THE CONTRACT
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May, 1458
The room was utterly silence save for the near nonexistent sound of nails scraping against cloth. With a needle in her hand, Grace ran her fingers over the embroidery that rested on her lap. She had never been quite as good as other ladies, but she was rather proud of this one. A dove with wide spread wings and red rose held in its beak. She did not know how the idea came to her, but she liked it.
Next to her Margaret – or Marge, as most of her family called her – appeared bored out of her mind. Marge had taken it upon herself to be Grace's guide to everyone and everything in Ludlow, constantly being around her. Kindness wasn't the only reason for this, of course, as the girl had four brothers and no sisters to live with – all of them older than her and already married – and so she had jumped at the chance of a friend who was a girl.
It had been a month since Grace had arrived at Ludlow, two since she had been torn from her home on account of some deal the Duke made with her father. She missed London immensely, wishing she could see her mother again. But that would not be possible, not for a while at least. The Duke wasn't even require to take her with him if he ever did end up traveling to the court, and so Grace's fate in this matter remained a mystery.
Nevertheless, the Duchess was kind and surprisingly welcoming, and all of her present children – save for George, who had barely looked at her these past few weeks – were kind and friendly and included her in almost everything. On the second week of her stay at Ludlow, Marge convinced Edward and Edmund to sneak into the kitchens for some sweets. They had been successful, and when they had escaped unseen they had come to Grace's room. With the fire in the heart roaring in front of them, they all sat on the floor and stuffed their faces full.
In one night she had managed to learn plenty about the three of them. How Edward could fall asleep anywhere and anytime, that he preferred roughhousing in the courtyard than reading and studying, which was Edmund's preference. How Marge disliked dancing, but liked to watch as other people danced, because they were much more graceful than she was and managed to make the action beautiful. How Edmund had the most gentle hand out of all of his siblings, and so whenever they could not stop crying as babes, they would be placed in his arms and somehow they would stop.
Grace thought that the last one was rather adorable, but she had not said it out loud when she noticed how red the tips of Edmund's ears already were.
Marge shifted in her seat, leaning her elbow on the arm rest of her settee and placing her chin in her palm. Her fate was evident from the pricking of Grace's skin – something that happened surprisingly often whenever she was aware of someone watching her. Eventually, Grace looked up from her embroidery, placing the needle down and look up at Marge.
"What is it?" she asked, folding her hands on her lap. Marge sighed, picking at the dry skin of her nails for a bit. Her lower lip was stuck out slightly, as it always was when she was contemplating something. Grace was about to ask the question again, tired of the continued silence between them when Marge finally decided to speak.
"Lord Warwick and Lord Salisbury will be visiting soon," she said, her voice tinged with a dire edge, as if that should mean something for Grace. She had heard of the men before, of course, her education vast despite her illegitimate status. And she wasn't ignorant either, fully aware of the obvious Yorkist relations the two men – father and son – bore.
"Why does it sound like I should be worried about that?" Grace asked, feeling anxiety bubble in the pit of her stomach. Marge raised her brow, as if it was the most obvious thing ever and Grace should already know. When she gave Marge an even more confused look, the girl's mouth fell open in surprise.
"Because of the Loveday contract!" she cried, and even then Grace did not know what she meant. Surely her presence in the Duke's household wouldn't anger them so much that she'd have to worry. "Are you telling me you don't know?" She shook her head. "The King wouldn't agree to handing you over without receiving something in return, so Lord Warwick's second daughter was given to him in exchange for you," Marge explained, and immediately Grace could feel a sense of dread falling atop her shoulders like a heavy cape. "It was insurance that you would not be hurt, Queen Margaret suggested it. I do not think Lord Warwick would be that upset if his daughter lived in London, but from what we've heard she's been put into Henry Percy's care."
And suddenly, Grace understood plenty. The Percys and the Nevilles had a long standing rivalry, it was a common matter in the court. One person stole another land, an altogether different man attacked someone's son, someone's men spent a little bit too much time in another's territory. And now, Lord Warwick's daughter was put into a Percy's care. It was clear warning, a threat that could be carried out even if Grace remained completely unharmed. Because Henry Percy was a cruel man, a known rapist and abuser. Whenever a battle was lost to him, the women of the other side could only pray.
Grace had been in the man's presence but twice in her life, and each time she had the urge to run from him. Even at a young age, she knew to never be in a room alone with him, to seek out her mother, father or stepmother if he was at court at all times. Because he wouldn't try anything then.
She could only clasp her hands together and pray for the girl whenever she got the chance, and perhaps allow herself to hope that her stepmother put a tight leash on him before he did anything that was irreversible.
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In an attempt to ease her mind, Grace found her way to the gardens of Ludlow. They were not the most grand affair, but the simplicity of them compared to the gardens of Westminster had a charm to itself altogether. There plenty of flowers that had begun to bloom, roses among them. A large array of briars lined the path she was walking along, ranging from white to red to yellow, and one colour that was something between all three.
Most of the petals were a pale pink colour, seeming almost buttery yellow in some places, but as Grace traced her finger up the soft form of it, the colouring deepened and the rose was tinged a much darker pink at the top. She couldn't resist the urge to pluck one, and so she carefully reached her hand into the bush to grip the thinnest stem she could find.
Somewhere to her left, she could hear Marge's excited screech and Edward's holler. The two of them often chased each other in the garden. Sometimes, Grace joined them, but after learning of the girl traded in her place, she could not find it in herself to have any sort of fun. She wondered if the moment Lord Warwick and his other two daughters stepped into Ludlow, would she feel such an immense guilt that she would not be able to stay in their presence, or would she manage to steel herself enough when faced with them.
Finally, her fingers managed to find a thin enough stem with few thorn, and she carefully bent it until it came close to snapping.
"What are you doing?" The voice had come unexpectedly, and Grace jerked so violently that a few thorns scraped against her skin. It burned, as if someone had poured something acidic into her flesh. As quickly as she could, she withdrew her hand from the bush, pivoting on her heels to face the person that had surprised her so much. Her fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her injured hand to her chest. A small and warm trickle of blood ran down the back of her hand.
George Plantagenet stood not far from her on the path, his arms crossed over his chest as if he was the lord of some marvellous land. She had to fight the urge to stop at his irritating frown, clearly meant to be intimidating, but looking petulant instead. The thought crossed her mind that she could simply turn around and ignore him, but that would only cause him to be more angry, and she did not have the energy to explain to the Duchess that her spoilt and rude son was the cause of that hypothetical argument, and not her.
"I am picking a rose to take inside," she answered, purposefully leaving out any honourable titles. She did not think the boy deserved to be called my lord, seeing as he was half a year younger than her and clearly much more immature. Besides, they were alone, and George was known in his family for twisting the truth to manipulate things. So if he did end up running to the Duchess, she could just pretend to be hurt by his lies and let her eyes fill with tears to the brim, as she had done a few times with her own mother. It was a talent of children, it seemed, to manipulate the feelings of their parents with the smallest of gestures.
"I can see that," he bit back, taking a step closer as if that would make her retreat. "You should not be doing it. It is not your rose!" At this, Grace had to raise a brow. It was true she had not asked for permission, but Marge brought flowers in all the time, even more when spring began to bleed into summer and the flowers truly started to bloom, she had heard. Not to mention the vast amounts of roses that grew in the gardens. One missing bloom would not hurt anyone.
And so Grace rolled her eyes, completely forgetting about her promise to herself to not rile him up more than she needed to, and turned on to the bush again. She would get the rose, even if George tried to stop her. And try to stop her he did, marching forward and grasping her forearm like one would a common criminal. Something surged in the pit of her stomach and she lashed out with her hand, hitting him in the chin. It had been an accident, an instinct to get away from an attacker, but she still felt giddy from overdramatised cry he let out.
"How dare you!" he cried out so loud it was a wonder Marge and Edward had not come running yet. "I am the son of the Duke of York! You dare raise your hand against me?" Grace barely bit back a laugh.
"I am the daughter of the King of England," she retorted in a calm voice. "You dare to raise your hand against me?" George looked a little flustered for a moment, but he quickly recovered from the shock of her talking back.
"You are the daughter of a whore, nothing more." Grace was used to insults against herself, of people calling her a mistake and a sin behind her back, a miracle of the Devil himself. It happened daily in the court, people thinking she couldn't hear them when they spoke of her in such a cruel manner. Some people never accepted such a reality, but Grace had heard it so much that it no longer bothered her. But insults against her mother, that she could not bear.
With barely any hold on her anger, Grace clenched her fists. "A whore is a woman who takes pay and allows a man to fuck her, my mother did no such thing." If George was surprised by her vulgar language, he did not show it. "You would do well to actually understand a word before you use it, my lord." The honorific was more of an insult that she had intended at first, but she enjoyed the way he gritted his teeth at her tone.
"She fucked the King and received plenty of wealth for her status as a mistress," he argued, raising his chin high up into the air. "She did get paid for it, and continues to get paid for it." This time, Grace could not hold back her laugh.
"My mother is loved by the King, so of course she receives wealth from him. Any good man would make sure the woman he loves is well cared for, even if she is not his wife." The glare she sent his way could have probably burned down a city if she tried. "A mere whore would not be readily accepted by the Queen into her household, as it would be an insult to not only herself, but to decency itself. A whore would leave the King as soon as he was unwell, but my mother stayed at his side through it all and will do so in the future, as is her nature."
Before he could say anything else, Grace dug her hand back into the bush and quickly snapped the already damaged stem. It gave a barely audible crack, and then she was pulling the rose from the bush. When she turned to George again, who appeared to still be contemplating what to say, she twirled the bloom in front of her face, as if to show him that she did get it, despite his protest. Then, she dramatically curtsied, just as mocking as her use of his title earlier.
"Goodnight, my lord." Before he could argue against her departure, she stomped her way back into the castle.
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When the moon had risen high into the sky, lighting up the otherwise dark world, Grace realised she could not sleep. Too many things were on her mind, and despite her eyes being closed and her incessant attempts at passing into the world of dreams, her mind stayed acutely aware. Annoyance quickly took over her as she tossed and turned in her bed, and eventually she had given up all together and decided that she should get something to eat or drink form the kitchens.
Warm milk would be preferable, she thought as she walked along the castle halls with bare feet and a thin robe wrapped around her body. That was what her mother had suggested to the Queen once, when she complained of her son not going to sleep. Her half-brother Edward had always been a hyper child, something that had slowly left him, but still remained deep in his soul. It was simply not a day in the life of Edward of Lancaster without causing as much ruckus as possible, whether that be stealing pastries from the kitchen maids or 'accidentally' spilling it over a lady's dress.
The halls were barely lit by a few sconces, but Grace was able to find her way through the castle with relative ease. After walking down three flights of stairs, she finally made it to the corridor in which she knew the kitchens lay. As she turned the last corner, she did not expect to come face to face with someone else. She did so with a loud thud as she collided with the person. As quickly as she crashed into them, she pulled back, ready to apologise until she saw who it was.
It was just her luck that she would find George there, in the same hall as she was going down, in the middle of the night. God must have hated her, because she truly could not get a single minute of peace that day. The boy looked ready to reprimand her, but then his face crumpled and to her surprise, he did not say anything. He only stepped around her, and began walking away.
For a moment, she could only stand and stare straight in front of her, wondering how that had even come to pass. Then she heard him turn around on his heels. What she expected was for him to berate her, to yell at her as he did in the gardens earlier that day, but instead he did the opposite.
"I'm sorry for insulting your mother," he said, and although it sounded a bit forced, she found that she believed him when he said it. Like a flash of lighting she felt her heart warm. No one had ever apologised to her for their insults. Not a single person in her entire life. It was such an unexpected feeling of gratitude that took over her when her mind understood what his words meant. He was truly sorry. He was sorry for hurting her, he was sorry he had ever thought to attack her with his words. "It was unseemly, and I should not have said anything."
George stood in one spot as Grace slowly turned around, facing him properly. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly, probably a habit he had picked up somewhere along the line. His face looked strangely vulnerable, as if apologising had put him into a position where he would get hurt. She supposed that when someone rarely apologised they would think of it like this.
"I forgive you," she answered, even though she was not entirely sure she did. It could have simply been the overwhelming nature of her feelings in that moment, or the reality that she was far too used to any and all insults that she found it easy to forget about yet another person using them against her. But in that hall, in that moment, she truly thought she could forgive him, if only for the fact that he had bothered to apologise to her.
When Grace returned to her room later, she fell asleep easily.
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