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Hilda Lewis

Harlot Queen

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Isabella of France was proud to be wed to the handsome Edward II of England, but her joy soon turned to rancour, for Piers Gaveston, an egotistical and mercenary courtier, usurped her husband's bed. No woman could compete with her beauty, but another man? What could she do at the age of fourteen? Wait, only wait. And so she waited, nursing her anger, rejection, and disgust. She grew in beauty and wiles; the king, in weakness, as other men, worse men, took Gaveston's place. Weary of waiting, Isabella turned to Mortimer of Wigmore. In his bed, she found comfort and love and cared little that people called her a harlot. But even the presence of Mortimer could not quench her thirst for vengeance, once she had tasted blood. Like an unleashed fury, she pursued the king's paramours. She would tear England in half to quench her rage; if she failed, her son would avenge her honour. The contest that ensued decided the fate of England. In this historically accurate and thrilling story of power and passion, Hilda Lewis has created an unforgettable account of how the fate of nations has often been forged in royal bedrooms.
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480 afgedrukte pagina’s
Oorspronkelijke uitgave
2011
Jaar van uitgave
2011
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    waiting for the wine to do its work. For all their will to repentance she had not forgotten her slyness nor he his delight in wine.
    The wine easing his strict discipline he said, ‘The thing I speak of must never pass your lips. It could bring great trouble upon the land; and most of all upon the King… my son.’ And upon those last words his lips trembled. ‘It could be death to him; or to me. For myself I care little; any time is not too soon. But for him I care very much. And for the country still more. That it should be torn by war again—God forbid! Yet it would be so. There are always those to take one side or another; two Kings at one time cannot be.’
    ‘No word shall pass my lips. As I hope for the mercy of God, I swear it!
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    sabella passed through the Queen’s apartments into her closet. In the anteroom her ladies, sitting over their work, rose to their curtsey. As she passed, the Queen noted without surprise—she had grown used to such slights—the jewel in Eleanor Despenser’s coif. It had been her own; part of her father’s wedding-gift. The King had
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    Might not the sharpness of her wits turn about to wound the man that trusted her? It was a matter to require thought. But for all that he smiled and kissed her hand and vowed himself to her service.
    And she? Could she trust him? His wits were not sharp nor was he honest; but what he lacked in both he made up in pride. Flatter his pride—the sure way to manage him!

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