Free A Rose for Lancaster (The Tudor Rose Novella series) by Christine Elaine Black

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 remain ed 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