The year is 1464.
The War of the Roses rages on; a great showdown between Lancaster and York.
Yet, asleep in her bed, fiery-haired Melissa Woodville dreams of splintered shields, broken swords, and the resounding screams of wounded men in the Battle...
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THE BEDCHAMBER WAS hot, stifling. Wood crackled in the fireplace, embers burning away at the oak and pine. They cast a reddish-orange glow upon the ceramic of the floor, the strangely pleasant smell of burnt kindling wafting over to the Duchess of Gloucester, who lay on her bed, upon soft pillows of downy feather and fresh linen sheets. In her arms, she held her child, who was scarce a few hours old. Smiling tenderly, she pressed down a kiss on the boy's forehead, looking up only when she felt Eliza's gaze upon her.
"Might there be anything you need, madame?" The blonde murmured, hurrying over to the bedside.
The duchess smiled, "No, thank you, Eliza. I am well, as is he."
"He is beautiful," the lady noted, gazing down upon the sleeping infant. His birth had not given his mother much trouble — in fact, Melissa had labored for perhaps only two hours (if even that!) until he was brought into the world.
"Yes, he is," her mistress agreed softly. She lifted a hand and ran it through her son's hair — fine tufts of deep blonde upon his delicate skull, that even now curled, drying from the recent wash they had been given.
"Are the children abed?"
Eliza started at the question, so engrossed she had been in examining the babe.
She cleared her throat, "Yes, my lady. Joan tells me that Master William just fell asleep, as did the Lady Guinevere."
"And my twins?"
"Are being fed by their wet-nurses."
Melissa nodded, "Good; that is good." Her eyes landed on the windows as she dabbed perspiration away from her forehead. "Open those, Eliza. Let some fresh air come through."
