A few weeks ago, whilst between houses, I indulged in a bit of historical escapism, which regular readers of this blog will know I enjoy (see my blogs on Bring Up the Bodies and Reading the Tudors) and read The Red Queen and The White Queen by Philippa Gregory. The first was demolished in 24 hours at a spa weekend with my Mum, and was perfect reading in the historic and peaceful Walletts Court hotel. The second accompanied me on a work trip to Glasgow two days after moving house and to a wedding weekend a few days later at another hotel in the countryside.

They are set in the most confusing of historical periods – the Wars of the Roses. I have to admit that my knowledge of this era started and finished with the fact that it involved Yorkshire and Lancashire and that it came before the Tudors (I blame having to choose between history and geography at age 13). It’s really not helped by a distinct lack of imagination from the royals of the time who seemed to insist in calling all of their children Richard and who just couldn’t let royal succession alone. As cousin brought war against cousin again and again and the crown changed hands this way and that, even with the great writing of Philippa Gregory and the helpful family trees at the beginning of the books, I still found myself confused at times.

As usual, these books see the period through the eyes of strong, and in some cases, magical women. The White Queen is definitely better in my opinion, but in some ways I enjoyed the Red Queen more. I read it first and felt the bitterness of the long game played by Margaret Beaufort and her final triumph. I’m always a fan of the Beauforts as my great comprehensive school was named after Henry Beaufort. But the White Queen is fantastic and I loved the magical aspects of the tale.

As usual, these did not fail to provide exactly what was required and I enjoyed the much needed distraction from living out of suitcases and being surrounded by boxes.