The Rose Bargain (The Rose Bargain #1)

Mud and blood streaked King Edward's face when the woman first emerged from the tree line. His sword hung limp at his side. For a single moment, he paused—then fell to his knees.

Rumors of the Others' involvement had circulated since the moment a sword first plunged through the belly of a banner knight from the Midlands, but denial is easy to swallow. Surely there were plausible explanations for the sudden shifts in weather, or the flocks of sheep found skinned and headless. But those whose grandmothers had taught them never to enter the woods without a sprig of holly in their pocket knew the truth. They had known for months, for decades, for generations.

Like the gods who meddled in the Trojan War, the Others played with mortal conflicts for amusement.

That was what they were called back then. The Others.

Both Lancaster and York claimed legitimate succession to the Plantagenet line. But a country cannot have two kings, and as neither side was willing to concede the throne, banners were raised and blades were sharpened.

The war was brutal, as all wars are—pointless and cruel. Within the first year, the soil of England ran wet with blood. Yet the war did not end. Like the beat of drums leading farmers to slaughter, it marched on.

It wasn't until the Battle of Barnet that the tide truly turned. Every schoolchild on the island knows the story. It is carved into marble stones outside Buckingham Palace, set upright for all to read. The story of the day Queen Moryen saved all of England.

It went like this.

The battlefield was burning, and Edward was desperate.

Whether it was the scent of desperation or the smell of blood that called her remains a matter of debate, but what matters is that she came.

They say the entire battlefield went still as she strode out into the fray. Her bone-white gown trailed gauze behind her, catching leaves and drawing them in her wake. She had onyx hair and eyes even blacker than that. Her skin was ghostly pale, her sharp features so beautiful that looking at her felt like a physical blow. Some men bent double and retched, unable to bear the sight of her.

She walked across the battlefield in slippers, slowly, as though she knew they would all wait for her.

Edward dropped to his knees before her.

"Stand," she commanded, and he did. "I come to help."

Tears cut tracks through the dirt on his face as he nodded, wordless gratitude swelling within him.

She leaned toward him, her perfect profile silhouetted against the ashy smoke of the battlefield, and whispered into his ear.

The conversation was brief; whatever she offered, he readily agreed. Then she pulled a dagger from her belt and slashed his palm. The bargain was made.

On the other side of the clearing, Henry VI dropped dead.

England had a new king. Decisively. Edward IV.

The Lancasters went home, and the York camp torches burned all night as the victory celebration raged.

But the strange woman did not watch them. She was already on the road in a carriage pulled by snow-white horses. With a coronation to plan, there was no time to waste.

Twenty-four hours and one minute later, Edward IV was dead as well. He closed his eyes and fell to the ground as if a string had been cut.

She had promised Edward he would be king, but she never specified for how long.

And so Queen Moryen of the Others took the throne at Eltham Palace, a serene smile on her face and a crown on her head.

All who raised a hand or sword against her found themselves suddenly unable to move, as if the act itself was forbidden.

The war was over, and Britain had a new queen. Immortal. Uncrossable. Inevitable.

Now