Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch ouch!
I'm only going to review the first of this multi-generational nonsense saga, but I did read all of them. In mounting disbelief. It takes real skill to write something this long and this bad, but Ms. Younis is more than equal to the task. To be completely honest, I plowed on after The 7th Wife of Henry the 8th (a title that makes no sense even within the senseless context of the book) just to see how awful this was going to get. It did not disappoint.
Basically this is the deluxe version of the "If Only I Had Known Elizabeth Tudor, Henry Tudor, Marie Antoinette, Sisi, the Grand Duchess OlgaTatianaMariaAnastasia, We Would Have Been Besties" School of Weird A-Historical Fiction. Younis creates an 11 year-old Henry Tudor who is skipping out on his old bat of a Granny (Margaret Beaufort, who must suffer more in bad historical fiction than Judas Iscariot) to zip over to the twee manor of Coudemoure with Charles Brandon to pitch some pre-adolescent woo at the equally young Elizabeth de Grey. Indeed, they pre-contract because Arthur is kicking around so presumably young Henry won't have to worry about pesky dynastic marriage. SPOILER ALERT: Somewhere in Wales, Arthur . . . well, I think we all know what happened to Arthur. Although given how fast and loose Ms. Younis plays with history, I wouldn't have been surprised if Arthur turned out to have set sail for the New World. Quicker than you can say 'Tudor livery', which incidentally was green and white, not scarlet and black, Margaret has packed Henry's child fiancee off to Rome to do research or something. By the time Elizabeth makes it back to Merrie Olde, Henry has been married to Catherine of Aragon; he does find time, however, to father a daughter by Elizabeth. She too makes tracks for Rome, where she lives a fun life hobnobbing with the artsy crowd (the Renaissance, doncha know). Constance enters into a short affair with . . . wait for it . . . Michaelangel0, and they produce Henry VIII's granddaughter Bess, who turns out to be a sculptor too and . . . oh my God, this claptrap goes on forever --- there are four volumes before we finally get to Oliver Cromwell. In the intervening century we get to see Couldemoure flourish as a sort of Tudor/Stuart Botanical Gardens.
There is not one credible moment in the entire saga.