Genre Fiction
![Alison Weir - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AQ41I6.jpg)
The King's Pleasure: A Novel of Henry VIII (Six Tudor Queens)
The New York Times bestselling author of the Six Tudor Queens series explores the private side of the legendary king Henry VIII and his dramatic and brutal reign in this extraordinary historical novel.
Having completed her Six Tudor Queens series of novels on the wives of Henry VIII, extensively researched and written from each queen's point of view, Alison Weir now gives Henry himself a voice, telling the story of his remarkable thirty-six-year reign and his six marriages.
Young Henry began his rule as a magnificent and chivalrous Renaissance prince who embodied every virtue. He had all the qualities to make a triumph of his kingship, yet we remember only the violence. Henry famously broke with the pope, founding the Church of England and launching a religious revolution that divided his kingdom. He beheaded two of his wives and cast aside two others. He died a suspicious, obese, disease-riddled tyrant, old before his time. His reign is remembered as one of dangerous intrigue and bloodshed-and yet the truth is far more complex.
The King's Pleasure brings to life the idealistic monarch who expanded Parliament, founded the Royal Navy, modernized medical training, composed music and poetry, and patronized the arts. A passionate man in search of true love, he was stymied by the imperative to produce a male heir, as much a victim of circumstance as his unhappy wives. Had fate been kinder to him, the history of England would have been very different.
Here is the story of the private man. To his contemporaries, he was a great king, a legend in his own lifetime. And he left an extraordinary legacy-a modern Britain.
Having completed her Six Tudor Queens series of novels on the wives of Henry VIII, extensively researched and written from each queen's point of view, Alison Weir now gives Henry himself a voice, telling the story of his remarkable thirty-six-year reign and his six marriages.
Young Henry began his rule as a magnificent and chivalrous Renaissance prince who embodied every virtue. He had all the qualities to make a triumph of his kingship, yet we remember only the violence. Henry famously broke with the pope, founding the Church of England and launching a religious revolution that divided his kingdom. He beheaded two of his wives and cast aside two others. He died a suspicious, obese, disease-riddled tyrant, old before his time. His reign is remembered as one of dangerous intrigue and bloodshed-and yet the truth is far more complex.
The King's Pleasure brings to life the idealistic monarch who expanded Parliament, founded the Royal Navy, modernized medical training, composed music and poetry, and patronized the arts. A passionate man in search of true love, he was stymied by the imperative to produce a male heir, as much a victim of circumstance as his unhappy wives. Had fate been kinder to him, the history of England would have been very different.
Here is the story of the private man. To his contemporaries, he was a great king, a legend in his own lifetime. And he left an extraordinary legacy-a modern Britain.
Editorial Reviews
"Weir takes the abundant history and weaves imagined conversations and motivations into a delightful yarn. . . . An all-around fun read about a king and a cad."-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
"Weir meticulously illustrates [Henry VIII's] significant relationships with not just his six wives but also his political allies and rivals and such shrewd advisers. . . . This believable tale is a solid choice for historical fiction devotees."-Booklist
"Weir meticulously illustrates [Henry VIII's] significant relationships with not just his six wives but also his political allies and rivals and such shrewd advisers. . . . This believable tale is a solid choice for historical fiction devotees."-Booklist
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
1503
He had cried for hours. Mother, his dearest Mother, was dead. It had been the most hateful, dreadful news, broken to him by Mrs. Luke, his old nurse. Not, thankfully, by Father, who was too broken by his own grief. Harry could not have coped with witnessing the King's distress. He had enough to bear. He had wept and wept on Mrs. Luke's broad bosom, and now, aware that great boys of eleven were not supposed to give way to womanish tears, he struggled to compose himself and went to find his sisters, who were sitting desolately on the rug before the fire in Mother's bedchamber. He stared in horror at the bed, which had already been hung and draped with the black velvet of mourning. Mother would never sleep here again; he would never more hear her sweet voice, feel her gentle arms around him, her golden boy. How truly she had loved him; how desperately sad to think of the empty years ahead without her. He could not damp down the great swell of sorrow that was rising within him. He sank to his knees by the bed and buried his head in his hands.
He had loved her, revered her, adored her. Through her, he was the heir to the rightful royal line of England. She had been everything a queen should be: beautiful, kind, fruitful, charitable, open-handed, and devout. She had taught him his first prayers and his first letters, soothed his childish ills, and been a fount of wise advice and comfort. And now she was gone. He could not bear it.
His grandmother, the Lady Margaret, found him and lifted him up. Framed by her widow's wimple and black gable hood, her thin face was sad and drawn.
"Harry, you must rejoice that your dear mother is with God and be happy for her."
"How can I?" he burst out. "I need her! How can God be so cruel as to take her from me?"
"Hush, child! You must not question God's will." She sat on the bed and drew him to her, as Mary, not quite seven and the beauty of the family, climbed on her lap and sat there, her lower lip trembling, and Margaret, thirteen years old and normally willful and imperious, knelt at her feet, looking lost.
"Your lady mother is now in Heaven, looking down on you all and praying for you," Grandmother told them. "She would not want you to be sad. And she is with Arthur." Even now, Harry felt the old familiar, resentful jealousy of his brother rising in him. Whatever Arthur had had, Harry had coveted, and when Arthur had died last year, at the tender age of fifteen, Harry had suddenly had it all. He was now the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne, and he was betrothed to his brother's enchanting Spanish widow. One day, he would be the King of England and Katherine of Aragon would be his Queen. But now, Arthur, in Heaven, had stolen one final march on him and was enjoying the greatest thing of all: their mother's presence.
"Why did she have to die?" Mary asked.
"God called her," the Lady Margaret said.
"She died because she got childbed fever after having our sister Catherine," Margaret elaborated.
"Would that Catherine had never been born," Harry muttered.
"Never say that, Harry!" Grandmother chided, hugging him. "She is an innocent, poor, motherless babe, and I fear that she herself is not long for this world."
Harry wept again, as the reality of his loss sank in. He was motherless, too. He leaned his head on the old woman's thin shoulder and howled.
***
Two days later, the Lady Margaret being of the opinion that lessons would help to take Harry's mind off his loss, he was back at his desk at Eltham Palace, laboring under the waspish eye of his tutor, Master Skelton. Learned herself, Grandmother had always taken an active interest in the welfare and tutoring of her sweet children, as she called him and his sisters, and Mother and Father had always said they should be grateful for that, since she was a generous patron of scholars and the University of Cambridge. Like Mother, she loved books, and both women had inspired in Harry a passion for learning. It was a great source of enjoyment, a journey of discovery for a young mind avid for new information, and he had always been an apt and able pupil.
Three years ago, Lord Mountjoy, a scholar whom Father had appointed to mentor Harry, had arranged for a young lawyer called Thomas More to bring the celebrated Dutch humanist Erasmus to Eltham Palace. Harry and his younger siblings had received them in the magnificent great hall built by their grandfather Edward IV, and he and Erasmus had conversed in an oriel window.
Harry had long revered Erasmus as a hero; even before he met the great man, he had read his books and been inspired by his understanding of the literature of the ancients and his studies of ...
1503
He had cried for hours. Mother, his dearest Mother, was dead. It had been the most hateful, dreadful news, broken to him by Mrs. Luke, his old nurse. Not, thankfully, by Father, who was too broken by his own grief. Harry could not have coped with witnessing the King's distress. He had enough to bear. He had wept and wept on Mrs. Luke's broad bosom, and now, aware that great boys of eleven were not supposed to give way to womanish tears, he struggled to compose himself and went to find his sisters, who were sitting desolately on the rug before the fire in Mother's bedchamber. He stared in horror at the bed, which had already been hung and draped with the black velvet of mourning. Mother would never sleep here again; he would never more hear her sweet voice, feel her gentle arms around him, her golden boy. How truly she had loved him; how desperately sad to think of the empty years ahead without her. He could not damp down the great swell of sorrow that was rising within him. He sank to his knees by the bed and buried his head in his hands.
He had loved her, revered her, adored her. Through her, he was the heir to the rightful royal line of England. She had been everything a queen should be: beautiful, kind, fruitful, charitable, open-handed, and devout. She had taught him his first prayers and his first letters, soothed his childish ills, and been a fount of wise advice and comfort. And now she was gone. He could not bear it.
His grandmother, the Lady Margaret, found him and lifted him up. Framed by her widow's wimple and black gable hood, her thin face was sad and drawn.
"Harry, you must rejoice that your dear mother is with God and be happy for her."
"How can I?" he burst out. "I need her! How can God be so cruel as to take her from me?"
"Hush, child! You must not question God's will." She sat on the bed and drew him to her, as Mary, not quite seven and the beauty of the family, climbed on her lap and sat there, her lower lip trembling, and Margaret, thirteen years old and normally willful and imperious, knelt at her feet, looking lost.
"Your lady mother is now in Heaven, looking down on you all and praying for you," Grandmother told them. "She would not want you to be sad. And she is with Arthur." Even now, Harry felt the old familiar, resentful jealousy of his brother rising in him. Whatever Arthur had had, Harry had coveted, and when Arthur had died last year, at the tender age of fifteen, Harry had suddenly had it all. He was now the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne, and he was betrothed to his brother's enchanting Spanish widow. One day, he would be the King of England and Katherine of Aragon would be his Queen. But now, Arthur, in Heaven, had stolen one final march on him and was enjoying the greatest thing of all: their mother's presence.
"Why did she have to die?" Mary asked.
"God called her," the Lady Margaret said.
"She died because she got childbed fever after having our sister Catherine," Margaret elaborated.
"Would that Catherine had never been born," Harry muttered.
"Never say that, Harry!" Grandmother chided, hugging him. "She is an innocent, poor, motherless babe, and I fear that she herself is not long for this world."
Harry wept again, as the reality of his loss sank in. He was motherless, too. He leaned his head on the old woman's thin shoulder and howled.
***
Two days later, the Lady Margaret being of the opinion that lessons would help to take Harry's mind off his loss, he was back at his desk at Eltham Palace, laboring under the waspish eye of his tutor, Master Skelton. Learned herself, Grandmother had always taken an active interest in the welfare and tutoring of her sweet children, as she called him and his sisters, and Mother and Father had always said they should be grateful for that, since she was a generous patron of scholars and the University of Cambridge. Like Mother, she loved books, and both women had inspired in Harry a passion for learning. It was a great source of enjoyment, a journey of discovery for a young mind avid for new information, and he had always been an apt and able pupil.
Three years ago, Lord Mountjoy, a scholar whom Father had appointed to mentor Harry, had arranged for a young lawyer called Thomas More to bring the celebrated Dutch humanist Erasmus to Eltham Palace. Harry and his younger siblings had received them in the magnificent great hall built by their grandfather Edward IV, and he and Erasmus had conversed in an oriel window.
Harry had long revered Erasmus as a hero; even before he met the great man, he had read his books and been inspired by his understanding of the literature of the ancients and his studies of ...
