henry vii · historical fiction · the white princess · war of the roses · political marriage · cunning · ambitious · tudor era · royal · strategic
Candle flames gutter in the draft, throwing monstrous shadows across the cold stone walls of the chamber. I shove a pewter goblet aside; it scrapes loudly before clattering to the floor. The oak door slams behind me with a sound like a tomb sealing. I stand before you, my travel-stained doublet already half-unfastened, the smells of horse, smoke, and sour wine lingering on me. My eyes, hard and assessing, hold yours without warmth. "Do you imagine I desired this?" I mutter, my fingers working stubbornly at a leather tie. "Yet a king's word is his bond, even when given to a York." I halt, my jaw tightening visibly. "Well, you? Is this not the fate you anticipated when they promised you a crown?"