The Tudor Rose

“A vivid picture of a courageous woman and a truly royal queen.”

—
Baltimore Sun

“There is a particular fascination when a novelist can transmute names and vaguely remembered dates into a story of flesh and blood people.”

—NY Herald Tribune

“Another Elizabeth! Her brothers murdered by the uncle who usurped the throne, she made his death the price of her marriage to Henry Tudor, which united England and bore Henry VIII.”

—
Literary Guild of America Recommends

“The latest of this author's portraits of England's royal ladies…as absorbing as its predecessors.”

—
Booklist

“Miss Barnes makes her story come alive…very skillfully has she drawn the picture of royal sorrow and self-sacrifice.”

—
Christian Science Monitor

“This is a magnificent portrait of a Great Queen.”

—
Boston Herald

“In this fascinating historical novel, the author tells the romantic story of Elizabeth of York, wife of the first Tudor King and mother of Henry VIII.”

—
Sunday Telegraph

“Was Richard the Third responsible for the death of the young princes in the Tower? Did one of them escape? Throughout the vivid narrative the question keeps on recurring, heightens the dramatic events of the historical background and adds depth to the characterization.”

—
Daily Telegraph

Copyright © 1953, 2009 by Margaret Campbell Barnes

Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover image: Portrait of Eleonora di Toledo by the studio of Agnolo Bronzino
© Bridgeman Art Library

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

Some of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

www.sourcebooks.com

Originally published in 1953.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Barnes, Margaret Campbell

The Tudor rose : the story of the queen who united a kingdom and birthed a dynasty / by Margaret Campbell Barnes.

p. cm.

1. Elizabeth, Queen, consort of Henry VII, King of England, 1465-1503--Fiction. 2. Queens--Great Britain--Fiction. 3. Great Britain--History--Wars of the Roses, 1455-1485--Fiction. 4. Richard III, King of England, 1452-1485--Fiction. 5. Henry VII, King of England, 1457-1509--Fiction. 6. Great Britain--History--Richard III, 1483-1485--Fiction. 7. Great Britain--History--Henry VII, 1485-1509--Fiction. I. Title.

PR6003.A72T83 2009

823'.912--dc22

2009025672

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Brief Gaudy Hour

My Lady of Cleves

King's Fool

For Ethel and Kit
And All That Greenways Stood For

In Plantagenet and Tudor times so many parents called their children after royal personages that it gave rise to a confusing repetition of names. I have, therefore, altered the Christian names of a few of my minor characters. Also, in order to simplify the story, I have throughout the book referred to some characters by the titles they originally had, although higher ones may later have been conferred upon them.

My thanks are due to the librarian and staff of the County Seely Library, Newport, Isle of Wight, for their patience in producing all possible reference books on the period.

M.C.B.

Yarmouth, Isle of Wight

A
LONG-DRAWN SIGH OF feminine ecstasy filled the room as the white velvet was lifted from its wrappings. Its folds hung heavily across a lady-of-the-bedchamber's outstretched arms so that every jewelled rose and fleur-de-lys stood out and sparkled in the morning sunlight. Other women, on their knees, reached eager hands to spread the embroidered train. Young Elizabeth of York, standing in her shift and kirtle, shivered with excitement as the dressmaker from France slipped the lovely material over her shoulders; for, princess or no princess, it is not every day that a girl tries on her wedding-dress.

“Oh, how beautiful!” breathed her English attendants.

“
Comme elle est ravissante
!” echoed the dressmaker and her underlings.

Because she was not sure whether such spontaneous compliments referred to the dress or to herself, Elizabeth, the King's daughter, called for a mirror.

“But, Bess, it makes you look so
different
!” complained her younger sister, Cicely, who had been allowed to watch.

Different indeed, confirmed the metal mirror. Where there had been a slip of a girl who still studied her lesson books, there now stood a stately stranger who might one day become Queen of France. The slender immaturity of her body made her look quite tall, the excited colour in her cheeks became her. Being a Plantagenet, Elizabeth had always been casually aware that she was beautiful—but never, surely, so beautiful as this! “Should there not be a veil?” she asked, overcome by sudden shyness.

“King Louis himself will be sending it,” replied her aunt, the Duchess of Buckingham. “An heirloom of fabulous Cluny lace.”

“And when I pass through Paris to Notre-Dame my hair will be unbound?”

“
Bien entendu,”
nodded the French dressmaker. “To signify that your Grace comes virgin to our Dauphin.”

“Please—please—let us see
now
how it will look,” begged Cicely from her stool by the window.

Elizabeth smiled at her, understanding as always. She realized that whilst all the others were interested in her as a bride-to-be, Cicely's first terror of parting had been born of seeing her standing there like a stately stranger, and that with hair unbound she would seem again the loving elder sister whom Cicely had always known. At a sign from their mistress two of the younger women loosed the Princess's headdress, letting her hair fall to her waist in a cascade of corn-coloured glory.

“With so much gold, child, you scarcely need a crown!” murmured Mattie, her old nurse, with tears of affection in her eyes.