pears, cheese, and nuts in her apron, and we sat in the sun and feasted upon them as if they were the finest banquet while the sun dried us. Father made a joke about how my skirts had floated about me like a lily pad and called me his lily. And when we returned to the palace he summoned a goldsmith and commissioned a special jeweled and enameled ring for me to commemorate that day when I had helped save his life—a golden frog and a pink and white lily resting on a green lily pad. It was the greatest of my worldly treasures, and for years afterward a week scarcely passed when it did not grace my finger. Even when I did not wear it, I kept it safe in a little green velvet pouch upon my person so I would always know it was there with me, a proud and exquisite emblem of Father's love for me.

Those were the happy days before the sad years of ignominy and disgrace, penury, indifference, and disdain, the callousness and cruelty he learned under the tutelage of The Great Whore, Anne Boleyn, the threats and veiled coercion, followed by a sort of uneasy tolerance, a truce, when he offered me a conditional love wherein I must betray my conscience, my most deeply cherished beliefs, and my own mother's sainted memory, and capitulate where she herself had held firm, if I wanted to bask in the sun of his love again.

To my everlasting shame, though I would hate myself for it ever afterward, I gave in to their barrage of threats. The Duke of Norfolk himself took a menacing step toward me and informed me that if I were his daughter he would bash my head against the wall until it was as soft as a baked apple to cure me of my stubbornness. And haunted by accounts of those who had already died for their resistance, including Sir Thomas More and cartloads of nuns and monks, I signed the documents they laid before me. "Lady Mary's Submission," they called it. I signed and thus declared my mother's marriage a sin, incestuous and unlawful in the sight of God and man, and myself the bastard spawn born of it. Even though my most trusted advisor, the Spanish Ambassador, urged me to sign and save myself, assuring me that a victim of force would be blameless in God's sight, and that since I signed under duress, in fear for my very life, the Pope would grant me absolution, such assurances did not ease my conscience or assuage my guilt, and my body began to mirror my mind's suffering. My stomach rebelled against all food, my hair began to fall out, and I suffered the agonies of the damned with megrims, monthly cramps, palpitations of the heart, and toothache, and before I was twenty I was known throughout Europe as "the most unhappy lady in Christendom," and the tooth-drawer had wrenched out most of the teeth Father had once called "pretty as pearls," leaving my face with a pinched, sunken expression and a closemouthed smile that was purposefully tight-lipped. It was a miracle I survived, and I came wholeheartedly to believe that God had spared my life so that I might do important work in His name.

I betrayed everything I held sacred and dear just to walk in the sun of my father's love again, but it was never the same, and that, I think, was my penance, my punishment. It wasn't the old welcoming, all-embracing warmth that had enveloped me like a sable cloak on a cold winter's day; it was a weak, wavering, watery-yellow sunbeam that only cast a faint buttery hue, a faltering wispy frail fairy-light of yellow, onto the snow on a bone-chilling day. Just a tantalizing little light of love that left me always yearning for more, like a morsel of food given to a starving man only inflames his appetite. It was never enough compared to what had been before. But when I signed I did not know this. I was full to overflowing with hope when, in a presence chamber packed with courtiers, I knelt humbly before my scowling, glowering father and kissed the wide square-toe of his white velvet slipper, slashed through with bloodred satin, reminding me of all the blood he had spilled and that it was always in his power to take my life upon a moment's fancy. After I kissed his shoe I sat up upon my knees, like a dog begging, my tear-filled eyes eager and beseeching, and told him earnestly that I would rather be a servant in his house than empress of the world and parted from him.

But there were many years of pain and humiliation that preceded my surrender and self-abasement.


Excerpted from The Tudor Throne by BRANDY PURDY Copyright © 2011 by Brandy Purdy. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 15 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 5, 2011

    Historical fiction, not as factual

    The Tudor Throne is written in the first person narrative, giving both Mary and Elizabeth's points of view. I'm generally not a big fan of changing points of view back and forth in a novel, but I think the author, Brandy Purdy, did a nice job of it.

    For me, the story got off to a slow start. I think beginning with Mary and her austere, disapproving undertones made it feel draggy, even though it was just a few pages. Also, the history as presented by Ms. Purdy was not all factual. Even though this is a work of fiction, it's historical fiction, so I prefer such books to be as factually correct as possible.

    Given that, the book gave an excellent depiction of the religious and thus political struggles between Mary, Elizabeth, and their brother Edward. The danger of the times in having differing religious views as the crown is clearly shown; as is the juxtaposition of the crown having differing religious views as the majority of the people. It's interesting reading about a time where religion and politics were so closely tied together.

    This is a good book for historical fiction fans who want to read for just sheer enjoyment. Do beware that there are some graphic sexual scenes, so this wouldn't be appropriate for everyone. Also, FYI, this book is published in the UK as Mary & Elizabeth by Emily Purdy.

    5 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 5, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Bloody Mary vs. Virgin Queen

    Henry VIII has died and on his death bed he knows that his son Edward, son of Jane Seymour, is not strong enough to rule and will be himself ruled by the sixteen men appointed to guide him until he is old enough to take the throne but he fears that if Mary, daughter of his first wife Katherine of Aragon, becomes queen all will be lost. His one true regret is that Elizabeth (Bess), daughter of Anne Boleyn, wasn't a boy. He knows she has what it takes to rule but since she is a girl and third in line to the throne, he knows there is no hope that she will be queen.

    After the death of Edward, Mary and Bess embark on a battle for the crown. Even though Mary had basically raised Bess like a daughter she knows that she is also her biggest enemy. Bess is truly beloved by the people and Mary knows that. Bess is also the reason that Mary's husband -to-be, Philip, says he won't come over. Until she is gone he doesn't feel safe, or so that was what Mary is told.

    Both ladies have a very different view on how the kingdom should be ruled as does their advisors. There were times that your heart just breaks for Mary and her quest for love turns her into a sniveling weak minded woman. She was one who definitely let her emotions rule. Elizabeth's approach was quite different but started the same. Her love of Thomas Seymour destroyed her also but in the wake made her stronger and more determined never to let emotions rule her. Her heart hardened and she vowed to never let anyone see her weaknesses.

    At first I was unsure about how I was going to like the chapters written in Mary's POV and then in Elizabeth's POV. I truly enjoyed having both viewpoints put forth for me and they are mainly focused on how each woman felt at this moment or that moment. We are swept from the death bed of Henry VIII all the ways through Bloody Mary's rule and end up with the Virgin Queen taking her rightly place on the throne.

    I highly recommend The Tudor Throne for all those historical fiction fans of the Tudor Era.

    4 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 12, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Bloody Mary vs. The Virgin Queen! A Knockout Fight!

    Yes, King Henry VIII and his children are certainly not a new subject for readers. In fact, vampires would be the only category to outrank old Henry the VIII's regime. But Ms. Purdy has done a truly excellent job of reigniting the wonder of what England became when Mary and Elizabeth came into focus. A new future was about to begin for England, and the half-sisters would decide it all!

    England's throne was in a dangerous predicament when Henry VIII passed on. And his daughter Mary - the woman who would soon become 'Bloody Mary' to all - was beyond rigid when it came to her beliefs, emotions, and the Church. Now, on the other side of the fence, was Elizabeth. This was a girl who literally had to figure life out as she went. With the woman who some considered a monster, while others considered her the only smart wife King Henry VIII ever had - Ann Boleyn - as a mother, Elizabeth had to walk carefully through the English royal world. Of course, when her half-sister Mary was declared a bastard in favor of Elizabeth - her strength, determination, and disposition became as fiery as her red hair.

    Mary was reinstated, of course, and took the throne as Britain's Queen. But that brutal religious fanaticism of Mary's literally terrorized the British people, and had the whole country turning to Elizabeth for help. The bond between the two sisters begins to rip apart as Mary soon believes that Elizabeth is the only real enemy she has on Earth. Not only that, but Elizabeth literally truly loves the people's pride they have in her and her beloved country, so she must go against her tyrannical sister whether she likes it or not. Bloody Mary vs. The Virgin Queen.there was no fight better!

    Whether the first book or the thousandth about King Henry the VIII and his spawn - it really doesn't matter. This is THE family that England is and will always be known for. They were absolutely riveting, and the author has once again done an excellent job of delivering a novel that will entice, astound, and deliver! Enjoy!

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 13, 2012

    Excellent Book - you will enjoy this very much

    This book gave you a new insight into the lives of Mary and Elizabeth. I enjoyed it very much and found that although these two women were very different they still had some feelings for each other. Both women lived through very turbulent times in their lives, but both were survivors. If you enjoy this period in English history, I think you will enjoy this book and author.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 31, 2012

    Loved this!

    Great reading! I couldn't put it down.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 19, 2011

    Tudor Throne

    Brady Purdy has written a book that fully submerges you in the Tudor Period, England. She reminds you of the elegance of dress, hairstyles, and architecture. In this book, you are drawn in to an England that is in upheaval from many years of infighting and succession battles. Yet is still a powerful influence in Europe.
    I believe that all historical facts in this book are correct. Still, I found conflict with the representation of the two most powerful women in English history. Mary was represented as a jealous, insecure and shallow woman with a child-like mind who never got over her father's abandonment. Elizabeth, who is undeniably one of the most influential women in history, was represented as a meek, fearful child full of deceit and immoral attitudes. The story has her as a seductress before puberty and a confused victim at the same time. The great and powerful of England were represented as fumbling idiots.
    This said, I have to admit that I love the descriptions and details of the life and fashion of the time period.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 30, 2011

    Good Historical Fiction

    Written in the two main characters "own words" this is an intersting (although not original) account of the Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth era in England. If you are unfamiliar with historical fiction this is an excellent starting point, however if you have read the accounts before there is nothing new to learn or gleen from the book, Well written, interesting dialogue.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 30, 2011

    Not what you think!!!!!!!!

    If you like historical smut, you will like this book. Most of this book is about love affairs between Elizabeth and Mary. The smut isn't even that great!!!

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 29, 2011

    Great novel for lovers of Tudor England!

    [I received this novel from the author as a review copy for my blog Historical Fiction Obsession.]

    Over the past several years I have read many books dealing with the Tudors. Most of them have dealt with Anne Boleyn or Elizabeth Tudor, and a few have been about Henry VIII's other five wives, his sisters, and his daughter Mary. THE TUDOR THRONE, however, is the first Tudor novel that I have read that gives both Mary and Elizabeth Tudor's point of view together, following their father's death. All of the books that I have read about Elizabeth have mentioned Mary or even had Mary play a large part in the book, or included Elizabeth in a book about Mary, but never have I read a book that placed equal importance on both Mary and Elizabeth's point of views. The novel was written as a first person account of their lives, so the chapters alternated between Mary's point of view and Elizabeth's. Although I have read their stories a hundred times from a hundred different books, it was still a terrific novel that held my interest until the end.

    Switching back and forth between the sister's perspectives enables the reader to really get to know both Mary and Elizabeth. Their fears and insecurities come to light in a way that only a first person narrative can provide. Both women were deeply affected by their father's treatment of their mothers, and of women in general. Any future relationships with the opposite sex are indirectly tainted by their father's treatment of women. Both Mary and Elizabeth are frightened of and desperate for love. Mary is desperate to find the love she lost from her father for so many years when she was young. She easily succumbs to Philip of Spain's half-hearted courtship of her, and although she is the Queen of England, she allows him to rule her, as well as her country. After taking care of herself, guarding her emotions, and having no one to lean on for so long she is more than willing to put her life and love into Philip's hands, though he is no way worth it.

    Elizabeth turns out much differently when it comes to love and trust. Rather than throw everything away for love and companionship as her sister did, she puts up a wall around her that is impossible to penetrate. She refuses to end up like her mother, or any of the other women that her father loved passionately, only to discard when bored, angry, or seeking an heir. Elizabeth, unlike Mary, refuses to rely on anyone, especially a man. She wants to be her own woman, and to make decisions for herself and for her country. Years of sadness and loneliness had weakened Mary's resolve, but it had strengthened Elizabeth's. While both women were talented and extremely intelligent, it will forever be Elizabeth who stands out in people's minds because of the idea of womanly strength and power that she stood for.

    I would recommend this book to any reader who enjoys Tudor history. While Ms. Purdy did take creative license when it came to several parts of the book, it was still a well researched Tudor novel. I was impressed by what a quick and easy read it was. There was never a dull moment, and I was able to transport myself to Mary and Elizabeth's Tudor England every time I opened the book. The fact that it was written in first person, from both women's perspectives, (both before and after becoming Queen of England) added to the enjoyment and excitement of this fascinating novel of historical fiction.

    I without a doubt give this book five out of five st

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 18, 2012


    WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE RIVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 25, 2012

    Pretty good.

    This is a very nice book. However,there is some language. If you are a child in middle school or younger,it is not your best choise.

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    Posted October 22, 2011

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