3 of 5 stars
Oh my. Even though I knew/could easily guess the ending here, it left me feeling pretty horrid. Don’t read this if you wish to have romanticised visions of Henry VIII in your head; Gregory makes him out to be a complete and utter nutjob, and a gross fat, stinky nutjob at that. Which is probably about right.
I noticed another reviewer mentions the ‘myopic’ sense of narrative in this novel, and that’s pretty spot on. There is quite the sense of icky claustrophobia — quite possibly just as Anne of Cleves and Katherine Howard felt while in Henry’s company.
This was definitely a lot darker than The Other Boleyn Girl, and I would hardly call it a romance. But it was still alright. Pre-feminism angst sources abound.