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

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.