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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KING EDWARD
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March 1461, Pembroke
The staircases of Pembroke Castle seemed impossibly wrong as Grace ran up them as quickly as her body allowed. Everything fought against her. The length of her skirts tangled between her legs and the soles of her slippers were so thin she could feel every bump and indent in the stone stairs. Cecily's hand was gripped tightly in her own, but the girl was far away, face blank except for the few stray tears that escaped her reddened eyes. Grace had to pull her up the stairs to get her to move, slowing their progress tenfold.
Armour-clad feet banged and cinched somewhere behind them as the Yorkist soldiers cleared the castle. There was barely enough time to find Henry if she didn't have another child to take care of, and by the Lord, was she not absolutely terrified herself? Her belly churched and her lungs burned like someone had truly set them aflame. By the time they reached the floor where Henry's chambers were located, she was gulping air down as if she'd never gotten enough.
"Girls!" Grace whirled around, prepared to strike whoever it was that was behind her, but she stopped in her tracks at the sight of her mother's bright auburn hair. Before she knew it, her mother's arms were enveloping her, and she could relax for a few short moments before she grasped her free hand and tugged both her and Cecily down the winding corridor. "Did you just get back?"
Grace nodded, unable to speak with how dry her throat was. They'd made it to Pembroke barely minutes before the Yorkist soldiers did. Edward's men rode like madmen. How were they ever meant to outrun them? It was a wonder they hadn't been caught in the courtyard or on the lower levels of the castle already.
The door to Henry's room was ajar, but Katherine didn't stop to even think of possible danger before she barrelled in. The three-year-old boy was kneeling beside the window, watching the soldiers as they swarmed the courtyard below. When he saw them, he pushed himself up and ran towards them.
"Gracie, what is happening?" he cried, burying his tiny fists in her skirts. Grace let go of her mother's hand, wrapping it around Henry's tiny form instead without releasing Cecily's hand. She was even paler than Henry was, clammy and trembling like a frightened kitten. Grace bit down on the sudden overwhelming gnawing of guilt she felt as she realised why Cecily was behaving this way. She's scared she'll end up like before. But Grace wouldn't let her. Not this time.
