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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ON THE DAY that the three sons of York returned to London, the sun shone brightly down on England's capital city. The commons lined the streets that led to the Palace of Westminster, covering every inch they could possibly manage — from the very gates, down the marketplace, past the Smithfield jousting plains, and right to the very palace itself. Men and women alike hurrahed for their beloved King Edward, whom they had missed in the brief, but unpleasant rule of Lancaster. They tossed budding blooms as the royal entourage passed by, shrieking of their happiness and excitement, howling "York! York! York!" In fact, if one ventured down to the flower market, one could quite clearly see that it had been picked clean.
"Quite a crowd, is it not, Dickon?" The king called out over the din, his tone jovial.
His youngest brother glanced up, resplendent in his doublet of gold, specially made for this very occasion. "All for you, Your Grace."
Edward threw his head back and laughed. "No, not just for me. For you as well, my courageous, honorable brother."
Richard demurred, glancing away with the slightest pink tinge upon his cheeks. From some way behind them, their brother, George huffed. He had been allowed at the front of the party for the sake of unity, but he rode behind both the king and the Duke of Gloucester, in the place that usually belonged to Richard. Clearly, he had not yet been forgiven for his betrayal with the late Earl of Warwick (who was now buried away and forgotten in Bisham Abbey).
"Darling Lissa must be ecstatic to see you," the king continued, having either not heard the Duke of Clarence, or deliberately chosen to ignore him. "And the children ... little William is five years old now, is he not?"
A fond smile crossed Richard's face as he instinctively caught a white rose thrown at him, much to the rapture and approval of the crowd around them. "He is. I cannot wait to see them."
