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Where the second novel in the trilogy, Time And Chance, dealt with the extraordinary politics of the twelfth century, climaxing with the murder of Thomas Becket and Henry's confrontation with the Church and self-imposed exile to Ireland, Devil's Brood centers on the implosion of a family. And because it is a royal family whose domains span the English Channel and whose alliances encompass the Christian world, that collapse will have dire consequences. This is a story of betrayal as Henry's three eldest sons and his wife enter into a rebellion against him, aligning themselves with his bitterest enemy, King Louis of France. But it is also the story of a great king whose brilliance forged an empire but whose personal blind spots led him into the most serious mistake of his life.
Sharon Kay Penman has created a novel of tremendous power, as two strong-willed, passionate people clash, a family divides, and a marriage ends in all but name. Curiously, it is a novel without villainsonly flawed human beings caught up in misperceptions and bad judgment calls. Most devastating to Henry was not his sons' rebellion but his wife's betrayal in joining them. How could it happen that two people whose love for each other was all consuming end up as bitter adversaries? That is the heart of Penman's tale in Devil's Brood.
752 pages, Hardcover
First published October 7, 2008
The great hall was shimmering in light, sun streaming from the open windows, and ablaze with colour, the walls decorated with embroidered hangings in rich shades of gold and crimson. New rushes had been strewn about, fragrant with lavender, sweet woodruff, and balm... the air was... perfumed with honeysuckle and violet, their seductive scents luring in from the gardens butterflies as blue as the summer sky.
The day’s heat had faded and the sky was a deep twilight turquoise, stars glimmering like scattered shards of crystal. It was a beautiful evening but Henry seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Even after they’d entered the gardens, he paid no heed to the fragrant roses, the scent of honeysuckle and thyme, or the soft bubbling of the fountain.
But then he looked back, and what he saw caused him to catch his breath as if he'd taken a blow, for, thinking himself alone, Henry had leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
Twilight was laying claim to the cité, and the sky was a deepening shade of lavender, spangled with stars and fleecy clouds the colour of plums.
This was the moment he most loved about tourneying, that first glorious sortie with banners streaming, trumpets blaring, and the earth atremble with pounding hooves as hundreds of knights came together in a spectacular clash of sound and fury.
Dawn was streaking the sky in delicate shades of pink and pearl, the last of the night stars flickering out like quenched candles.



