The White Queen by Philippa Gregory: A review

I got the feeling early on that this book really wanted to be a historical bodice-ripper, but the narrative voice of Elizabeth Woodville is so laconic, so lacking in passion, that it never quite made it. The lack of passion is especially surprising in a woman who was twice married and mother to about a dozen children. In fact, it seemed that about half her life was spent being pregnant.

Woodville was a widow with two young sons at the time that Edward IV came out on top - at least temporarily - in the cousins' war known to history as the War of the Roses. Her husband had fought and died for the Lancasters, the faction that was also supported by her family, the Riverses. Edward was, of course, a York, the other side in the war. But as the newly crowned king rides by her family's holdings, Elizabeth the Lancasterite stands by the road and asks the assistance of the Yorkist king in regaining her dowry lands that have been taken from her. Elizabeth is a beautiful woman and the king is very susceptible to beautiful women.

Theirs is a story of "love at first sight" and even though Elizabeth is a commoner and the king is expected to marry a princess to help secure his realm, the two do, in fact, marry in secret and Edward returns to his war. The war never really ends in all the years covered by this tale, but there are at least brief periods of peace. In one such period, Edward acknowledges Elizabeth as his wife and she is crowned as queen. In her new position of power, she immediately sets about putting members of her family into advantageous marriages and powerful offices which will further tighten their holds on the reins of government and the treasury of the kingdom.

Elizabeth's real passion, it seems, is for the advancement of her family. She spins her webs of schemes and conspiracies to try to ensure that that happens. But others are spinning, too. When it comes to gaining and holding the throne, there is no honor among the schemers, even when they are brothers.

The end of the story is well-known. Edward dies and leaves his brother Richard as the guardian and Protector of the Realm for his son and heir, Edward, and his younger son Richard. But Duke Richard proves false and sends young Edward to the Tower of London for safekeeping. Elizabeth is instructed to send her son Richard along, too, to be with his brother, but Philippa Gregory gives the story a twist just here and we are left with the possibility that perhaps at least one of the boys survived. In truth, of course, historians have puzzled over the fate of the two little princes for more than five hundred years. No one really knows what happened. Perhaps Gregory's story makes as much sense as any.

The stories of the Plantagenets have inspired writers from Shakespeare's day to the present, but they have mostly told the tales from the perspectives of the men involved. Gregory takes the distaff side and gives us a glimpse of the strong and determined women behind the constantly warring men. While her writing might not quite rise to the level of "A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse!" it's still a rousing good tale.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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