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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ISABEL SWAYED TO and fro, restlessly watching the physician who stood overhead her son's cradle. He tapped Arthur's knees, blew in his ears, and waved a finger above his face — all things that went beyond the worried mother's understanding. She just wanted to know whether her baby was alright.
"I am sure he will be fine, Izzy," Anne murmured, holding the niece who had been named for her. "Do you not want to play with Nan, to take--"
"Nan is fine." Isabel snapped. "Arthur, on the other hand, may not be. So I will stay right here, and discern the truth for myself."
Her sister retreated out of the chambers, presumably to give the little girl to her nurse. As they left, Nan called out "mama," but Isabel barely heard her. Her head was swimming, her breaths coming up short, and there was still an ache between her thighs, a pain telling of the rough birth she had had. All of that could not stand before her worry for her son, however.
"How is he?" she finally burst out impatiently, storming over to the startled physician's side. "Tell me! Is he going to die?"
"Euh, madame..." the man coughed awkwardly, his French accent thickening. "I 'ave listened to ze child's 'eart, and it is ... euhm, comment dites-vous..." he paused, thinking of the correct word, before continuing. "Weak? Ah, oui. It is weak."
"Weak?" Isabel repeated. "So, what does that mean for him?"
"There is a very big chance that ze little lord will ... euhm, pass away, should a cold take him."
"You are saying he will die? That my son will die!?" the brunette's voice went borderline screeching.
The physician backed away, panicked, looking around for someone to intervene. But no one was there — only poor Arthur's grief-stricken mother.
