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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April 1461, London
Edward's victory caused London to be in a joyous uproar, the sort that Grace had never seen. The Londoners had been pro-Yorkist for a long time, so it was no surprise to see the city's inhabitants celebrate their new king. Their excitement tied in perfectly with the celebrations and feasts Edward had planned. Grace was having a gown made for one, seeing as most of the clothes she used to own were too small for her now. Seamstresses piled in and out of her chambers with various fabrics and threads, all as expensive as the next.
She hated staying still as the women took measurements, but she enjoyed how she looked in the mirror. When she used to live in Westminster, she rarely got so much attention, even when the queen herself gifted her fabrics and other things. She wasn't worth it, then. A daughter of the king, but not a princess. Now, she was a duchess with her own lands and riches, and suddenly she was more than worthy of recognition. Women wished to befriend her, men wished to seduce her into marriage to earn her title through it, even though she was only twelve, a month from her thirteenth birthday. Luckily, Duchess Cecily chased them all away with a stern glare. The only men she ever wanted to talk to were Edward and Ned, who had returned from Townton unharmed.
She was glad that Ned ended up supporting York, but they hadn't gotten a chance to speak one-on-one throughout all the hassle around the celebrations. She was too busy being prepared for the feasts, to look the part of the previously Lancastrian lady turned Yorkists, while Ned was locked in a constant whirlwind of duties as a very young duke who had to support his widowed stepmother and half-brother.
"Does the fabric pinch here, your grace?" one of the seamstresses asked, pressing down on a seam at her side. Grace shook her head and the seamstress returned to work. There was such a clamour in her chambers that it was difficult to focus on one singular thing. She almost didn't even hear it when a servant approached.
Her blood ran cold when she spoke. "Your mother is here to see you, my lady." The long-awaited arrival of her mother was something she hadn't been looking forward to. Her hands became clammy and a strange pain bloomed at the back of her skull, as if the skin there was tightening and burning all at once. She wasn't unfamiliar with the sensation. She bade the servants to let her mother in.
Katherine Howard looked the same as she had the day she left, if not a little more subdued. Deep auburn curls were pulled back into multiple braids, which were in turn pinned to her skull in an intricate style she wore often. A string of pearls was woven into it, the white glint of them standing out against the fiery colour of her locks. An indigo gown fit perfectly onto her body, rich but not so much that it would garner backlash, just like when Grace's father was still king and she was attending courtly functions with the queen.
