Authors: Philippa Gregory
The White Queen (58 page)
My retelling of the story of Melusina throughout the novel developed as it went on
and came to signify for me the difficulty that women have in living in a man’s world—almost
as if we are beings of another element:
She knew that being a mortal woman is hard on the heart, hard on the feet. She knew
that she would need to be alone in the water, under the water, the ripples reflected
on her scaly tail now and then. He promised her that he would give her everything,
everything she wanted, as men in love always do. And she trusted him despite herself,
as women in love always do.
The connection between a mighty archetype and my novel has been inspiring but, of
course, sometimes overwhelming. When I read of the legend of Melusina, of the house
that she built with its fatal flaw, and her sons who could not survive, I think of
Elizabeth Woodville and the house of York, which was built but could not last, and
of her missing sons. While writing this novel I have found elements of history which
I can research, some of fiction which I can create, and beyond both of these some
deep mysteries which, if I listen and wait, and if I am lucky, may come to me.
“These are not chivalrous times; these are not the times of knights in the dark forest
and beautiful ladies in moonlit fountains and promises of love that will be ballads,
sung forever” (page 28), you write in
The White Queen
. Is there a tendency to romanticize history, both for writers and readers? How do
you make sure to realistically portray all aspects of the time period you’re depicting,
even the more difficult ones?
Yes, indeed. These are not chivalrous times. I suspect that no times have ever been
chivalrous times. We glamorize the past, and we romanticize it; we even look back
at our own personal histories and cast a rosy glow or an enhanced dark shadow over
our own childhoods. I keep my writing grounded in realism by reading a great deal
before I start writing, by looking at the record with a critical eye, and by being
skeptical of grandiose claims. Having said that, I, too, find it hard to resist the
charm of Edward or Elizabeth or the marvelous
character Jacquetta or any of the other powerful and interesting people who strove
for themselves and for their families in those dangerous times. They are not chivalrous
or romantic times, but they are times of danger—and in such circumstances one sees
both the worst and best in people.
What challenges, if any, did you face when writing about the battles and the military
strategy, which was often a crucial factor in determining who took the throne? Did
you visit any of the places where the battles took place?
I became a researcher in military history, which is not my natural home! I visited
battle sites and I read long and complicated descriptions of battles and the modern
speculations. In the end I found myself absolutely intrigued and fascinated by how
the battles were lost and won by small events, even sometimes by luck. The mist at
Barnet is a recorded fact, and it was possible for me to weave it into the story of
Elizabeth and her mother as well as to see it as a determining factor on the battlefield.
The three suns of Towton were both a real phenomenon and a powerful metaphor for the
troops. The history of battles is a central part of the story of the Cousins’ War,
and part of my task in this novel and the others in the series was to take this history,
as I take any other, and make it come alive in the novel.
The fate of Edward and Richard, the princes in the Tower, is a subject that has confounded
historians
for centuries. Why did you decide to approach this aspect of the story the way you
did? Is there evidence to suggest that Elizabeth sent her son Richard into hiding
and a page boy in his place to the Tower?
Part of my response to this story was simply emotional: I have a son of my own, and
the thought of Elizabeth losing both her sons was tremendously painful. So I confess
a bias to wanting at least one to survive. Then there is the historical evidence.
A very interesting book by Ann Wroe,
Perkin,
suggested to me that the so-called pretender Perkin Warbeck might well have been
the surviving prince, Richard. Her case for it is very compelling, as others have
suggested, too. There is other persuasive evidence that both boys were not killed
as the traditional history (and Shakespeare) suggests. Even the traditional history—of
them being suffocated in their beds in the Tower and buried beneath a stair—is filled
with contradictions. If Perkin was Richard—and this is speculative history, as indeed
all history around this genuine mystery must be—then Richard must have somehow survived.
How could this have happened? It seemed to me most likely, not that he escaped from
the Tower, but that he was never sent to it. His mother knew the danger her older
son was in, had herself seen Henry VI murdered in the Tower, and was highly aware
of the danger to her sons. It seemed to me most unlikely that she would hand over
a second son when she had lost the first. The changeling page boy is my invention,
but the history of Perkin in
Flanders is based on his own confession. His story will continue in the series.
Elizabeth’s father says to her, “We are forming a new royal family. We have to be
more royal than royalty itself or nobody will believe us. I can’t say I quite believe
it myself” (page 83). How unlikely was it that Elizabeth Woodville would become queen?
How has she been remembered by historians?
Elizabeth’s ascent to the throne is one of the great triumphs of a commoner and was
considered so exceptional in her own time that one of the explanations offered was
witchcraft. It is really a triumph of unlikely events. How unlikely that Edward, raising
troops for a battle, would be diverted by a woman he must have met by chance? How
unlikely that he would offer marriage when he knew as well as Warwick that to secure
his reign he must marry well, preferably a European princess? How unlikely that even
after a secret marriage he would honor his vows? It is a catalog of unlikely events,
and the only coherent explanation is that Edward and Elizabeth fell in love at first
sight and married for love. Elizabeth, like many powerful and effective women, has
been unkindly treated by historians. Some follow the gossip against her at the time
that begrudged her good fortune; some point to the alliances she made for her family
as symptoms of greed and self-aggrandizement. She gets little credit for surviving
two periods in sanctuary, nor for her courage during the siege of the Tower. She is
like many women “hidden from
history” in the phrase of historian Sheila Rowbotham, and when her role is acknowledged
she is often treated with very harsh criticism.
Anthony Woodville, the queen’s brother, seemed to be ahead of his time in regard to
education and culture. What more can you tell us about him? Was Elizabeth honoring
his memory by becoming a patroness of Queens’ College Cambridge?
Elizabeth took over the role of patron of Queens’ College from her predecessor Margaret
of Anjou, but her interest in education and culture may have been inspired and would
certainly have been encouraged by her brother, who was a true Renaissance man: spiritual,
martial, thoughtful, and innovative. He brought the printer William Caxton to England
and sponsored the first printed book; he was famous for his ability in the joust;
and he was a loyal brother to Elizabeth and a devoted uncle to her son. The poem I
quote in the book was indeed the poem he wrote the night before he died. We can only
speculate as to the sort of man he can have been that he should spend his last hours
on earth, not in rage or grief, but in crafting a poem of such detachment and clarity.
If you could go back in time and live in any of the royal courts you’ve written about,
which one would it be and why?
I would be absolutely mad to want to be a woman of any of these times. A Tudor or
Plantagenet woman was wholly ruled by men: either father or husband. She
would find it difficult to seek any education, make her own fortune, or improve her
circumstances. Her husband would have a legal right over her that was equal to his
ownership of domestic animals; and the chances of dying in childbirth were very high.
If one could go back in time and be a wealthy man, these would be times of adventure
and opportunity but still tremendously dangerous. I think I would prefer the Tudor
period to diminish the danger of being killed in battle, but there were still regular
plagues and foreign wars to face. I cannot sufficiently express my enthusiasm for
modern medicine, votes for women, and safe contraception.
The younger Elizabeth emerges as quite a vivid and spirited character. Will we be
seeing more of her in a future book?
Elizabeth, the York princess, goes on to marry Henry VII and so fulfills her parents’
ambitions that they were creating a royal dynasty. She is, of course, mother of Henry
VIII, and her granddaughter, Elizabeth I, is probably England’s greatest queen. Elizabeth
of York will be the subject of a future book in this series. But coming next is the
story of the mother of Henry VII, the indomitable Margaret Beaufort, whom you may
have glimpsed in this novel but who deserves a book all to herself. It is called
The Red Queen
.
Across the war-torn landscape of a divided country two women fight for their sons,
for their houses, and for the throne of England.
The queen of the House of York was the commoner, Elizabeth Woodville, who married
the King of England in secret, for love, and spent her life defending her right to
take the throne at his side. The mother of the House of Tudor was Margaret Beaufort,
heiress to the red rose of Lancaster, who never surrendered her belief that her house
was the true ruler of England and her son should be king. Elizabeth relied on the
magic of Melusina, the water goddess who founded her mother’s family; but Margaret
believed that God Himself had chosen her to be the mother of the King of England and
would condone any sin to bring it about.
Fortune put these two indomitable women on opposite sides of the battle line, but
peace brought them together. For ten years Margaret Beaufort served Elizabeth Woodville
as her lady-in-waiting, companion, and even friend. She was chosen as godmother to
the queen’s daughter, and her husband served King Edward. But all the while, Margaret
knew her son was growing to manhood, in faraway Brittany, coached by his uncle,
Jasper Tudor, recruiting his army, his eyes on the greatest prize.
When Richard III seized the throne of England and kidnapped Elizabeth’s sons, the
two York princes, Elizabeth turned to her friend Lady Margaret to help her mount a
rebellion and free her two boys. It was then she found that Margaret had her own plans,
her own king in waiting, and even her own army. It was then that Margaret discovered
how far she was ready to go to put her son on the throne.
Only the field of Bosworth, the last battle in the Wars of the Roses, would decide
which queen, the Red or the White, would triumph. That day, as one woman prayed to
the God of battles and the other cast her spells in the water, decided the future
of England and whether Margaret Beaufort would ever sign her name as queen, Margaret
Regina: Margaret R.
The Cousins’ War
THE KINGMAKER’S
DAUGHTER
Available from Touchstone
My lady mother goes first, great heiress in her own right, and the wife of the greatest
subject in the kingdom. Isabel follows, because she is the oldest. Then me: I come
last, I always come last. I can’t see much as we walk into the great throne room of
Westminster Palace, and my mother makes her curtsey to the throne and steps aside;
Isabel sinks down low, as we have been taught, for a king is a king even if he is
a young man put on the throne by my father. His wife will be crowned queen, whatever
we may think of her. Then, as I step forward to make my curtsey, I get my first good
view of the woman that we have come to court to honor.
She is breathtaking: the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. At once
I understand why the king stopped his army at the first sight of her and married her
within weeks. She has a smile that grows slowly and then shines, like an angel. I
have seen statues that would look stodgy beside her; I have seen painted Madonnas
whose features would be coarse beside her pale luminous loveliness. I rise from my
curtsey to stare at her as if she were an exquisite icon; I cannot look away. Under
my scrutiny her face warms, she blushes, she smiles at me, and I cannot help but beam
in reply. She laughs at that, as if she finds my open adoration amusing, and then
I see my mother’s furious glance and I scuttle to her side where my sister Isabel
is scowling. “You were staring like an idiot,” she hisses, “embarrassing us all. What
would Father say?”
