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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CECILY
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July 1460, White Castle, Wales
That day began much differently than Cecily Neville had been used to. Instead of being allowed to sleep in – the servant's pity not at all concealer – she was awoken by a wrinkly hand shaking her body. For a moment, she could not breath as memories of the cell she had been kept in for months crashed into her. He had woken her like this many times, and only pain had followed. But then she had looked upon the old, slightly chubby and aged face of the head maid. Her brown hair was ran through with silver and her eyes looked tired with age, but she was smiling down at Cecily in her usual friendly manner.
"You must wake, my lady," the head maid, Clara, whispered. "They are coming to take you away." And in that moment, the fear was back. Clara did not say who exactly was coming, nor what would happen to her. She probably did not know herself. She had no right to ask the soldiers questions about this matter. Cecily considered rolling over and staying in bed, clawing at the mattress if they tried to pull her out, but Clara had been kind to her throughout the months and Cecily did not want to make things harder for her.
She pushed herself up – arms and body still weak from malnutrition and aching with the ghosts of long healed bruises – and slowly slid out of the bed. Clara gave her a purse-lipped smile. The woman was obviously not happy about this, just as Cecily wasn't. But she did not have a choice. If the command came from the Queen herself, then she had to do it.
The Queen... Cecily could still remember the horror on her face when she had first walked into the cell Henry Percy had kept her in. When she laid her eyes on her skin and bone body, sunken in eyes, blood smeared legs and ripped chemise. Cecily had always heard the woman was cold and unforgiving, but she had not seemed cold when she had wrapped Cecily in her own cloak and taken her to her chambers. When she had stripped her and washed her herself and allowed her to sleep in her bed. The day after that, Henry Percy had lost a hand. His screams and the blood rushing from his severed wrist was the only thing that had allowed Cecily to sleep peacefully at night.
After that the Queen had made sure she was well-fed and resting, and at the end of the month she ordered her brought to White Castle with a few soldiers. That journey had terrified her, but luckily the men stayed far away from her and remained respectful. Perhaps they were god-fearing men, or perhaps they were merely afraid of Margaret of Anjou.
"Clara?" Cecily's voice was soft and weak. Timid, awfully so. A jarring contrast to the strong-willed and at times rude girl she had been before. What would her father say, if she ever saw him again? "Will I be safe?"
It was a stupid question, but she had the need to ask it anyway. Clara had never lied to her, was only ever open and willing with her. When Cecily could not bear to sit alone in a room, reminded far too easily of the darkness of her cell, the older woman had allowed her to sit with her instead. Clara was a healer as well, it seemed, for there were jars on shelves that lined the walls of her small room that smelled of salves and herbs.
