The Laʃt White Roʃe

Wife:

His face was so close to hers that all he saw was her broad smile. He could feel her breath on his cheek, and wondered whether it signified mirth or relief. He was equally confused about his own emotions: glad was he that his old anxieties had gone away and all was apparently resolved, yet his heart was still thumping, and he felt a nervous chuckle bubbling up in his chest.

“Not ever...” he mumbled. His eyes drifted shut as she kissed him again. That nervous chuckle chose this moment to manifest itself, and he hummed cheerfully against her lips.

He had no idea what to do next. They had spent the first two years of their marriage living, essentially, as brother and sister, and anything else was down a path untrod. And it probably wasn’t a path they were planning to walk all the way down so early in the morning.

“So,” he said, when they parted again, “it’s decided, then?”

Lady Anne:

Home. The little boy had travelled everywhere now from Thomas Grey’s marquisate in the south-west to the Neville heartland of the north-east; he had crossed the length and span of the country, but only now had someone explicitly told him that he was home. And yet the significance of the word would have passed him by had it not been for the sincerity with which his aunt said it. It was a gentle, hushed word, yet one with all the warmth and fullness of a mother’s embrace, or a cup of sweet posset. Oh yes, he could definitely get used to calling this place home.

Lips split into another grin as her hand brushed his cheek. He would have drawn away as though ticklish, were she not fixing him to the spot with her gaze. Edward watched her as her eyes scanned his face, feeling as though he truly were a marvel that God Himself had fashioned from clay.

He nodded, trying his best not to appear confused. “Yes, lady aunt.” A good if muddled compromise, he thought: she would be both his lady and his aunt for now.

The reminder that he had a cousin was enough to quell any embarrassment he had about his aunt’s title, however, for his little head was soon bubbling with a whole stream of questions. It was a test of wills not to pour them all out at once! But he could not keep his excitement contained completely, for his tendency to bounce on the balls of his feet betrayed him.

“Yes, oh, yes, I will! We shall be the best of friends!” There was pride mixed with his elation, for what better friend could the other Edward have than cousin Warwick? “Do we look alike?” And then the most important question for a growing boy: “Am I taller than him?”

{{ Apologies for being away for so long. (Blame my impending dissertation deadline and other final year things...) I’m still a bit swamped with work, but I’m going to try to spend a bit more time here.

If we’ve already got a thread going, I’ll get to replies asap. Otherwise, I’m keen to start afresh with some new things, so let me know if you’re keen to plot! }}

Danielle:

The touch of her lips upon his cheek was enough to turn his shy smile into the broadest of grins. On impulse, his hand released hers and moved to rest upon the line of her jaw before he leaned in to kiss her on the lips...

But within the space of a heartbeat he had pulled back and retracted his hand, as though he had done the wrong thing completely. “Sorry,” he spluttered. His grin faltered, though no amount of apologising could completely wipe the smile from his face. “I should have said...” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I meant to say first... that I love you too.”

Mary:

Her first reply drew no response from Edward save a nonchalant sniff and roll of the eyes. It was the kind of thing he could not do in front of his pedantic tutors, but that lent him a self-perceived air of superiority when in the presence of his pedantic cousin.

“But I am the son of a duke,” he replied with the same self-confidence. Now clearly ‘twas greater to be a king than a duke, but ‘twas also greater to be a son than a daughter. And so Edward won. Obviously. 

“I do not flee from princesses.” A goose-feather pen was lifted from the desk and raised like a sword, aimed below Mary’s chin. It was, mayhap, too flimsy to run her through, but it might still prove a threat to one who was ticklish! “Princesses flee from me.”

Warbeck:

It was perhaps for the best that Edward missed the double-meaning in the pretender’s words. He had, indeed, drawn the old king’s sword, hoping in vain that straight lines and sharp edges would be easier to sketch than a horse or one of the household pages. Yet he had never drawn a sword from its sheath to claim his heritage, never had the opportunity to campaign for what was rightfully his.

But was it rightfully his? Some would say the crown that so many men had tried to place upon his head really belonged to the man downstairs.

He was not sure he minded terribly. Kingship, as he remembered from his childhood in the company of his two uncles, meant mornings taken up with paperwork - a sealed letter patent to this lord, a closed warrant to a household knight somewhere else... 

“Yes...” His reply was uncertain, his brows furrowed. “Drawing the sword was fun.” The earl grinned happily at the memory, but the smile never quite reached his eyes, for he was not sure whether this was really his memory or not. Had he really sketched the old king’s sword as a boy? Or was he making it up in his head, prompted by a clever pretender?

“I wish I could see you properly,” he eventually said with more cheer in his voice, shifting his body where he still lay on the floor to see if he could get a better look through the hole. “Then I could draw you! And I could see if you really look like m-me.”

An extract from a letter from John Pulman to Sir Robert Plumpton,which relays news about the recent trials of Perkin Warbeck and the Earl of Warwick, written on the 21st Nov 1499. (Warbeck had been tried the day before.)

Danielle:

He followed her lead without hesitation, finding surety in her grip as she squeezed his hand. 

“You... you looked so happy with them,” he murmured, “... with the boys. Motherhood would suit you, I think.” He made an effort to look up into her eyes, but shyness made them drop back to their hands, and he entwined his fingers more tightly with hers. “I would love to see you that happy again, Danie.” 

He looked up again, offered her a nervous smile, and slowly leaned forwards to plant a soft kiss to her cheek. It was simple, childlike, as though he were a young novice in a priory. Or Greyfriars Abbey, he thinks, where the boys came from. Yet what might have passed for a chaste kiss of peace brought him little peace of mind; whether through nerves or something else he could not describe, he could feel his heart thumping.

He leaned back and flashed that nervous smile again, his cheeks reddening. He felt embarrassed, as though it were presumptuous of him to kiss his own wife. His chin was pressed to his chest as he looked down at his hands, but he cast his eyes upwards to gauge her reaction as he added, “And I think it would make me happy too.”

A news update from a letter to Sir Robert Plumpton, written by Thomas Betanson, 29th Nov 1486. The Earl of Warwick was lodged in the Tower of London by this point.

{{ Thanks, pals! I had a great day. <3 @soldierboynamedern, @thekingmakersdaugthers, @richardcfyork }}

Lady Mother:

“Mama...”

Edward had not expected his mother to see him as he passed the door. He had very much hoped that she would be so engrossed in her needlework (alas, a craft for which young lads like him had no natural appreciation) so that he could scurry down the hall and outside to the castle moat. He had hoped to spot the friendly shoal of fish that tended to swim around by the drawbridge. It did not matter to him that he was supposed to be practicing his letters...

He smiled his most innocent smile, turning back towards the doorway to face his mother, one shoe scuffing the ground in a way that he hoped didn’t make him look too guilty...

However, for all of his deception, his smile was indeed genuine. How could it not be, when his mother seemed so very happy to see him? Her mirth quickly rubbed off on him, and he was glad to obey when she beckoned him over, shuffling forwards like a little puppet boy on a string.

“What is it, Mama?”

Aunt:

He smiled back, a broad, toothy smile that betrayed the fullness of his pride. Everyone seemed to be commenting on his height at the moment, admiring what a tall, strong and handsome young lord he was turning out to be. To confirm her statement, he sprung up onto his tiptoes to make himself even taller, teetering from side to side as he tried to find his balance.

Mayhap he had just reached that age when boys grew fastest. It did not occur to him that maybe the reason his height took everyone by surprise - his aunt included - was because he had spent so long flitting from place to place, never staying in one household long enough for people to watch him grow up. In any case, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester had spent so much time on their Yorkshire estates that little Edward would have seen very little of them anyway, even if he had spent his whole childhood at court. No wonder she thought he had grown.

“Safe from what, Lady Anne?” he asked, brows knotting his face into a quizzical expression.

True, he had spent little time with Anne Neville so far. He did not know her as well as he ought - not yet, at least. Given that his mother had died when he was only a babe, he could not even tell whether the two sisters looked alike, or whether, when he looked into Anne’s eyes, he also looked into Isabel’s. Yet there was a familiarity there. Despite his confusion, he still had the uncanny sense that he was indeed safe with her, as though by simply being his aunt she had the power to dispel any nasty threats that came his way. It was a good feeling, he decided.