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Lady OF THE Roses
SANDRA WORTH
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2008 by Sandra Worth.
Chart of the Houses of York, Lancaster, and Neville, 1399 to 1476, by David Major.
Foundation Lisbon / Alfred Dagil Orti.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Worth, Sandra.
Lady of the roses / Sandra Worth.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN: 1-101-15808-5
1. Great Britain—History—Wars of the Roses, 1455–1485—Fiction. 2. Margaret, of Anjou, Queen, consort of Henry VI, King of England, 1430–1482—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.O775L34 2007
813'.6—dc22
2007037416
This book is for Karla
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
LANCASTRIAN ENGLAND
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
HISTORICAL FIGURES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank my agent, Irene Kraas, for her confidence in me, and my editor, Jackie Cantor, for the meticulous attention she gave this book. I am also indebted to noted graphologist Florence Graving, whose expertise gave me insights into the character of many of these historical figures.
LADY OF THE ROSES
Prologue
SEATON DELAVAL
APRIL 1471
“MY LADY.”
The familiar voice startled me. Unexpected and too gentle, it seemed to prepare the listener for ill tidings. I glanced up, the fear at my heart stopping my breath. Tom Gower, my husband’s squire, stood at the threshold of the small chamber, and the expression on his face did nothing to ease the cold that had begun to spread through my body. The cloak I darned slipped from my fingers, and I rose from my chair with difficulty, a hand on the armrest to steady my legs. Then he stepped forward, and I saw that he held a missive. Relief flooded me. I wanted to cry out with joy! God be praised, he had not come to give me dread tidings of battle, but to deliver the missive my beloved lord had sent! The smile I gave him as he approached to do his obeisance was so broad, I felt my cheeks would surely crack.
“Tom, dear Tom…rise, I pray you. For a moment, I thought—No, pay no heed to what I thought—” Still smiling, I took John’s letter from him greedily and held it close to my heart. Then I realized that Tom had not returned my smile and that his face remained as pale and grave as that cold moment when I had first heard his voice. “Tom…how goes the war for the Lancastrians?”
He hesitated before he replied. “I know not, my lady. I dressed my lord the marquess in his armor, then he bade me leave him ere the battle started. To bring you this missive…and this ring.” He reached inside his doublet. As I watched him fumble for the ring, I saw that his fingers were stiff, as if he moved them with difficulty. When I looked at his face, I knew that he kept something from me.
I took the velvet pouch he offered, and removed the ring, feeling as I did so that I stood outside myself, looking down on the scene from high above. In the fading light of day, the stone, dark blue like my husband’s eyes, twinkled with the same light I had seen in John’s. The world suddenly went very quiet, and there rose before me the vision of a fifteen-year-old girl seated at a window, watching the sun set over the world, her heart breaking with loneliness. She had bartered with the Fates that day for her destiny, and the Fates had listened and granted what she had asked.
That girl was me. Seeking a gift, I had offered a promise, and the time had come to fulfill that promise. However dark the shadows now, I have never forgotten that I am the most fortunate of women. Of storms and sorrow I have known my share, but I have also been blessed with a love such as few are given, a love that dazzled my life with its radiant light as the sun warms and bedazzles the earth. The glory of that love will dry the tears, as it always has, for love transcends all things, even time…even death. I regret nothing.
Regaining my composure, I raised my head and looked at Gower. “You have had a long journey,” I managed, thankful my voice did not waver. “Tell the cook to prepare you the best meal we can offer, and get rest….” In spite of myself, tears stung my eyes and my lips trembled. I turned away and heard Gower’s footsteps echo down the hall as he left.
LANCASTRIAN ENGLAND
1456–1461
One
JUNE 1456
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AMID LIGHTNING, THUNDER, AND THE PELTING rain of a summer storm, a castle appeared in the distance, as if in answer to my prayers. “There!” I cried, unable to restrain my great relief. “We can take refuge there, can’t we, Sœur Madeleine?”
With the wind whipping her cloak around her, Sœur Madeleine turned her small, plump bulk in her saddle and, ignoring the young man-at-arms, Guy, directed herself to the squire accompanying us on our journey. “Master Giles, you know this place that is so curious?” she inquired. Her English was so heavily laden with the accent of her native Anjou that if I didn’t listen carefully, she seemed to be speaking French. But she was right about the castle. Set in an open emerald field instead of high on a hill, and more like a magnificent country mansion inviting to guests than a fortress designed to repel enemies, it made a strange sight with its hexagonal redbrick towers, large windows, and tall, narrow frame.
“I believe it belongs to Lord Ralph Cromwell, Sister,” replied Master Giles, his horse’s hooves sucking in and out of the sticky, mud-mired road. “I heard he built a castle of red brick in Lincolnshire called Tattershall.”
“And this lord…which is his allegiance, the Red Rose or the White?”
Master Giles threw Sœur Madeleine a small, sardonic laugh. “No man can be sure, Sister—’tis said Lord Cromwell changes color with the wind. He was King Henry’s lord chancellor back in the thirties, but a few years ago he quarreled with the Lancastrians and wed his niece to a Yorkist lord. After the Battle of St. Albans, I heard he quarreled with the Yorkists and now considers himself a loyal Lancastrian adherent of the queen’s.”
Sœur Madeleine gave a horrified gasp. “Such a man is a traitor! In France we would know what to do with him.”
From what I could see of Master Giles’s face, hidden between his collar and his sodden wool hat, I could tell his thoughts: This was England, and a good thing too. Even the French queen who had wed our King Henry couldn’t change that.
“Perhaps we should not stop,” Sœur Madeleine said suddenly, pulling up so sharply her horse almost lost its footing in a muddy puddle and snorted in protest. “Mon dieu, he may have changed back to York, and I will not take ’ospitality from a traitor!”
Master Giles and Guy rested their gazes on me, and their expressions told me I was the only one who could avert this setback. If we passed up this castle, we had no assurance of finding a hamlet with lodging for the night, and might well find ourselves sleeping under a tree. Wet and shivering with cold in the stinging rain, I too had been excited at the thought of a hot meal and a change of clothes. Now all stood in jeopardy. Fond as I was of Sœur Madeleine, she could be quite impractical. Fortunately, thanks to the kindly, almost maternal interest she had taken in me during the few weeks we had known one another, I had been able to use my influence with her for the benefit of our entire little party on the long journey from Marrick Priory in Yorkshire down to London. I took a breath before I spoke.
“Sœur Madeleine, Lord Jesus said that sinners who find the true way are saved, so if this Yorkist lord who strayed from the Red Rose has now returned to the righteous fold of Lancaster, then God will forgive him—and surely we should, too?”
Sœur Madeleine turned her face up to Heaven, as if to weigh the strength of both God’s forgiveness and the storm. “Alors, mon enfant, you ’ave much wisdom for your fifteen years—there can be no other reason why God has put this place into our path in weather so formidable. He must intend us to stay here for the night, chère Isabelle.” As if to seal her approval, she gave my name an extra flourish so that it sounded French.
Losing no time, Master Giles spurred his horse and sped in the direction of the castle. I knew he had rushed off so that Sœur Madeleine couldn’t change her mind again, and I galloped my palfrey after him as best I could on the muddy highway. Guy, the young man-at-arms whose horse pulled my coffer, followed too, but, slowed by the small cart he dragged, his horse kept floundering in the deep puddles and he was the last to reach the castle gate.
As I drew alongside Master Giles, someone peered from the watchtower and the cry came down, “Who goes there?”
“The queen’s ward, Lady Isobel Ingoldesthorpe, and her guardian, Sister Madeleine of Marrick Priory. We seek refuge for the night,” Master Giles said, his face dripping with rain as he looked up.
The portcullis creaked open. I cantered my palfrey into the shelter of the castle gateway and dismounted with Master Giles’s help. The porter came out of the guardhouse, and I smiled my thanks.
“You’re fortunate, my good people,” he said. “You’ll find safe haven here with my lord Cromwell, whether ye be Lancastrian or Yorkist.”
“You have Yorkists sheltering here this night?” Sœur Madeleine exclaimed.
A crash of thunder drowned out the man’s reply to this dangerous question, and I seized the chance to distract everyone by pretending to faint. Sœur Madeleine and the porter rushed to my aid.
“Breathe deeply, my dear,” advised Sœur Madeleine. I did as she suggested.
“Good that you came when you did,” said the porter. “The young lady is in need of rest, and the storm is worsening.”
As if Heaven decided to help us, the rumbling grew louder and the driving rain poured faster as he spoke. But Sœur Madeleine returned to the subject of Lord Cromwell.
“Is your lord the same Lord Cromwell who served King Henry and our gracious queen Marguerite d’Anjou as chancellor?” asked Sœur Madeleine, her tone less demanding now. I held my breath.
“The same,” he replied. “So, where are you headed?” he asked pleasantly, handing the horses over to two young, damp boy helpers.
“To court, sir,” Sœur Madeleine said with a haughty look. “I am Sœur Madeleine of the Benedictine Order of the Abbey Notre-Dame de Wisques, and my charge here is Lady Isobel Ingoldesthorpe, ward of Queen Marguerite d’Anjou. Her father was the loyal Lancastrian knight Sir Edmund Ingoldesthorpe of Newmarket, Cambridgeshire, and her mother was the true Lancastrian Lady Joan Tiptoft of Cambridgeshire, both deceased, God rest their souls.” She made the sign of the cross, pursed her lips, and lifted her chin in challenge.
I gave the porter a quick smile to melt the coldness of Sœur Madeleine’s reply and bowed my head to hide my thoughts. Contrary to what Sister had just said, my father was no dyed-in-the-wool Lancastrian. In order to avoid fighting for the Lancastrians, he had spent most of his adult life not answering the king’s many summonses, then explaining his actions and paying for expensive pardons. “A corrupt lot!” was how he’d described the French queen and her favorites, who ruled the land during King Henry’s frequent illnesses. But such talk was treasonous, and he had been careful not to let anyone suspect his Yorkist sympathies. I forced back the memory and, throwing off my wet hood, shook out my hair. I noticed that the porter’s gaze went to my face and lingered there. Sœur Madeleine noticed too. “You are bold, sir,” she snapped. “I hope your lord has better manners than you.”
The man flushed in apology. “Aye, Sister, have no fear. He is a true knight and well he knows how to treat a lady. Pray, follow me.”
LORD CROMWELL, A GENIAL MAN WITH HAIR THE color of frost, came to greet us as soon as we were announced in the great hall, where he had been in conversation with the chamberlain while servants rushed around busily preparing for a grand feast. Some covered the long tables with white cloths; arranged fruit bowls and dishes for salt; and laid out pewter bowls, steel knives, silver spoons, and cups. Others positioned iron candelabras, replaced burned-out candles, and secured torches into the wall brackets, while still others swept up refuse, bone fragments, dog excrement, and stale rushes. Wooden barrels brimming with fragrant rose petals, hyssop, and sweet fennel had been carted up from the cellar and waited nearby, ready to be scattered over the clean floor. Clearly, Lord Cromwell had spared no expense.
“Gracious sister—my dear young lady—we bid thee both a hearty welcome!” he boomed as he kissed my hand and bowed to Sœur Madeleine. “You have
timed your visit well, not only to shelter from the inclement weather—aye, not only for that!—but for the banquet planned for the evening, a very special banquet, I might add. My niece Lady Maude Neville is arriving shortly with her husband and an entourage of young friends who shall be delighted to meet you, dear Lady Isobel. No doubt you will have much to discuss together—you know, those matters that absorb maidens so completely—young men!” He gave me a wink that brought a smile to my face and a frown to Sœur Madeleine’s. “There will be music, and dancing, and a troubadour to entertain us, and flame throwers—you must get rest and refresh yourselves so you can enjoy the merriment!”
We were ushered to our chamber, a pleasant room high on the third floor, overlooking the inner court, where my coffer had already been set. In spite of the rain, the room greeted us as cheerfully as its owner had. At one end, the redbrick wall provided a bright backdrop for the gold bed curtains and coverlet, and at the other a large window threw light over a colorful tapestry that covered nearly all the brick. Two servants entered, bearing a jug of wine, a platter of cheese, tall goblets, and a silver basin of water for washing, which they set on a high chest. One lit the candelabra while another took our wet, mud-splashed cloaks and hung them to dry in the garderobe before he left. As I watched the door shut behind him, excitement overwhelmed me and I rushed to my coffer to retrieve my most beautiful dress, as yet unworn.
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