The Yorkist Rose
Inheritence
York, England.
“The Duke of York my lady.” The woman curtsied as she introduced the man Cecily Neville thought she knew so well. She almost fell back into the chair as the face so distance to her entered, Warwick following.
“Warwick, where is my husband the Duke?”
“Dead my lady.”
“Edward?” The young man knelt before his mother kissing her hand, George, now eleven and Richard no eight stood in the door way.
“Lady mother, his death will be avenged, of that I promise you.”
“Stand boy. You are a Duke and not a child anymore.”
“Duke of York, Earl of March, Earl of Ulster, Earl of Cambridge.” Warwick repeated the list.
“Surely only if the king grants such.”
“You are Duke by right and Earl by merit, for the rest a king gone mad is of no use and a woman holds not the privilege nor right.”
Cecily Neville was stood by the window looking onto the gardens. “Margaret, help your brothers pack. Edward, make yourself comfortable, for this is yours. George and Richard will flee to Dublin, it is no longer safe for them.” She waited for the children to leave before she continued. “Warwick, my husband wanted only justice, for a reasonable regency in King Henry's lack of health, he was denied, he then wished only a woman would not command, he was killed, my son will not strive to achieve the same. My son is no Duke, no Earl. My son is a King.” Her eyes looked over Edward. “Mark my words, my son will be King and that Anjou woman, she'll bow to York, she'll bow to my husband, to a king not insane, to a man and not a puppet.”
“To York!” It was Warwick who lead, Cecily who followed and Edward who remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
The cool breeze that in past times had seemed relaxing only fuelled the pain more. Edward of York looked over the lands that were his own, Margaret of Anjou had reinstated them as a peace offering, his eyes looked over all, all he had seen before yet seemed so different. His hand rested on his back, skin touched skin for his doublet lay on the bed inside, Warwick had explained the pains of battle as though washing would cure all. The blood had gone, the pain had not. His muscles hurt, the wounds were deep but dressed in tied linen. He knew not what he wanted, to be a Duke was not his aim, none of this he had asked for. He recalled a time just several years before at the start f this cruel war when he had been taken to a small house in London and cared for by peasants, thrown from a carriage with a raging fever and left for dead. Those commons had seemed carefree, worry free unphased by all his problems. They had not been told they would one day be king, they had not been told they had to fight for it. They had not watched their family be executed.
In honesty, Edward of York could think of nothing he wanted less than to be King of this country of sin, he didn’t want such attention, he didn’t want to pain but he wanted to fight that bitch. Margaret of Anjou. A woman who wouldn't learn her place.
The exhale was softer than he had expected.
“Edward?”
He turned to see his brother George stood in looking out with him, for how long the child had been there he was unsure, he knew the purpose of his calling. “I want to say goodbye, when we next meet you might be king.”
“Or I may be dead for I will not be king.”
“But Lady mother-”
“Lady mother is mad and plagued by delusions, they can only hurt her.”
“Your words will only hurt her.”
“I will not be king.” He turned and walked into the castle walking the corridors to his chambers, George on his tale till the last moment. He heard the child's feet retreat, he was finally alone for the first time since his fathers death, a time to recall to allow the pain to wash over him in one big flood. Only for moments before his mother entered without announcement. “Lady mother.” He hadn't bothered to look up.
“Stand when I speak to you boy.”
With a slight grumble he got to his feet and supported his back on the post of a grand poster bed, only to be sent off balance by his mothers hand, a skin splitting force. “You will not disgrace me as you have.”
“Mothe-”
“Lady mother Edward, Lady mother.”
“No, I am Duke of York, you are but the wife of a traitor.”
“You are barely his son.”
The words brought silence to all, Edward stared at her with clear disappointment. She retracted her comment. “You are the Duke of York, by rights but my boy, you could be King by right.”
“I do not wish to be king, too much blood has been shed for this title, a title I wished not to have.”
“Your fathers blood would have been shed in vane.”
“I will not fight-”
Another slap, harder. “You’ll do as I say Edward for I am your mother and for you I fought, for your breath for your body for all you are and will become, for you I cried, for you I bled and for you I sacrificed, if you do not do as I say then you may as well count yourself a peasant boy and work the fields for I can make you illegitimate in but a second, you will be king or die trying and you will not disgrace this family and its honour.” Her words branded and she left.
Edward took up the sword Warwick had placed in his chambers, his fathers sword lifting the heavy metal looking at the blade, his mind was made. No matter what his mother could say, no matter what she could do. He didn't want to be king.
“The Duke of York my lady.” The woman curtsied as she introduced the man Cecily Neville thought she knew so well. She almost fell back into the chair as the face so distance to her entered, Warwick following.
“Warwick, where is my husband the Duke?”
“Dead my lady.”
“Edward?” The young man knelt before his mother kissing her hand, George, now eleven and Richard no eight stood in the door way.
“Lady mother, his death will be avenged, of that I promise you.”
“Stand boy. You are a Duke and not a child anymore.”
“Duke of York, Earl of March, Earl of Ulster, Earl of Cambridge.” Warwick repeated the list.
“Surely only if the king grants such.”
“You are Duke by right and Earl by merit, for the rest a king gone mad is of no use and a woman holds not the privilege nor right.”
Cecily Neville was stood by the window looking onto the gardens. “Margaret, help your brothers pack. Edward, make yourself comfortable, for this is yours. George and Richard will flee to Dublin, it is no longer safe for them.” She waited for the children to leave before she continued. “Warwick, my husband wanted only justice, for a reasonable regency in King Henry's lack of health, he was denied, he then wished only a woman would not command, he was killed, my son will not strive to achieve the same. My son is no Duke, no Earl. My son is a King.” Her eyes looked over Edward. “Mark my words, my son will be King and that Anjou woman, she'll bow to York, she'll bow to my husband, to a king not insane, to a man and not a puppet.”
“To York!” It was Warwick who lead, Cecily who followed and Edward who remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
The cool breeze that in past times had seemed relaxing only fuelled the pain more. Edward of York looked over the lands that were his own, Margaret of Anjou had reinstated them as a peace offering, his eyes looked over all, all he had seen before yet seemed so different. His hand rested on his back, skin touched skin for his doublet lay on the bed inside, Warwick had explained the pains of battle as though washing would cure all. The blood had gone, the pain had not. His muscles hurt, the wounds were deep but dressed in tied linen. He knew not what he wanted, to be a Duke was not his aim, none of this he had asked for. He recalled a time just several years before at the start f this cruel war when he had been taken to a small house in London and cared for by peasants, thrown from a carriage with a raging fever and left for dead. Those commons had seemed carefree, worry free unphased by all his problems. They had not been told they would one day be king, they had not been told they had to fight for it. They had not watched their family be executed.
In honesty, Edward of York could think of nothing he wanted less than to be King of this country of sin, he didn’t want such attention, he didn’t want to pain but he wanted to fight that bitch. Margaret of Anjou. A woman who wouldn't learn her place.
The exhale was softer than he had expected.
“Edward?”
He turned to see his brother George stood in looking out with him, for how long the child had been there he was unsure, he knew the purpose of his calling. “I want to say goodbye, when we next meet you might be king.”
“Or I may be dead for I will not be king.”
“But Lady mother-”
“Lady mother is mad and plagued by delusions, they can only hurt her.”
“Your words will only hurt her.”
“I will not be king.” He turned and walked into the castle walking the corridors to his chambers, George on his tale till the last moment. He heard the child's feet retreat, he was finally alone for the first time since his fathers death, a time to recall to allow the pain to wash over him in one big flood. Only for moments before his mother entered without announcement. “Lady mother.” He hadn't bothered to look up.
“Stand when I speak to you boy.”
With a slight grumble he got to his feet and supported his back on the post of a grand poster bed, only to be sent off balance by his mothers hand, a skin splitting force. “You will not disgrace me as you have.”
“Mothe-”
“Lady mother Edward, Lady mother.”
“No, I am Duke of York, you are but the wife of a traitor.”
“You are barely his son.”
The words brought silence to all, Edward stared at her with clear disappointment. She retracted her comment. “You are the Duke of York, by rights but my boy, you could be King by right.”
“I do not wish to be king, too much blood has been shed for this title, a title I wished not to have.”
“Your fathers blood would have been shed in vane.”
“I will not fight-”
Another slap, harder. “You’ll do as I say Edward for I am your mother and for you I fought, for your breath for your body for all you are and will become, for you I cried, for you I bled and for you I sacrificed, if you do not do as I say then you may as well count yourself a peasant boy and work the fields for I can make you illegitimate in but a second, you will be king or die trying and you will not disgrace this family and its honour.” Her words branded and she left.
Edward took up the sword Warwick had placed in his chambers, his fathers sword lifting the heavy metal looking at the blade, his mind was made. No matter what his mother could say, no matter what she could do. He didn't want to be king.