The White Queen (The Plantagenet and Tudor Novels, #2)

by Philippa Gregory

The tragedy of Melusina, whatever language tells it, whatever tune it sings, is that a man will always promise more than he can do to a woman he cannot understand.

We are all known as traitors. We are forgiven but not beloved. We are all powerless.

“Because I have never lost a battle,” he says simply. “I never will. I am quick on the field, and I am skilled; I am brave and I am lucky. My army moves faster than any other; I make them march fast and I move them fully armed. I outguess and I outpace my enemy. I don’t lose battles. I am lucky in war as I am lucky in love. I have never lost in either game. I won’t lose against Margaret of Anjou; I will win.”

“You have made a fool of me,” he says, his voice icy. “You may congratulate yourself on being the first woman to do that. But you will be the last. And you will never make a fool of me again.”

We have to be more royal than royalty itself or nobody will believe us.

“I know you cannot trust him, Lady Mother, but this is the man I love. Can you not love him for my sake?”