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...
"I could ask you the same thing." Joan scoffed. Looking at the girl, she sighed and pulled out a handful of coins. In French, she instructed, "Laisse nous."
The girl took the coins and frowned.
"C'est tout?"
George repeated what his cousin had just said, leave us. Finally, the girl did, and the two were left alone.
"I never thought I would see prim and proper Joan Neville in an establishment such as this." He began. "I must say, you--"
"I have a letter for you," Joan cut off what was likely about to be a snide remark. "From your mother."
"My mother?" The duke frowned. He got up from where he had been perched, extending a hand to take it.
"Yes. Signed by your sisters."
She handed him the envelope and he took it, quickly breaking the seal and beginning to read. After awhile, he looked up, an indiscernible look in his eyes. He held the parchment up, "Do you know what this says?"
"Partly," the brunette nodded. "I got an accompanying missive, and Lady Sutcliffe had something for your wife."
George looked back down at the words, slowly tracing his mother's signature upon the paper. Abruptly, he tossed it into the smoldering fireplace before him.
"Tell no one of this," he ordered.
"Do you have a response?"
He stopped pacing for a moment, then sighed, "You are going home?"
Joan nodded in affirmation. She would not stay in Valognes for a moment longer; not if she could help it.
"Tell my brothers..." he huffed out a breath. "Tell Edward and Richard that I, too, remember what happened at Wakefield. I do not forget."
The message was clear, and his cousin nodded. She pulled her hood up and prepared to leave, but George grabbed her shoulder all of sudden.
"What this letter says is true?" He asked desperately. "Do they speak frankly?"
"As far as I know," the brunette replied eventually. "You are still their brother, and the king — as you may have noticed — has a habit of taking back strays."
He squeezed her shoulder momentarily, before taking a step back and waving her away. Joan did not waste anymore time; she left in haste, out of the brothel and toward her accommodations. It would not do for her uncle to discover her presence in France — he would know of her deception immediately.
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IT WAS AN odd drawing. Looking at it, tracing the vibrant shades of green, red, and blue, she could not help but admit it to herself: it was, indeed, odd.
The painting of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table had once been exactly that: a painting of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table. But now ... it was something else. There had been a picture in Melissa's head when she had started it, three years ago, a clear vision of what she wanted to do. Now, complete, it looked like a hybrid version of what she had had in mind. There was a king, his knights, and a round table, but they were not the correct king, knights, or round table. They were ... something else.
