Buried Roses

I

I was the daughter of a king who fought a tyrant queen for his throne and never lost a battle. He kept my world safe.

But now he's gone.

Cold bit through my bones. The nearly moonless night carried the chills of winter into spring. Sleep still tugged at me as I stood with my family outside of Westminster Abbey. A sense of unreality settled over me, and I half-believed that the world of dreams still had me in its grip.

I rubbed my bleary eyes, catching sight of my guardian. Queen Elizabeth stood with her men, as though leading a siege. Torches surrounded her, adding an almost hellish aura to Elizabeth. If an ill-minded person came across the scene, they would believe the rumors of her witchcraft practices.

Not that anyone would accuse the Queen of witchcraft. No one dared cross Elizabeth Woodville. The last who openly insulted her ended up drowned in a cask of wine. Even my fearless father wouldn't argue with her. I didn't know a soul who would dare.

"Mama, have you gone mad?"

Perhaps there was still one.

I winced at the words of my sister, Bess. She opened her mouth, only to be interrupted as a loud crash tore through the still night. The noise sounded like the howls of hell. A cloud of dust wafted up, and I broke into a choking fit, moving my baby sister Bridget back. The dust and flames put more thoughts of hell into my mind. Men shrouded in shadows, looking like demonic minions, intent on breaking down the barrier to one of the most sacred spots in England.

Bridget let out a startled cry, and I hastened to hush her. The poor babe was recovering from an illness. Thunderous booms and icy night air wouldn't do her any good. I rubbed her cold little hands, wishing I could get her back to a warm bed.

Wishing I could get back to a warm bed.

The crash didn't deter Bess. Hidden in the shadows of the night, her beauty still shone in the limited light. Her golden hair tumbled loose, dancing in the winds of spring. She strode up to her mother, as regal as when she was promised to the Dauphin. Never mind that the royal family of York was outside Westminster Abbey, claiming sanctuary like thieves in the night.

Actual thieves. Piles of treasure surrounded my father's wife, all taken from the palace. An overwhelming bounty of riches, some items too great to fit into the building. Not at the speed she wanted.

So her servants were knocking down the wall.

Only seventeen, but with the courage of our father, Bess stepped forward as if preparing for battle. "Stop," she commanded the servants. "The Duke of Gloucester shall be ill-pleased with this business."

"Keep going," Queen Elizabeth countermanded.

Another crash rang out, and Bridget burst into tears. I tried to soothe her, but I felt like crying myself. I wanted Papa to come back, to make everything right.

"Grace?" My sister, seven-year-old Anne, tugged on my sleeve. "Kat is running off."

I looked around through the rubble and dust as my three-year-old sister ran toward the broken wall. No nursemaid stopped her. Elizabeth collected all the treasure from the palace but hadn't thought to bring a nursemaid for her children. It had all fallen on me.

"Cecily?" I hissed to my fourteen-year-old sister. "Fetch Katherine. She's going to get hurt."

Cecily stayed still. She stood with the dignity of a princess, but all life had left her eyes.

"Wake up!" Frustration forced a cry into my words, but it didn't get her to move.

Unable to wait longer, I darted forward, lugging my wailing sister. Bridget's hot cries and protesting body slowed me down, just as Katherine fell in front of a man larger than my father.