A Rose for Lancaster (The Tudor Rose Novella series)

by Christine Elaine Black

  ****

  After a few months of spying in Ireland we returned to court with grim words. Pole claimed to the Irish nobles to have a nephew of King Edward in his care, with the intention of claiming the English throne on the boy’s behalf. Five men and one woman listened to my report.

  Henry sat stone-faced considering his options, as his mother, the countess of Richmond and Derby, fumed.

  “The Yorkist faction insist the boy with Pole is the true heir,” I ventured.

  “It’s a lie. The boy is in the tower under guard, living comfortably. They serve Pole and wish to elevate the house of York,” she grumbled.

  I flinched. Blanche remained in the tower and I itched to free my wife. The king’s mother eyed me without sympathy.

  “The Irish do me no favors,” Henry coldly stated. “Their eagerness to assist Pole shows they use any foolish reason to go against me.”

  “They intend to crown the boy and bring him to England.” I risked my life voicing such treason but Welles had politely warned me to hold back no information, no matter how damning.

  “We can easily disprove the claim. I’ll have the real boy paraded in the street to quell the rumors.” The countess shrugged off the matter.

  Henry nodded but looked to me. “When do they come?”

  “Sire, we have a few months at most.”

  His eyes narrowed but he remained impassive. “I welcome the challenge to sweep away the doubts. Pole has signed his death warrant.”

  I envisioned the king’s mother swinging an axe, relieving John Pole’s head from his body.

  “Beaufort,” the king shifted in his seat. “Join with Oxford and his men. From now until we crush Pole the men must be ready to act on a moment’s notice.”

  Secretly I had hoped my part in this ended after my time in Ireland.

  The door opened and a young woman entered. A tiny, delicate woman dressed in an exquisite kirtle glided across the expanse of the room. The king got to his feet and smiled at her. For the first time I saw Henry in a different light as he took the woman’s hand and kissed it with tender devotion.

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured near to her ear. Every man in the room watched, on their knees, entranced by the queen’s presence. The pair whispered for a moment, the closeness of their bodies reminding me of my wife and the few happy moments shared at Somerset Castle. I recognized a man and a woman in love, interested in each other’s needs. The countess of Richmond coughed, a gentle reminder to the couple not to break the propriety expected of royalty.

  The queen scanned the room, her regard rested upon me. I tried not to stare but before I lowered my gaze she offered me a wondrous smile.

  “I invite all of you, my husband’s loyal supporters, to dine with us.”

  “Yes,” Henry echoed. “Everyone will dine in the great hall tonight.”

  It pained me to know Blanche missed the opportunity to meet her kinswoman and queen. I compared Elizabeth’s fair, dainty looks to Blanche’s golden hues and curvaceous figure. York women possessed unmatchable qualities and I understood Henry’s fascination with his wife.

  John de Vere, the earl of Oxford, slapped me on the shoulder. “Tomorrow we make plans, but tonight we eat and drink.” A man in his forties and no stranger to fighting, he reminded me of Murdo. To ride with a man of experience eased my foreboding of the coming conflict.

  ****

  A pageboy carrying a plate filled with prime cuts of meat set it upon the table for my benefit. “From the high table, milord.”

  The high table held fifteen members of royalty and not one of them looked in my direction. A few minor nobles nearby eyed the food enviously but said little. Favors from the king’s circle placed me above them, for now. The king and queen sat side-by-side, smiling at each other. The king’s mother ate sparingly while her husband, Lord Stanley, took his fill. The man that interested me the most, Viscount John Welles, sat with Princess Cecily, his betrothed, offering her his undivided attention. My gaze—drawn to the queen far too often—found Margaret Beaufort’s keen eyes watching the room, noting the men in attendance and commenting to the king. Henry listened and nodded to his mother, but queen Elizabeth captivated him and every man in the room.

  The chamber designated for me and my liegeman proved better than expected. I climbed in favor at the royal court. Murdo excused himself with intent to ingratiate himself to earl Oxford, leaving me to enjoy a night of peace as a page arrived with a message. I read it in disbelief. The queen summoned me to her apartments. A cold fear crept over me. Surely she did not… could not…

  I followed the page until we reached an ornate door whereupon he knocked, pushed me inside and walked away. Voices echoed in the apartments and slowly I made my way through an archway leading into a large reception room, I saw the king and queen standing together, holding hands, heads close in conversation. Cecily of York sat on a richly upholstered chair, staring into a blazing fireplace. Three ladies-in-waiting stood together, confused hens in a barnyard.

  “Oh, he is here,” the queen uttered.

  Henry looked me up and down, with a hint of curiosity as I paid deference, and in walked John Welles, the peacock with a questionable interest in my person.

  “The queen wishes to speak with you, Somerset.” Henry’s voice held a slight edge of disapproval. He and Welles walked across the vast room to a small door and left me alone with five women and two guards.

  “Come, Somerset.” The queen offered me a seat across from her sister. She sat with Princess Cecily and regarded me with mild interest.

  “You must wonder why I have asked you here?”

  “Your Grace, if I have offended you in any way...”

  Cecily giggled, Elizabeth gave her a quick look.

  “You have not offended us. I called you here because of your father.”

  “My father? Baron Somerset?”

  She stood up, agitated. “This is difficult. I do this out of respect for a great but troubled man. Somerset was not your true father but merely a convenience. My husband promised silence on the matter but I did not. And I believe you must be told the truth.”

  Cecily handed Elizabeth a small cup of wine. It shook in her dainty hand.

  “When I was a little girl my father brightened my world like the stars in a dark sky, beautiful but unreachable. The king, my husband, is like the sun, he warms me in a cold, unforgiving world.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “You must know of your father, Giles Beaufort, before it is too late.”

  Never before did I feel completely unsure of my life than at that moment. A memory, dormant for years, surfaced in my mind. A fleeting image and a deep voice bridged the distance of time. Giles, my boy, you are clever and strong for a lad of your age. We once laughed together, my father and me.

  “You know him, milady?”

  “He died many years ago. I met him once or twice as a young child but did not recall the exact manner of him until I saw you, today.” Elizabeth sipped her wine and I marveled at her queenly composure. Without asking for it she gained my complete and utter devotion as a subject of her realm.

  “Your father, in his way, changed the face of England, and it is fitting that you be told of him. But first you must swear an oath of secrecy.”

  Hesitation lingered between us. “Mayhap, he wishes not to know.” Princess Cecily jumped up from her seat.

  “I wish it.” Elizabeth waved her sister away. “You do want to know?”

  “Yes, your Grace. I do.” Blood pounded through my ears, my breath deepened. This moment with queen Elizabeth defined my person and my place in the world. It mattered very much who sired me and why they could not keep and raise me as their child.

  ****

  Stoke proved a cold, bloody battle on a June day that I shan’t soon forget. Oxford pushed his men hard and fast, and expected obedience. We followed orders, meeting the men John Pole cobbled together, but between his Irish supporters and the men supplied by his aunt, Margaret of Burgundy, he managed a good tur
nout, even in their roughened state.

  King Henry grumbled but did not avoid the coming fight. He despised equally the loss of men and money, and worked toward a speedy end to the threats shadowing his rule. The odds favored the king, according to the report from our scouts.

  Oxford placed his own soldiers ahead of the king’s men as the last line of defense if Pole’s side should break through. It rippled among the men - no quarter given to either side. This fight ended in death for either Henry or Pole. Though I harbored the notion that the king had no intention of meeting the earl of Lincoln if he lost the advantage.

  Rain pelted metal armor and weaponry in a continuous clatter. Soaked to the skin, poised on horseback we waited for the moment to strike the enemy. The forward troops engaged the undisciplined rabble who eagerly surrendered the high ground in an effort to begin the attack. Oxford pounced on the mercenaries led by their commanders and cut a swath through their ranks.

  Murdo and I waited and watched, ever ready to engage but Oxford slyly kept us back, keeping us fresh for the later assault. After a few hours as the sun broke through a small gap in the clouds and glinted off our metal reflecting into the faces of the oncoming men, the time came to fight. The final push had begun and we met our enemy but without adequate protection they fell to our blades like wheat under the scythe. Earl Lincoln came riding through the skirmish with Fitzgerald and Broughton, clad in shining armor, and as they avoided our persistent and harried attempts a man broke away heading for his target—the king!

  I rushed after Pole, yelling obscenities but he rode onward caring for naught but Henry. A group of men circled their royal charge, the danger to his person small, but I recalled Elizabeth’s devotion to her husband and could not render my duty into the hands of Henry’s noblemen. With my sword ready, the horse responded to my command almost before I urged it into action. We cut across Pole’s mount, felling horse and rider in one quick motion. Compelled into irrational action, I jumped from my horse and strode to meet Pole in hand-to-hand combat. Henry’s men cheered. Beaufort!

  Their consent to my actions on the king’s behalf drove my need for justice. Pole had planned my sovereign’s demise and the dissolution of my marriage to Blanche but I could not strike him dead without a fair fight. Men of Lancaster surrounded us and I heard them calling Pole a traitor. Sweat ran down my face blurring my vision inside my helmet. I threw it aside to see better as Pole took the first swing. He missed by a hand-span and I managed to step to his sword side and jab under his breastplate.

  “Filthy bastard,” Pole spat at me.

  “Yes, I’m a bastard and proud of it.” I wasted no time. Pole fought well and my skill fared average against the earl. To anger him and force a mistake may be my only hope. “And the fair lady of Langley minds not my humble birth or my humble bed.”

  “You Lancaster bastards steal our women and expect us to grovel for favors from the court while you do it. Enough of this, Henry is a fraud and you, the bastard of Somerset, have no right to a highborn lady.”

  Pole grunted, his breath coming faster as he labored with the sword. The tip of his blade lopped off a lock of my hair. I mocked his poor aim as I flicked his sword away with mine. As I took a step back my opponent raised his arm to strike me. An axe flew from behind my right side and struck Pole in the chest, cleaving his armor and his body in two as his sword point found an opening near my shoulder. Pain shot through my arm dropping me to my knees.

  “Nice shot, Jasper,” Henry yelled victoriously, as the Duke of Bedford dismounted and came to my aid, a huge grin on his grizzled face.

  “This one fought well for you,” he called to the king, but before I could speak the world blackened and the sound of battle faded to a whisper.

  Chapter Seven

  ~ Blanche ~ July 1487

  A royal barge skimmed the Thames River at a leisurely pace. Guards surrounded the edge of the craft and my hope to see who passed my prison faded as it neared the tower. I lost sight of the boat from the window and looked in the opposite direction to watch it reappear. It did not. A long time passed and the traffic on the river dwindled but the boat remained elusive. The room darkened and after lighting a few candles the glow cheered me.

  The sound of metal scraped against the wooden door and my maid jumped from the corner of the fireplace to stand by my side. Mayhap this day brought word of my fate or, better yet, word of my husband.

  Three burly guardsmen filled the doorway, familiar from the barge. I had a royal visitor but surely not the king of England or his queen? The men entered the room, looked under the bed and behind the dressing screen; they even peered into my privy chamber. They backed out the door and one of them muttered to someone standing out of sight. A tall, thin woman entered, dominating the room with an air of superiority. Dressed in dark velvet and rich brocade with tasteful jewelry upon her neck, hands and ears, she cast a practiced eye around the room, landing on me. She took in my measure with a swift glance, her gaze briefly resting on my belly.

  “Lady Langley,” she stated without a hint of warmth.

  I dropped to the floor in a deep curtsey, though it cost me in my condition and I flinched in discomfort.

  “Get up, girl,” she chided me. With the snap of a finger she commanded my maid out of the room and the door closed, leaving the two of us alone.

  “Must every York woman be blessed with great beauty?” I thought it best to ignore the jibe and remained silent until I knew her purpose. “’Tis unfortunate to sacrifice a good mind at the expense of pretty looks.” She lifted the gold chain around her neck to show me the emblem of her office.

  “My Lady the King’s Mother,” I gasped in surprise. The mother of Henry the seventh stood in my rooms. The most ambitious woman in England and now the highest in the land, above even the queen it was said. I curtseyed again but less flamboyantly than before—my baby did not appreciate sudden movement. Gaping at her like a fish out of water did me no favors.

  “Pole is dead,” she announced bluntly. I cared little about the earl’s fate.

  “My husband, Giles Beaufort, baron of Somerset, how did he fare at Stoke?”

  “Wounded on the battlefield.” My hand flew to my mouth in shock. “You are a York. Why are you upset?” The coldness in her voice chilled my bones. I held onto a nearby chair for support. In my mind Giles escaped the battle unharmed and rode to save me, but my illusion fled in the presence of this woman.

  A thousand questions begged for answers but they crowded my head as I managed a few feeble inquiries. “Is he badly wounded? Where is he? Will he live?”

  “Beaufort blocked an attempt on the king. He fares better than most and will recover fully.”

  “Thanks be to God! Giles is alive. I have prayed for him to see his child.” I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands together.

  Her gaze returned to my belly. “His one request as a reward for his loyalty is to have his wife safely returned. The king graciously granted the favor but before you see your husband I must impress upon you the seriousness of communicating with the likes of Pole. Whispers of treasonous acts are dealt with swiftly and permanently.” Her steely eyes sliced through me. “You carry a Lancaster child who must grow in obedience to his king and the new prince. Beaufort cannot save you a second time, and not even I can intervene if you are implicated.”

  I raised my eyes to her. “You intervened on my behalf?”

  “I acted for Beaufort, not you. He saved the king’s life, and earned our favor.”

  “I am most grateful to you, My Lady the King’s Mother.” I used her preferred form of address even though I loathed it.

  “You and Beaufort,” she pressed, “do you have a good marriage? Do you love him?” I blushed at her interest in my husband. The sudden thought they were lovers entered my head. My husband and the matriarch of the king’s family seemed an unlikely pairing but not impossible, as such matters happened between powerful women and handsome, young men eager to improve upon their fortune.


  The woman read my thoughts and eyed me with amusement. “It is not what you think.” Her skirts swished past me as she took a seat and bade me to sit in the opposite chair.

  “Most of the court knows me as a devout woman, one who prays often, one who shuns personal joy in pursuit of a higher calling. That is true. I’ve paid the price for my son’s elevation to kingship. I brought Henry into this world when I was a girl of thirteen. Can you imagine such a thing? You a woman of twenty-five, having her first child this late in life?” She stared at the fire and shook her head. “Edmund Tudor, my first husband, died not long after our marriage. I gave him a son, but Henry was not my only child. Nine years later I birthed a second son, born in wedlock but not the issue of my husband. I waivered from my marriage vow briefly and paid a high price for that sin. I could not acknowledge the child. My husband sent the babe to be raised by distant relatives and my life progressed as before. No record of my son’s birth to me exists, as though it never happened.”

  “Giles Beaufort,” I whispered.

  She gave the tiniest nod. “His father is not Somerset. His true father is not a man to be revealed. Born into one of the highest families in the land, he is long dead and his memory must not be soured by my sin. Discontent reigned in the royal court twenty years ago, and many a man or woman’s fortune depended upon their proximity to the ruling house. Dazzled by this man, a confidante to my husband, I came under his guidance as a young woman.” She clicked her rosary beads in one hand and held her insignia in the other, talismans of her faith and position. “He taught me the art of making a man into a king and I never forgot his lessons.”

  Kingmaker! The only man with such a title had been Richard Neville, earl of Warwick. I dared not interrupt her speech. My husband carried Neville and Beaufort blood in his veins, born out of a York and Lancaster union, twice descended from Edward the third. Neville changed sides, disaffected by Edward’s politics and an unpopular marriage to Elizabeth Woodville. Had Neville truly fuelled and inspired Margaret Beaufort’s ambitions for her eldest son, Henry? If so, revenge ran deep among nobles.