Grace FitzRoy and Cecily Neville were two sides of one deal. On Loveday in the year 1458, when York and Lancaster came together ceremonially to reconcile their two warring factions, the Duke of York and King of England struck a deal. A daughter for...
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EDMUND'S WARNING
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June 1460, Westminster
Half a year passed since the Rout of Ludford Bridge and Grace couldn't say she was exactly happy. She was back in London, spending most of her days as she always did – lessons, embroidery, a walk through the garden. It was all incredibly boring, but at the same time she could never truly relax. The threat of a Yorkist attack grew every day. Especially now that the Earl of Warwick was conducting raids on the shores of England and the Duke was said to be returning soon as well.
A few weeks prior, her father and stepmother moved the court to Northampton and she had been left behind. She could not say she minded it though, not when she could barely look her father in the eye and her angry bubbled dangerously whenever she was in the same room as the Queen. The Rout was still on her mind. With the departure of most of the nobles, the palace was awfully quiet. The only company Grace had was her mother, the servants and her own thoughts.
She was currently waiting in the great hall for her mother, swaying on the ball of her heels as she stared at her own hands. She had developed a habit of picking her nails when she was nervous, and she was trying with all her might to stop herself from doing it again. Katherine wanted to introduce her to someone, a son of a high ranking noble that was going to be staying here apparently. But she did not know his name, because her mother had not said.
Golden light flooded into the room, lighting it up brightly. Shadows fell across the floor, leaving illuminated spots in the shape of the windows between them. There were banners that hung around the great hall, all embroidered with red roses. Red like war, red like blood, she reminded herself, pursing her lips in frustration as she looked away from them.
She gazed at the throne that stood upon the dais at the end of the room. She had spent many hours here, sitting on her father's lap even when it was deemed unacceptable for such a thing to be. She was a bastard, and the King's wife always sat beside them. In the eyes of many, it was an insult to the Queen. Whether it ever bothered her stepmother, she never let it be shown and she instead often smiled at Grace and spoke with her kindly. That was before she was hardened by the court, but even then she was only ever kind to her.
So it had made her mind reel when she allowed the Rout to happen, when she stood by and watched her men commit atrocities and steel that which was not theirs. Suddenly, she was no longer the perfect queen to look up to. Even if she saved Lord Warwick's daughter from Henry Percy, even if she was still kind to Grace, even if she did not put the Duchess and George and Marge and the rest of them to the sword.
The large door on the opposite side of the great hall opened and her mother walked in, looking as radiant as ever with her bright red hair and emerald green and gold gown. Shortly after her came a boy, perhaps only a few years older than Grace from the looks of it. He was taller than her by a few inches, but the child-like roundness of his face was still there and obvious. His flaxen hair fell over his face, almost hiding his blue eyes from view. He was dressed richly.
