The Rose of York: Love & War by Sandra Worth Page A

peace.
    At the same time, Warwick left for York to inform the members of parliament gathering there that Parliament was adjourned. Explanations were unnecessary. Everyone knew the King was frantically making love to the bride who had withheld her virtue for a crown. “My Liege,” Bess Woodville was reported to have told Edward, “full well I know I am not good enough to be your queen. But ah, my Liege, I am far too good to be your mistress.”
    They had met after the battle of Towton in 1461, when Edward paused at Stony Stratford, a few miles from Grafton, where Bess Woodville’s father, Lord Rivers, lived with his wife, the former Duchess of Bedford.
    John, Duke of Bedford, the most able and trusted brother of Henry V, had been a mature widower when he met Jacquetta of Luxembourg, daughter of the Count St. Pol. He’d never expected to marry again, being quite comfortable and set in his ways, but he fell hopelessly in love with the lively, beautiful, fifteen-yearold French princess and married her in France while presiding over the trial of Joan of Arc. When he died soon afterwards, the lovely Jacquetta was escorted to England by a guard of English knights under the command of Sir Richard Woodville, the handsomest man in England.
    Without the royal permission necessary for a royal to marry a commoner, Jacquetta married Richard Woodville. Parliament was furious and confiscated the duchess’s lands. Later it was restored by a sympathetic young Frenchwoman who’d just become Queen of England—Marguerite d’Anjou.
    Jacquetta and her handsome knight took up residence in Grafton Manor. Elizabeth was the first of twelve children born to them and a dazzlingly lovely child. When she was old enough, she was appointed lady-in-waiting to Marguerite d’Anjou and at twenty-one married a Lancastrian knight, Sir John Grey. Grey was commander of Queen Marguerite’s cavalry and died in battle, leaving his widow with two sons. As soon as Edward became king, he confiscated Bradgate, seat of the Grey family, and Bess Woodville and her sons found themselves in poverty.
    It was Bess’s mother, Jacquetta, who devised a way to get back her lands.
    “They say the new King is more ardent in the pursuit of ladies than of the deer in the royal forest,” she told her daughter in her sweetly accented English. “ Alors , don your prettiest mourning dress and go to him and plead our case, Bess.”
    “God’s mercy, Maman , they’d never let me see him.”
    “Ah, that is why you must go to him when he is hunting in Whittlebury forest.”
    “But…”
    “Listen to me, ma fille . I am always right, no?” she demanded, bustling about the chamber, checking coffers and wardrobes. “I have found out he is hunting there today. Take the boys and wait for him under the oak tree—you know the one. For certain, he will come. Then he will see you, eh?”
    Bess nodded. Her mother was French and used to intrigue, and so far most of her schemes had worked. She’d had no relatives to protect her, she’d fought her own battles, yet she’d married the man she loved against the will of powerful men and had him made lord. It was why they called her a witch. Her success defied all other explanation.
    “Fortune favours us, m’enfant . The midnight blue of mourning is your best colour,” Jacquetta said, removing a gown from one of the coffers and helping her daughter into it.
    Bess regarded herself in the mirror and eyed the glittering ruby at her mother’s throat with longing. “A pity I can’t wear jewels. I suppose it wouldn’t be seemly, would it?”
    Her mother fingered the necklace that had been a gift from a queen. “ Ma fille , your violet hood is more flattering than any gem. Only be certain to let the King see your so lovely hair.” Jacquetta combed the abundant masses of silver-gold locks that rippled down to her daughter’s waist. “Angel hair, soft as petals of the lily.” She met Bess’s eyes in the mirror. “They say the King,