The Yorkist Rose
Twenty Five
May 1482.
“Your Grace!” Hasting’s was the first to run into the room’s where Elizabeth and Edward sat, both in silence, both reading different works. He looked up first, only for the following footsteps and sound of urgency as Cecily Neville followed, tears in her eyes.
“My Lord Hasting’s, lady Mother, what is it?” Edward rose, kneeling before his mother accepting her one handed blessing before rising, towering over the pair. Hasting’s offered a worried look and cleared his throat.
“Your daughter Mary sire.”
Edward looked to Elizabeth in panic, she rose and stood by him, for the first time in month’s their hands touched, she gripped his fingers. “What about her?”
“Edward.” Elizabeth whispered holding onto him.
“She is at Greenwich sire, ill.”
Panic stricken the king moved away from his wife ordering for his coats to be fetched, hers too. “Have my horse ready hasting’s, mother, you are to ride behind.” He took Elizabeth in his arms and kissed her head “Wife it will be okay.”
“I think you are convincing yourself not I.”
“I am convincing no one.” He looked sad, his eyes dull. As he wrapped himself – refusing assistance- in his cloak and hurried away ahead of her mounting his horse with little trouble she couldn’t help but think how cruel life was, it had been just weeks ago her children and the royal couple had celebrated the king’s fortieth birthday, talking of futures and times to come. It seemed now that this seemed unlikely. Elizabeth was helped to mount and rode with Cecily Neville, who for once showed the queen comfort reaching out to the woman.
It was around an hour after Edward the women arrived, Cecily Neville rested a hand on her son’s shoulder as he sat holding his second daughter, the young girl crying, trying desperately to keep breathing as her father tried just as desperately to comfort her. “What has she eaten?”
“She can stomach broth, that’s all sire, we tried all but she cannot.”
“My poor girl.” He stroked her blond hair, her blue eyes light and pained, her breaths quiet music, her tears wetted her father’s sleeve. He checked her temperature, tried to keep her warm. Elizabeth for half the night sat by his side, holding him for support, stroking her daughters forehead. She knew, from her mother, that she had to be strong. Right or wrong, it was the father who needed his wife’s support. “Edward, you should get some air.”
“No-“
“Father, please.” Mary’s words were whispers, she tried to smile, her eyes closing. “You should.”
With a sigh, and reluctance he stood kissed his daughters forehead, held his wife gently and turned leaving Elizabeth watched the man she once again loved stalk away, she saw him wipe his eyes when he thought he was out of sight before he went outside and sat by the river, watching the water thinking of nothing but how he wished his daughter to live. He prayed silently.
“Your Grace?” The man spoke quietly, Edward was resting in a private chamber, he had been stopped from seeing young Mary by his mother, the situation apparently was not appropriate and he should leave the physicians to their jobs, he was useless now. He sat, lazily moving chess pieces around a board which meant nothing to him. Hasting’s had been trying to engage the kings mind for hours, to no avail. Edward turned and looked toward the physician who offered a look of sorrow.
“When?”
“Ten minutes since.”
Edward stood, shakily taking a deep breath he nodded. “I wish to see her.”
“Edward.” It was Hasting’s he stood next to the king, his hand resting on the kings arm. “Do you think it wise?”
“I must see her, know it is true myself.”
“Of course.”
The men walked together, Hasting’s hand still attached to the king’s arm, lightly stroking his bicep, for comfort more than affection. Cecily Neville separated the men, giving Hasting’s a look of disapproval for his close proximity to her son, she walked with the king into the chambers, now darkened and lit by a single candle. Edward stopped by the bed, fell silent for a moment, no one spoke. Edward’s hand rubbed his chest, the pain was bad, across his chest and down his arm, his eyes closed for a moment, he fought for breath. “My queen will arrange the funeral. I must sleep.” With that, Hasting’s caught the king, his p-physician and mother working quickly to help him stand, the walk to a bed was slow. Elizabeth was by the king’s side, it was only Cecily who could say that she, close to her son, had heard his heart flutter before he had slipped into a state of sleep.
“Your Grace!” Hasting’s was the first to run into the room’s where Elizabeth and Edward sat, both in silence, both reading different works. He looked up first, only for the following footsteps and sound of urgency as Cecily Neville followed, tears in her eyes.
“My Lord Hasting’s, lady Mother, what is it?” Edward rose, kneeling before his mother accepting her one handed blessing before rising, towering over the pair. Hasting’s offered a worried look and cleared his throat.
“Your daughter Mary sire.”
Edward looked to Elizabeth in panic, she rose and stood by him, for the first time in month’s their hands touched, she gripped his fingers. “What about her?”
“Edward.” Elizabeth whispered holding onto him.
“She is at Greenwich sire, ill.”
Panic stricken the king moved away from his wife ordering for his coats to be fetched, hers too. “Have my horse ready hasting’s, mother, you are to ride behind.” He took Elizabeth in his arms and kissed her head “Wife it will be okay.”
“I think you are convincing yourself not I.”
“I am convincing no one.” He looked sad, his eyes dull. As he wrapped himself – refusing assistance- in his cloak and hurried away ahead of her mounting his horse with little trouble she couldn’t help but think how cruel life was, it had been just weeks ago her children and the royal couple had celebrated the king’s fortieth birthday, talking of futures and times to come. It seemed now that this seemed unlikely. Elizabeth was helped to mount and rode with Cecily Neville, who for once showed the queen comfort reaching out to the woman.
It was around an hour after Edward the women arrived, Cecily Neville rested a hand on her son’s shoulder as he sat holding his second daughter, the young girl crying, trying desperately to keep breathing as her father tried just as desperately to comfort her. “What has she eaten?”
“She can stomach broth, that’s all sire, we tried all but she cannot.”
“My poor girl.” He stroked her blond hair, her blue eyes light and pained, her breaths quiet music, her tears wetted her father’s sleeve. He checked her temperature, tried to keep her warm. Elizabeth for half the night sat by his side, holding him for support, stroking her daughters forehead. She knew, from her mother, that she had to be strong. Right or wrong, it was the father who needed his wife’s support. “Edward, you should get some air.”
“No-“
“Father, please.” Mary’s words were whispers, she tried to smile, her eyes closing. “You should.”
With a sigh, and reluctance he stood kissed his daughters forehead, held his wife gently and turned leaving Elizabeth watched the man she once again loved stalk away, she saw him wipe his eyes when he thought he was out of sight before he went outside and sat by the river, watching the water thinking of nothing but how he wished his daughter to live. He prayed silently.
“Your Grace?” The man spoke quietly, Edward was resting in a private chamber, he had been stopped from seeing young Mary by his mother, the situation apparently was not appropriate and he should leave the physicians to their jobs, he was useless now. He sat, lazily moving chess pieces around a board which meant nothing to him. Hasting’s had been trying to engage the kings mind for hours, to no avail. Edward turned and looked toward the physician who offered a look of sorrow.
“When?”
“Ten minutes since.”
Edward stood, shakily taking a deep breath he nodded. “I wish to see her.”
“Edward.” It was Hasting’s he stood next to the king, his hand resting on the kings arm. “Do you think it wise?”
“I must see her, know it is true myself.”
“Of course.”
The men walked together, Hasting’s hand still attached to the king’s arm, lightly stroking his bicep, for comfort more than affection. Cecily Neville separated the men, giving Hasting’s a look of disapproval for his close proximity to her son, she walked with the king into the chambers, now darkened and lit by a single candle. Edward stopped by the bed, fell silent for a moment, no one spoke. Edward’s hand rubbed his chest, the pain was bad, across his chest and down his arm, his eyes closed for a moment, he fought for breath. “My queen will arrange the funeral. I must sleep.” With that, Hasting’s caught the king, his p-physician and mother working quickly to help him stand, the walk to a bed was slow. Elizabeth was by the king’s side, it was only Cecily who could say that she, close to her son, had heard his heart flutter before he had slipped into a state of sleep.
♠ ♠ ♠
This was based from the suggestion made by Mary Clive in her book, Edward's biography, this sun of York where she suggested that Edward had been ill for several years and one thing which could have affected his health was that when mary died, it is quite possible the king suffered a non-fatal heart attack.