I like writing historical fiction.

You are my heart. Even if you are a broken heart.

I am marrying the finest man I have ever known.” “It will cost you dear,” he warns. “It would be worse to lose him.

The truth is the last thing that matters,′ she said. ‘And you can believe one thing of the truth and me: I keep it well hidden, inside my heart.

You too might find that your women friends are your truest friends, your sisters are the keepers of your memories and hopes for the future.

I feel as if I can think only when I see the words flowing from the nib of my quill, that my thoughts make sense only when they are black ink on cream paper. I love the sensation of a thought in my head and the vision of the word on the page.

What a test of love it is, when the beloved is less than perfect.

Come back to me.” He laughs. It is not forced; it is the laugh of a happy man, confident in his luck and his abilities. “I will,” he says. “Trust me. You have married a man who is going to die in his bed, preferably after making love to the most beautiful woman in England.” He holds out his arms and I step towards him and feel the warmth of his embrace. “Make sure you do,” I say. “And I will make sure that the most beautiful woman in your eyes is always me.

I am exhorted to be virtuous and fertile. The people see me indicated as the choice of God for Queen of England. Choirs sing as I enter the city, rose petals are showered down on me. I am myself, my own tableau: the Englishwoman from the House of Lancaster come to be the Queen of York. I am an object of peace and unity.

Before God, I love you and cherish you more than anything in the world. Of course I want to marry you. I love you heart and soul.