The Yorkist Rose
The Roots of a Dynasty
Rouen Normandy, 1442
The air was warm, the hour late and the night dark, the streets were still filled with people. Fires burned slowly, commons drank and spoke in hushed tones. Tonight was to have, in any other circumstance, been a time of joy and of celebration for the birth of a child of a Duke was something to be celebrated, yet this night was one of mixed tone, for the rumours were a negative sort, they damped the name of the House of York, they blackened the reputation of one woman and brought pity to the feet of a man.
“A son, the York whore has born a son!”
“A bastard boy!”
“At least it is a boy, can be put to work in the fields! For I could use a boy for my crops!”
“This is true, a boy can labour but alas the Dukes dreams are shattered.”
“That whore, the poor Duke.”
As the common's spoke Cecily Neville, Duchess of York held in her arms a tiny sleeping baby, one she wrapped in fine blankets and dressed in a gown walked to the chapel in secret, her husband at her side as the poor infant made no noises. The priest worked fast at his baptism, Edward Plantagenet, Son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York and loyal subject to his majesty, King Henry the sixth of England.
By the morning the crowds of commons had lessened, though most sat eagerly for the news of the child, the question had been raised of the boys legitimacy. It was the young hours when Richard Duke of York stepped into view, the baby held in his arms only to confirm the child as his own, confirming the boys name and retreating the child from view and the elements which could harm a fragile creature.
***
1443
Anne Plantagenet raced down the winding corridors of the Norman castle toward her father almost knocking the man over as she raced into him, a small child of a little over a year in age resting in her arms. The Duke took up his son holding him kissing the boys tender cheek “My Edward, my son.” He pressed the child’s head against his chest stroking his soft locks gently. “Anne whatever is it?”
“Lady mother-” The girls words were forced between pants.
“Is she ill?” He handed the child over to a servant who carried the boy soothing his cry as he screamed for his father. “Tell me Anne” he ignored his son's call “Is your mother alive? Are there complications-”
“My Lord” The midwife, a woman with ginger hair and wearing a dress white in colour, sleeves rolled up and blood covered carried a small child in her hands “A healthy boy my Lord.”
The Dukes relief was obvious as he looked at the child calling the servant over taking his older son back in his arms ensuring he could see the baby. “Edward, your younger brother and your own heir until you have issue, I shall name him Edmund. Tell my wife he is to be called Edmund.”
“My Lord.” The midwife offered a curtsy before retreating to the Lady Cecily's chambers Anne Plantagenet fast on her trail.
The baptism held just days later saw the crowds of commons and nobles, including the presence of King Henry and Queen Margaret. Rouen was filled with voices of singing, of cheers and of merriness and joy, never was such a colourful day seen. Quite the contrast of the occasion seen just a year before.
***
Dublin, Ireland. 1449.
“Edward!” A young boy of just seven sat in front of a window looking over the gardens, his brother sat beside him. He turned and acknowledged his sisters, Anne and Margaret looked, impatient. “Lady mother needs you, you must fetch linen, the baby is stuck.” Anne lifted Edmund handing his small figure to a man, one of the Dukes chamber servants for the women were busy in attending the Duchess. Edward hurried behind the girls carrying linen and muslin the girls carrying buckets of water.
The screams scared him, his eyes closed he followed his sisters handing the linen over to the midwife who barely regarded him. Anne covered her brothers eyes as she hurried him to their mothers side, Cecily's hand touched his own pulling him onto the bed she stroked his face. “My boy, Edward you're to listen to your father.” The child simply nodded, petrified as the midwife dictated the situation. It was minutes later a crying broke the tension and a baby, wrapped in linen was placed in his arms.
“Lady Mother?”
The woman, weak, sent him to find his father and inform the man of the good news. George Plantagenet, third in line to the York Dukedom had been born.
***
Fotheringay, England, 1552
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick had come to the castle to visit his cousin, unaware of her pregnancy, let alone her confinement. The Duke of York had greeted the young man with eager enthusiasm, he had explained of Cecily's labour and introduced the man to his eldest son, a handsome young ten year old titled the Earl of March and his younger brother, Edmund Earl of Rutland. The boys were a splendid pair held the hand of young George Plantagenet, a playful three year old whom both boys were eager to entertain with games of swordplay, each held a wooden sword crafted as a gift from the King himself so he had heard from the Duke. “My Lord, you do not mind my infringing on you at such a delicate time?”
The Duke had been surprised to hear such a thing, insulted almost and had proceeded to have his girls, Anne, Elizabeth and Margaret show Warwick around the grounds as the boys were too busy playing the part of soldiers, each wearing a small white rose upon their breast, picked and attached by Warwick himself. The Duke had heard his daughters were doing a fine job of showing the man around the castle and its grounds the news came shortly before the news of a fourth son, one laying in his arms. He walked into the grounds carrying the child, the boys playing stopped, Edward was the first to speak. “My Lord Father?”
“I have another son, I shall call him Richard.”
The air was warm, the hour late and the night dark, the streets were still filled with people. Fires burned slowly, commons drank and spoke in hushed tones. Tonight was to have, in any other circumstance, been a time of joy and of celebration for the birth of a child of a Duke was something to be celebrated, yet this night was one of mixed tone, for the rumours were a negative sort, they damped the name of the House of York, they blackened the reputation of one woman and brought pity to the feet of a man.
“A son, the York whore has born a son!”
“A bastard boy!”
“At least it is a boy, can be put to work in the fields! For I could use a boy for my crops!”
“This is true, a boy can labour but alas the Dukes dreams are shattered.”
“That whore, the poor Duke.”
As the common's spoke Cecily Neville, Duchess of York held in her arms a tiny sleeping baby, one she wrapped in fine blankets and dressed in a gown walked to the chapel in secret, her husband at her side as the poor infant made no noises. The priest worked fast at his baptism, Edward Plantagenet, Son of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York and loyal subject to his majesty, King Henry the sixth of England.
By the morning the crowds of commons had lessened, though most sat eagerly for the news of the child, the question had been raised of the boys legitimacy. It was the young hours when Richard Duke of York stepped into view, the baby held in his arms only to confirm the child as his own, confirming the boys name and retreating the child from view and the elements which could harm a fragile creature.
***
1443
Anne Plantagenet raced down the winding corridors of the Norman castle toward her father almost knocking the man over as she raced into him, a small child of a little over a year in age resting in her arms. The Duke took up his son holding him kissing the boys tender cheek “My Edward, my son.” He pressed the child’s head against his chest stroking his soft locks gently. “Anne whatever is it?”
“Lady mother-” The girls words were forced between pants.
“Is she ill?” He handed the child over to a servant who carried the boy soothing his cry as he screamed for his father. “Tell me Anne” he ignored his son's call “Is your mother alive? Are there complications-”
“My Lord” The midwife, a woman with ginger hair and wearing a dress white in colour, sleeves rolled up and blood covered carried a small child in her hands “A healthy boy my Lord.”
The Dukes relief was obvious as he looked at the child calling the servant over taking his older son back in his arms ensuring he could see the baby. “Edward, your younger brother and your own heir until you have issue, I shall name him Edmund. Tell my wife he is to be called Edmund.”
“My Lord.” The midwife offered a curtsy before retreating to the Lady Cecily's chambers Anne Plantagenet fast on her trail.
The baptism held just days later saw the crowds of commons and nobles, including the presence of King Henry and Queen Margaret. Rouen was filled with voices of singing, of cheers and of merriness and joy, never was such a colourful day seen. Quite the contrast of the occasion seen just a year before.
***
Dublin, Ireland. 1449.
“Edward!” A young boy of just seven sat in front of a window looking over the gardens, his brother sat beside him. He turned and acknowledged his sisters, Anne and Margaret looked, impatient. “Lady mother needs you, you must fetch linen, the baby is stuck.” Anne lifted Edmund handing his small figure to a man, one of the Dukes chamber servants for the women were busy in attending the Duchess. Edward hurried behind the girls carrying linen and muslin the girls carrying buckets of water.
The screams scared him, his eyes closed he followed his sisters handing the linen over to the midwife who barely regarded him. Anne covered her brothers eyes as she hurried him to their mothers side, Cecily's hand touched his own pulling him onto the bed she stroked his face. “My boy, Edward you're to listen to your father.” The child simply nodded, petrified as the midwife dictated the situation. It was minutes later a crying broke the tension and a baby, wrapped in linen was placed in his arms.
“Lady Mother?”
The woman, weak, sent him to find his father and inform the man of the good news. George Plantagenet, third in line to the York Dukedom had been born.
***
Fotheringay, England, 1552
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick had come to the castle to visit his cousin, unaware of her pregnancy, let alone her confinement. The Duke of York had greeted the young man with eager enthusiasm, he had explained of Cecily's labour and introduced the man to his eldest son, a handsome young ten year old titled the Earl of March and his younger brother, Edmund Earl of Rutland. The boys were a splendid pair held the hand of young George Plantagenet, a playful three year old whom both boys were eager to entertain with games of swordplay, each held a wooden sword crafted as a gift from the King himself so he had heard from the Duke. “My Lord, you do not mind my infringing on you at such a delicate time?”
The Duke had been surprised to hear such a thing, insulted almost and had proceeded to have his girls, Anne, Elizabeth and Margaret show Warwick around the grounds as the boys were too busy playing the part of soldiers, each wearing a small white rose upon their breast, picked and attached by Warwick himself. The Duke had heard his daughters were doing a fine job of showing the man around the castle and its grounds the news came shortly before the news of a fourth son, one laying in his arms. He walked into the grounds carrying the child, the boys playing stopped, Edward was the first to speak. “My Lord Father?”
“I have another son, I shall call him Richard.”