Gregory, Philippa. The constant princess / Philippa Gregory. p. cm. “A Touchstone book.” 1. Catherine of Aragon, Queen, consort of Henry VIII, King. of England. From #1 New York Times bestselling author and "queen of royal fiction" (USA TODAY) Philippa Gregory comes the remarkable story of Katherine of Aragon. PDF The Constant Princess (The Plantagenet and Tudor Novels) (USA TODAY ) Philippa Gregory comes the remarkable story of Katherine of.
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The Constant Princess Philippa Gregory. Nenhuma oferta encontrada. ISBN ISBN X Ano: / Páginas: Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. As youngest daughter to the Spanish monarchs The Constant Princess (The Plantagenet and Tudor Novels Book 4) - Kindle edition by Philippa Gregory. Download it once and read it on your. Philippa Gregory proves yet again that behind the apparently familiar face of The Constant Princess was released as an unabridged audiobook on 26th July.
They travel to Ludlow, and it's on the way that Catalina becomes so cold that she can't get out of the litter. Her tear-stained face is Arthur's undoing. He says that he hadn't realized he has the power to make her cry, that he's sorry and will protect her from this day. And he does. With that vow, there's a new friendship between the two that quickly blooms into love. Though they are under orders to spend only four nights together each month, Arthur slips into Catalina's rooms nightly and the two find that they share ideas and goals to be accomplished during their reign as king and queen of England.
Then Arthur becomes ill and dies a few days later. On his deathbed, he tells Catalina that he wants her to promise that she'll still become queen. He instructs her to tell everyone that the marriage was never consummated, clearing the way for her marriage to Harry, Arthur's younger brother.
Harry is self-absorbed and, at eleven, is suddenly heir-apparent to the throne. He is then protected and pampered even more than before. This is so extraordinary I don't know why we aren't all taught her in schools. But what to call her fictionalised biography? Of course, I knew that she had to silence her voice and keep her writing secret during the months that Henry suspected her, and so I wanted something that would acknowledge his power over her.
This is not trivial or romantic — this is tyranny to a murderous degree. And I wanted something which put her in the bitter context of all the other women who are silenced.
In this way, Kateryn speaks for all who have not been allowed an education, or to speak, or to write.
Then I learned that Nicholas Udall, the playwright, had possibly premiered a play before her called 'Ralph Roister Doister' — a play about a household of women with a woman head and their spirited and violent defence against an aggressive bullying man. Borrowed by Shakespeare and skewed towards male power this became 'The Taming of the Shrew' — the story of a powerful furious woman who submits to an aggressive bullying man.
As soon as the king showed his interest in the beautiful widow she had to serve the interests of her family and agree to marry him, become Queen of England and stepmother to his children, and rule England in his absence. I think people love the character of Hannah, who is invented but inspired by the existence of a real female 'Fool' who served Mary I. If you have a hardback edition you can see the royal picture which is thought to show her in a doorway in the endpapers.
Too young to rule, the realm is governed by a Regency Council, led by his uncle, Edward Seymour. Edward has continued his father's reformation of the church and Protestantism is becoming established, however England is still unsettled with rioting and rebellions common. Edward was close to and well loved by both of his half-sisters: the Catholic Princess Mary, daughter of Katherine of Aragon and the Protestant Princess Elizabeth, daughter of the executed Anne Boleyn.
However, he and his advisors were concerned that should he die without issue, his sister Princess Mary would return the country to Catholicism. I knew of Jane before I started research but I knew next to nothing about her sisters and it was a lucky guess that there was more behind the sentimental portrait of Jane that took me to the stories of the three of them.
I struggled for a title until I had finished the book and then I chose this ambiguous one. Mary is the last Tudor of the Brandon branch — a fascinating and unknown character to end such a famous line — but Elizabeth is the last ruling Tudor, the throne inherited by a Stuart. But her rivalry and paranoia was too much for her. The stories of the Grey girls show the enterprise and courage of young Elizabethan women who defied two queens, to make their own lives.
This is the darkest portrait I have ever seen of Elizabeth — I have responded only to the facts of her treatment of her cousins, who as kinswomen and heirs should have been under her protection but found themselves at the centre of her fears. The country is ruled by a council of men who jostled for control of the young king.
Edward has no male heir, and does not favour his two half-sisters, Mary and Elizabeth. When I was writing the novel it was widely accepted that she had broken her neck as a result of a fall. It seemed to me that murder was a far more likely cause, and you can read the novel to see who I suspect.
It was very exciting when, long after publication, the original documents of her inquest were found showing that she died from blows to the head made by a weapon.
Amy Dudley was indeed murdered, but we still don't know who was the murderer. Just nine days after she was crowned, Edward's sister Princess Mary had raised supporters and persuaded the Privy Council to switch their allegiance - declaring her the rightful queen and imprisoning Jane. Queen Mary began to reverse the Protestant reformation of her father, restoring Roman Catholic bishops and persecuting Protestants.
Despite several reported pregnancies, Mary's marriage to Philip of Spain produced no children. So on her death, her sister the Protestant Princess Elizabeth succeeded her to the throne. In this novel I looked at her long years of imprisonment and the extraordinary triangle that developed between her, her gaoler the Earl of Shrewsbury and his wonderful wife Bess of Hardwick.
The dynamic between these three makes this novel not just a historical novel about the times but a psychological study of three people trapped together.
She is still unmarried, despite considering several suitors and having conducted a love affair with the married Robert Dudley Earl of Leicester — whose wife had then died under suspicious circumstances. With no heir, Elizabeth refused to name a successor — leading to the dissolution of parliament and putting England in a potentially dangerous position. One possible successor to Elizabeth was her first cousin once removed — the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots, whom many English Catholics believed to be the true English heir to the throne.
However Mary is under imprisonment in Loch Leven Castle after marrying her third husband James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell — the man widely believed to have earlier murdered Mary's second husband Lord Darnley — and she appeals to her cousin Elizabeth for support. While I was puzzling about who would be the subject of a fictional biography I was given a book on plant collectors and gardeners and read of John Tradescant.
It happened that I visited a garden centre, and tripped and literally fell into a tray of Tradescantia. It was enough of a hint! I started research on John Tradescant and found enough material for two books, and developed an entirely new style of writing: the fictionalised biography.
I was honoured with an invitation into a private home and had a long talk about the history of the people. This book is divided between the two terrible conflicts: colonists against indigenous peoples in America, and royalists against roundheads in England. I met the great historian of the period Christopher Hill and asked him did he think it possible that a man like John Tradescant might leave England to escape the conflict and he laughed and said that any sensible man would leave England in the middle of a civil war - so I felt very justified in my development of John's character and the two locations of this novel of a man divided between two loves.
He has dissolved parliament for the third time and resolved to rule alone. In order to manage the debts generated during the reigns of Elizabeth I and James I and fund his overseas wars with Spain and France, Charles repeatedly invented new and re-established obsolete forms of taxation.
The Constant Princess
This during a time when harvests were failing caused widespread poverty and social unrest. Charles had become increasingly unpopular with the English people — his friendship with the assassinated George Villiers Duke of Buckingham had alienated the noble families whilst his failure to successfully support Protestant forces during the Thirty Years' War and marriage to a Roman Catholic French Princess caused suspicion and mistrust amongst his people.
As the country descended into civil war, many chose to emigrate to the recently settled American colonies in search of freedom — despite Charles's attempts to stem the flow. It was very liberating to get away from the royal family and royal palaces and into daily life of aspiring people, hoping to rise from poverty into the New England of political freedoms and opportunities.
This was the first time when the people of England united to control the power of the English king and is a turning point for the men, and especially the women of England. If the king — the father of the nation — could be challenged, then daughters and wives could speak for themselves. The oppression of women, the rebellion of the poor all came from the history of the time, the love of landscape from my own childhood and the fevered sexuality all my own imagination.
Unbelievably it was. And so how shall we ever win?
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Watch and pray with faith. Then Yarfe rode forwards on his great black charger. There was a gasp as the soldiers in the front rank recognized what he had. It was the Ave Maria that Hernando had left speared to the floor of the mosque. The Moor had tied it to the tail of his horse as a calculated insult, and now rode the great creature forwards and back before the Christian ranks and smiled when he heard their roar of rage.
God strike him dead and scourge his sin. He pulled up his horse beside the olive tree and doffed his helmet, looking up at his queen and the princesses on the roof.
His dark hair was curly and sparkling with sweat from the heat, his dark eyes sparkled with anger. Yarfe is so much bigger. He will murder de la Vega! Your Majesty! He is a giant. He will kill our champion. Remember it, Catalina. Whether we win this challenge or lose it, it makes no difference.
We are soldiers of Christ. You are a soldier of Christ. If we live or die, it makes no difference. We will die in faith, that is all that matters. And whichever man wins today, we do not doubt that God will win, and we will win in the end. All of them squinted through their closed eyelids to the plain where the bay charger of de la Vega rode out from the line of the Spaniards and the black horse of the Moor trotted proudly before the Saracens.
The queen kept her eyes closed until she had finished her prayer. She did not even hear the roar as the two men took up their places, lowered their visors, and clasped their lances.
Catalina leapt to her feet, leaning over the low parapet so that she could see the Spanish champion.
His horse thundered towards the other, racing legs a blur, and the black horse came as fast from the opposite direction. The clash when the two lances smacked into solid armor could be heard on the roof of the little house, as both men were flung from their saddles by the force of the impact, the lances smashed, their breastplates buckled. It was nothing like the ritualized jousts of the court. It was a savage impact designed to break a neck or stop a heart.
He is dead!
The bigger man was up already, helmet and heavy breastplate cast aside, coming for him with a huge sickle sword at the ready, the light flashing off the razor-sharp edge. De la Vega drew his own great weapon. There was a tremendous crash as the swords smacked together, and then the two men locked blades and struggled, each trying to force the other down.
They circled clumsily, staggering under the weight of their armor and from their concussion; but there could be no doubt that the Moor was the stronger man. The watchers could see that de la Vega was yielding under the pressure. He tried to spring back and get free; but the weight of the Moor was bearing down on him and he stumbled and fell. At once the black knight was on top of him, forcing him downwards. Suddenly he gave a loud cry and fell back. De la Vega rolled up, scrabbled to his feet, crawling on his hands and knees like a rising dog.
The Moor was down, plucking at his breast, his great sword dropped to one side. With a superhuman effort, the Moor got to his feet, turned his back on the Christian, and staggered towards his own ranks.
Juana leapt to her feet. They are coming in their thousands!
First she looked to the marshaling of her army, saw that the officers were setting the men into formation ready for a charge as the Moorish army, terrifying in their forward rush, came pouring on. Then she glanced down to see Juana, in a frenzy of fear, peeping around the garden wall, unsure whether to run for her horse or back to her mother. Isabella, who loved her daughter, said not another word.
She returned to the other girls and kneeled with them. We were not. And we won the battle. And you, Juana, behaved like a half-mad peasant. I was ashamed of you.
Are you mad or just wicked? Their champion was dead, their city encircled, they were starving in the land that their fathers had made fertile. Worse, the promised support from Africa had failed them—the Turks had sworn friendship, but the janissaries did not come, their king had lost his nerve, his son was a hostage with the Christians, and before them were the princes of Spain, Isabella and Ferdinand, with all the power of Christendom behind them, with a holy war declared and a Christian crusade gathering pace with the scent of success.
Within a few days of the meeting of the champions, Boabdil, the King of Granada, had agreed upon terms of peace, and a few days after, in the ceremony planned with all the grace that was typical of the Moors of Spain, he came down on foot to the iron gates of the city with the keys to the Alhambra Palace on a silken pillow and handed them over to the King and Queen of Spain in a complete surrender.
Granada, the red fort that stood above the city to guard it, and the gorgeous palace which was hidden inside the walls—the Alhambra—were given to Ferdinand and to Isabella. Dressed in the gorgeous silks of their defeated enemy, turbaned, slippered, glorious as caliphs, the Spanish royal family, glittering with the spoils of Spain, took Granada.
That afternoon Catalina, the Princess of Wales, walked with her parents up the winding, steep path through the shade of tall trees, to the most beautiful palace in Europe, slept that night in the brilliantly tiled harem and woke to the sound of rippling water in marble fountains, and thought herself a Moorish princess born to luxury and beauty, as well as a Princess of England.
And this is my life, from this day of victory. I had been born as a child of the camp, following the army from siege to battle, seeing things that perhaps no child should see, facing adult fears every day. I heard children of my own age crying for their parents burned at the stake for heresy; but at this moment, when we dressed ourselves in embroidered silk and walked into the red fort of Granada and through the gates to the white pearl that is the Alhambra Palace, at this moment I became a princess for the first time.
The Constant Princess Summary & Study Guide Description
I became a girl raised in the most beautiful palace in Christendom, protected by an impregnable fort, blessed by God among all others. Alhambra proved to me, once and for all, that I was uniquely favored by God, as my mother had been favored by God. I was his chosen child, raised in the most beautiful palace in Christendom, and destined for the highest things. The Spanish family with their officers ahead and the royal guard behind, glorious as sultans, entered the fort through the enormous square tower known as the Justice Gate.
At once there was an echo to the blast of sound, a shuddering sigh, from everyone gathered inside the gateway, pressed back against the golden walls, the women half veiled in their robes, the men standing tall and proud and silent, watching, to see what the conquerors would do next.
Catalina looked above the sea of heads and saw the flowing shapes of Arabic script engraved on the gleaming walls. Madilla squinted upwards. She always denied her Moorish roots.
She always tried to pretend that she knew nothing of the Moors or their lives though she had been born and bred a Moor herself and only converted—according to Juana—for convenience. The young woman scowled at the two sisters. And if you Moors knew Isabella like we do, you would know that the greatest power is coming in and the lesser power going out.
Like dancers rehearsed till they were step perfect, the Spanish guard peeled off to right and left inside the town walls, checking that the place was safe and no despairing soldiers were preparing a last ambush. The great fort of the Alcazaba, built like the prow of a ship jutting out over the plain of Granada, was to their left, and the men poured into it, running across the parade square, ringing the walls, running up and down the towers.
Finally, Isabella the queen looked up to the sky, shaded her eyes with her hand clinking with Moorish gold bracelets, and laughed aloud to see the sacred banner of St. James and the silver cross of the crusade flying where the crescent had been. Then she turned to see the domestic servants of the palace slowly approaching, their heads bowed. They were led by the grand vizier, his height emphasized by his flowing robes, his piercing black eyes meeting hers, scanning King Ferdinand at her side and the royal family behind them: the prince, and the four princesses.
The king and the prince were dressed as richly as sultans, wearing rich, embroidered tunics over their trousers; the queen and the princesses were wearing the traditional kamiz tunics made from the finest silks, over white linen trousers, with veils falling from their heads held back by fillets of gold. The queen and her husband exchanged one brief glance. The grand vizier bowed and led the way. The queen glanced back at her children.
The man bowed. But the little doorway is like a keyhole to a treasure chest of boxes, the one opening out from another. The man leads us through them like a slave opening doors to a treasury. It will take us weeks to find our way from one exquisitely tiled room to another.
It will take us months to stop marveling at the pleasure of the sound of water running down the marble gulleys in the rooms, flowing to a white marble fountain that always spills over with the cleanest, freshest water of the mountains.
And I will never tire of looking through the white stucco tracery to the view of the plain beyond, the mountains, the blue sky and golden hills. Every window is like a frame for a picture: they are designed to make you stop, look, and marvel. Every window frame is like whitework embroidery—the stucco is so fine, so delicate, it is like sugar work by confectioners, not like anything real.
We move into the harem as the easiest and most convenient rooms for my three sisters and me, and the harem servants light the braziers in the cool evenings and scatter the scented herbs as if we were the sultanas who lived secluded behind the screens for so long.
We have always worn Moorish dress at home and sometimes at great state occasions, so still there is the whisper of silks and the slap of slippers on marble floors, as if nothing has changed. Now we study where the slave girls read, we walk in the gardens that were planted to delight the favorites of the sultan. We bathe in the hammam, standing stock-still while the servants lather us all over with a rich soap that smells of flowers. Then they pour golden ewer after golden ewer of hot water over us, splashing from head to toe, to wash us clean.
We are soothed with rose oil, wrapped in fine sheets and lie, half drunk with sensual pleasure, on the warm marble table that dominates the entire room, under the golden ceiling where the star-shaped openings admit dazzling rays of sunlight into the shadowy peace of the place. One girl manicures our toes while another works on our hands, shaping the nails and painting delicate patterns of henna. We let the old woman pluck our eyebrows, paint our eyelashes. We are served as if we are sultanas, with all the riches of Spain and all the luxury of the East, and we surrender utterly to the delight of the palace.
It captivates us, we swoon into submission, the so-called victors. Even Isabel, grieving for the loss of her husband, starts to smile again. Even Juana, who is usually so moody and so sulky, is at peace. And I become the pet of the court, the favorite of the gardeners, who let me pick my own peaches from the trees, the darling of the harem, where I am taught to play and dance and sing, and the favorite of the kitchen where they let me watch them preparing the sweet pastries and dishes of honey and almonds of Arabia.
My father meets with foreign emissaries in the Hall of the Ambassadors, he takes them to the bathhouse for talks, like any leisurely sultan.
My mother sits cross-legged on the throne of the Nasrids who have ruled here for generations, her bare feet in soft leather slippers, the drapery of her kamiz falling around her. She listens to the emissaries of the Pope himself, in a chamber that is walled with colored tiles and dancing with pagan light.
We walk in their gardens, we bathe in their hammam, we step into their scented leather slippers, and we live a life that is more refined and more luxurious than they could dream of in Paris or London or Rome. We live graciously. We live, as we have always aspired to do, like Moors.
Our fellow Christians herd goats in the mountains, pray at roadside cairns to the Madonna, are terrified by superstition and lousy with disease, live dirty and die young.
We learn from Moslem scholars, we are attended by their doctors, study the stars in the sky which they have named, count with their numbers which start at the magical zero, eat of their sweetest fruits and delight in the waters which run through their aqueducts.
Their architecture pleases us: at every turn of every corner we know that we are living inside beauty. Their power now keeps us safe: the Alcazaba is, indeed, invulnerable to attack once more. We learn their poetry, we laugh at their games, we delight in their gardens, in their fruits, we bathe in the waters they have made flow.
We are the victors, but they have taught us how to rule. Sometimes I think that we are the barbarians, like those who came after the Romans or the Greeks, who could invade the palaces and capture the aqueducts and then sit like monkeys on a throne, playing with beauty but not understanding it. We do not change our faith, at least. Every palace servant has to give lip service to the beliefs of the One True Church.
And anyone who disagrees can either leave for Africa at once, convert at once, or face the fires of the Inquisition. We do not soften under the spoils of war; we never forget that we are victors and that we won our victory by force of arms and by the will of God. We made a solemn promise to poor King Boabdil, that his people, the Moslems, should be as safe under our rule as the Christians were safe under his. We betray our word in three months, expelling the Jews and threatening the Moslems.
Everyone must convert to the True Faith, and then, if there is any shadow of doubt, or any suspicion against them, their faith will be tested by the Holy Inquisition.
It is the only way to make one nation: through one faith. It is the only way to make one people out of the great varied diversity which had been al Andalus. But nothing can change the nature of the palace. It is not a castle, nor a fort. It was built first and foremost as a garden, with rooms of exquisite luxury so that one could live outside.
It is a series of courtyards designed for flowers and people alike. It is a dream of beauty: walls, tiles, pillars melting into flowers, climbers, fruit, and herbs. I know that I love it.
Even as a little child I know that this is an exceptional place, that I will never find anywhere more lovely. And even as a child I know that I cannot stay here. It is to be my destiny that I should find the most beautiful place in all the world when I am just six years old, and then leave it when I am fifteen, as homesick as Boabdil, as if happiness and peace for me will only ever be short-lived.
If you were the King of England himself—you could not come in. Do you think the King of England would come riding down the road when the Infanta has refused to receive him? What sort of a man do you think he is? The count skidded to a halt and threw himself into a low bow. The duenna gave a little gasp of horror and dropped into a deep curtsey. She cannot be seen by you before her wedding day. This is the tradition. And since she is my daughter-in-law in my country, under my laws, she will obey my tradition.
Madam, I suggest that you get her up at once. But she had better pray that she is the prettiest. Tell her I am coming in at once. Henry gave her a few moments to prepare and then called her bluff by striding in behind her.
The room was lit only by candles and firelight. The covers of the bed were turned back as if the girl had hastily jumped up. Henry registered the intimacy of being in her bedroom, with her sheets still warm, the scent of her lingering in the enclosed space, before he looked at her.
She was standing by the bed, one small white hand on the carved wooden post. She had a cloak of dark blue thrown over her shoulders and her white nightgown trimmed with priceless lace peeped through the opening at the front. Her rich auburn hair, plaited for sleep, hung down her back, but her face was completely shrouded in a hastily thrown mantilla of dark lace.
The desperate duenna nearly threw herself to her knees. Is she scarred by the pox and they did not tell me? I swear. Her duenna gasped a protest but could do nothing to stop the princess as she raised the veil and then flung it back. Her clear blue eyes stared into the lined, angry face of Henry Tudor without wavering.
The king drank her in and then gave a little sigh of relief at the sight of her. She was an utter beauty: a smooth, rounded face, a straight long nose, a full, sulky, sexy mouth. Her chin was up, he saw; her gaze challenging. This was no shrinking maiden fearing ravishment.
This was a fighting princess standing on her dignity even in this most appalling moment of embarrassment. He bowed. She curtseyed. He stepped forwards, and saw her curb her instinct to flinch away.
He took her firmly at the shoulders and kissed one warm, smooth cheek and then the other. The perfume of her hair and the warm female smell of her body came to him, and he felt desire pulse in his groin and at his temples. Quickly he stepped back and let her go. He cleared his throat.
My son too is on his way to visit you. You have every right over me. It was a scene for ravishment, not for a royal greeting. Again he felt the secret thud-thud of lust. What would it be like if he had bought her for himself, rather than for his son? He got himself out of the room briskly enough and nearly collided with Prince Arthur, hovering anxiously in the doorway. Prince Arthur, pale with nerves, pushed his blond fringe back from his face, stood still, and said nothing.
Because she is odd: Spanish, rare. But no Englishman will stand for any Spanish nonsense once they get over the novelty.
And neither will I. This is a marriage to cement an alliance, not to flatter her vanity. I have won only the briefest of reprieves and I know he is waiting for me outside the door to my bedchamber and he has demonstrated, powerfully enough, that if I do not go to him, then the mountain will come to Mohammed and I will be shamed again.
My servants are frozen, like slaves enchanted in a fairy tale by this extraordinary behavior from a king. Henry of England wants me to meet his son, before his traveling party, without ceremony, without dignity, as if we were a scramble of peasants. So be it. He will not find a princess of Spain falling back for fear.
I grit my teeth. I smile as my mother commanded me. I nod to my herald, who is as stunned as the rest of my companions.
His face blank with shock, he throws open the door. This is me.
This is my moment. This is my battle cry.The Moors will get me! She was only married a few months and then she had to come home, a widow. I shall have to overlook a lot until I am queen and can change things. Philippa Gregory. Her duenna gasped a protest but could do nothing to stop the princess as she raised the veil and then flung it back.
They were husband and wife; but they did not speak more than a few words to each other for the rest of the long day. A Moor? I thought your parents had beaten the Moors. The queen was delighted, the king too. Catalina's father commands the Spanish ambassador to return the dowry he had sent, but makes no mention of saving Catalina.