The York Rose (The War of the Roses Series)

Prologue

One day, I shall be Queen of England. That is all I know.

Ever since I was in the cradle, I have heard about the glorious wars and battles we have won, the honors, the victories and rewards. I have heard the ballads composed specially for us, for our sake, to celebrate us and wish us a long and happy life. But then, suddenly, those who used to sing them for us have now turned their coat,  abandoned our cause, and the fights and improvements our family have brought to this country are no longer taken into anyone’s account. We are now undesirable, unworthy, so they all claim.

But I know I am not. I know we are not. I was born a princess, the first princess, the first child. I was the country’s little white rose, their favorite, their beloved heiress. I was acclaimed by everyone, I had a whole court to adore and serve me. I was, I am, Princess Elizabeth of York, I’m a Plantagenet, daughter to a king-soldier, God keep him, and to one of the most amazing queens that have ever ruled this country. I was not born to be a nobody. I was not born to be put aside and forgotten. And I certainly was not born to be called anything less than “Your Grace”.

I remember our glorious times at our home, the nursery where I used to play with my sisters when we were little. I was the first born to King Edward IV and Queen Elizabeth Woodville, and therefore, I was proclaimed heiress to this country, even when my mother the queen had three more daughters almost year after year. I was still the heiress, their Princess who could become Queen of England, after my uncles, George of Clarence and Richard of Gloucester, brothers to my father, and as men, with a greater claim than me, a girl. But then, my brother, my precious little brother Edward was born, and our country was safe.

We had a precious and strong little boy on our cradle, a boy who was born in sanctuary, while our father was away fighting for his kingdom and his life; a boy everyone had expected to die of childbirth came strong and healthy to us. Our York heir, our Prince of Wales, who put my uncles and myself one step farther to the throne, something that God knows, I secretly thanked with all my heart in every prayer of mine. I was 6, yet I had seen enough to understand that there was little happiness to an England’s monarch. I had been betrothed to a turncoat and a traitor’s nephew, the Duke of Bedford, Warwick’s heir. And God knows how Warwick was no friends with anyone but his own self. Though my father had him in his greater appreciation, this man executed my grandfather the Earl of Rivers, and my uncle, Sir John Woodville, my mother’s father and brother. My own uncle, George of Clarence, also had a suspicious sense of loyalty, and even tried to restore the Lancaster line by trying to help the former Queen Margaret d’Anjou.

I remember Queen Margaret. She was my nightmare when I was a little girl. She was the very cause why my beloved father was never home with us. I used to shiver at nights, thinking she was some kind of witch, who was going to come to us and kill us all, me and my sisters and my mother. Today I understand she was doing only what every Queen does: protecting her own interests and her son’s. Just like my mother.

After Edward, we had another healthy boy, Prince Richard, Duke of York. The two princes were raised together in Ludlow, and there couldn’t possibly be better princes in the whole world. They had my mother’s undeniable beauty and my father’s grin, boyish and naughty, yet responsible, loyal and trustworthy. Our heirs, the two brothers of York. And even I, little more than a girl, knew that my brothers were more faithful and loyal to each other than my two uncles were to my father.

My uncle George, Duke of Clarence, plotted against my father time and time again, and it was left no choice but to execute him. By that time, I had been freed from my betrothal to the Bedford boy and I was now to be married to the Dauphin of France. I was taking lessons of French, and learning about them. My father called me his “Little Dauphine”. I was his precious little girl, his favorite girl. I was England’s favorite as well. Daughter to a great king, sister to the Prince of Wales and the future Queen of France. I was on the edge of my prospects and no one would doubt I would be worthy of my titles.

Until Papa died.

It was so sudden, and everything happened so quickly I barely had time to realize all its implications. He fell ill, and we all believed it was nothing serious. But then day after day more and more physicians would leave his rooms without a comforting expression to my mother, but a frown and empty words. And my beloved father was dead within days.

It was like I had lost a part of my heart. I wanted to go to him, shake him until he opened his eyes again, and scream my pain out. But of course I could never do such thing. He wouldn’t want me to. I had to put my best mourning gowns and follow my mother, bite my lips every time I felt my eyes bursting with tears and swallow all the words I wanted to shout. I was a Plantagenet, a York Princess, and I had to act like one, even though my heart was broken.

I was so lost in my own pain that I did not see what was coming next. I never had the fast wits of my mother, God bless her. She was dead inside after the love of her life was gone forever, but she still had children to care for, and most of all, Princes to care for. She sent for my brother Edward to be brought from Ludlow directly to her so he could be crowned King of England. He was only twelve. And everything went wrong. My uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, now the only surviving brother to my father, his most trusted subject, kidnaps our boy on his way to London. We had Richard with us, but Edward was taken from us, and it hit me like icy water. I had no right to mourn for long for my father. I had to be attentive, like my mother was. And it was because of her cleverness that we had enough time to safely go, again, into sanctuary.

And so we have; once the beloved Royal Family of England, that everyone wished to meet, to see, to worship; we found ourselves trapped in sanctuary, in hiding like outlaws. Our Prince of Wales, King Edward V, was kidnapped and in the enemy’s hands. And I, who was the most desirable and wanted bride of Christendom, was made a prisoner. No longer the future Queen of France, no longer the Princess of England, no longer the favorite daughter to the King. I was made a fugitive, trusting only in God’s protection and my mother’s wits to survive.

I prayed that God would release us soon and I could see my brother rise to his throne, being acclaimed the King’s sister, Princess Elizabeth; so I could marry some Prince of Christendom, maybe even become Queen, and do my part; so I had the chance to be the best I can be, not a girl locked in an Abbey, without being able to go out, walk on the gardens, breath the fresh air, being loved by my people. All I wished in my heart is that Edward will be crowned King and be safe in his throne, marry some princess, have children and secure our line.

But deep inside my heart, whenever I finished my prayers, there wass a soft voice that whispered to me, like a curse: “This shall never happen. This is not your destiny. You are destined to be Queen of England, one way or another.”

THE NEXT CHAPTERS ARE MARKED AS "PRIVATE" - IT MEANS YOU MUST BE A FOLLOWER OF MINE TO READ THEM. THE LINKS FOR THE PRIVATE CHAPTERS ARE IN THE FIRST COMMENT OF THIS CHAPTER'S COMMENT SECTION. ENJOY! :)