Lady of the Roses

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Authors: Sandra Worth
Tags: Fiction - Historical, England/Great Britain, Royalty, Tudors, 15th Century
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to our masters of horse, aveners, purveyors, and other officers of our stable, and sign it from me, as usual. They are to be commanded not to take any belongings of this abbey, nor to lodge there, nor even to pass through the town, for we are granting the abbess our full protection, and they violate our order at their peril….” She put that down and picked up another letter. “Ah, here is a more pleasant matter— l’amour —” Her voice held a wistful note. “Affairs of the heart interest me, and I much enjoy the arranging of marriages,” she said, turning to me. “’Tis one of my happier duties….”
    “To our well-loved John de Vere, Earl of Oxford,” she dictated. “As you well know, we have Elizabeth Clere in our service, and she has confided to us her affection and regard for a certain young man in your service, by the name of Thomas Denys, so we are writing to you to implore you earnestly to do what you can to persuade the young man to readily agree to this proposal. You may undertake to inform him that we shall be generous to them both, if he will agree to the match. We ask you to do your best in this matter, as we shall do for you in the future. May the Holy Trinity keep you—and so on.” She waved her hand at her clerk and turned to me. “Lady Ingoldesthorpe. Here, come and sit with me for a while, until my other ladies arrive.”
    I curtseyed and settled myself on the low cushion she indicated, as close to the fire as I could get. The storm that had descended over London earlier that morning had intensified, and now the wind howled. The silk curtains draping the walls moved with the drafts that blew in through the spaces in the stone, and I shivered. The queen must have felt the cold draft too, for she went to warm her hands at the fire. She stood there for a time, her face turned to the window. Then she gave a soft sigh and took her seat. “How I miss the sun of Anjou. England is always so dreary. Naught but rain, and cold most miserable.”
    “Maybe spring will come early,” I offered.
    “You will find that London is as unpleasant in spring as it is in winter. For that, no doubt, we owe a debt to its citizens. They are an ungrateful lot. Mordi , grumbling and complaining are all we hear! They are never content, no matter what we do for them. I shall make sure we are not here in the spring.”
    Just then the creak of a door and a rustle of silk drew my attention to the entry. There stood a young woman of surpassing beauty. She carried herself with a bearing more regal than the queen herself, and her loveliness lit up the room like a torch. Her complexion was ivory, and her shining hair, which streamed down her back, glimmered with a faint silver halo. If any feature could be criticized, it was perhaps her green eyes, which were small, not large, and held a sly expression. The girl, perhaps two or three years older than myself, drew to the queen’s side and whispered in her ear. I caught a few words of French, and the name Edward, and understood that the queen was anxious about her little prince. The three-year-old child nursed a cold, and she had sent the girl to check on him.
    The queen nodded. “Bien…bien.” She turned to me. “Lady Isobel Ingoldesthorpe, have you met Elizabeth Woodville? She is also a newcomer to court. Her mother, the Duchess of Bedford, is French. From Luxemburg.”
    I murmured the niceties and gave Elizabeth a smile. She responded with a feeble nod and looked away as soon as the queen had turned her attention back to me. I was struck by her rudeness. Even the girls at the nunnery hid their dislike of one another beneath a mask of civility. “ Alors , Isabelle, are you happy with us here at court?” the queen inquired.
    “Aye, my queen. Everyone has been most gracious.”
    She laughed. “Indeed, you have attracted a fair amount of attention, just as we expected.”
    “My lady?”
    “ Eh bien , you have had three suitors already for your hand in marriage, one

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