𝙪𝙣𝙗𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙
thirty-six. — the bad queen!
ISABEL SWAYED TO and fro, restlessly watching the physician who stood overhead her son's cradle. He tapped Arthur's knees, blew in his ears, and waved a finger above his face — all things that went beyond the worried mother's understanding. She just wanted to know whether her baby was alright.
"I am sure he will be fine, Izzy," Anne murmured, holding the niece who had been named for her. "Do you not want to play with Nan, to take--"
"Nan is fine." Isabel snapped. "Arthur, on the other hand, may not be. So I will stay right here, and discern the truth for myself."
Her sister retreated out of the chambers, presumably to give the little girl to her nurse. As they left, Nan called out "mama," but Isabel barely heard her. Her head was swimming, her breaths coming up short, and there was still an ache between her thighs, a pain telling of the rough birth she had had. All of that could not stand before her worry for her son, however.
"How is he?" she finally burst out impatiently, storming over to the startled physician's side. "Tell me! Is he going to die?"
"Euh, madame..." the man coughed awkwardly, his French accent thickening. "I 'ave listened to ze child's 'eart, and it is ... euhm, comment dites-vous..." he paused, thinking of the correct word, before continuing. "Weak? Ah, oui. It is weak."
"Weak?" Isabel repeated. "So, what does that mean for him?"
"There is a very big chance that ze little lord will ... euhm, pass away, should a cold take him."
"You are saying he will die? That my son will die!?" the brunette's voice went borderline screeching.
The physician backed away, panicked, looking around for someone to intervene. But no one was there — only poor Arthur's grief-stricken mother.
"And what if he does not get sick?" Isabel demanded desperately. "What if we shield him from it? Will he live, then?"
"Madame, the chances of that--"
"Answer me!" she barked out angrily.
"I cannot say for certain!" the Frenchman bleated, wringing his hands together. "Any number of maladies could take him, any small coughs, or the slightest wind. Such is the fate of the weak heart."
"My husband is right, you are utterly useless!" Isabel hissed, shoving him away from her baby's cradle. "Get out."
He did not move, only gulped.
"Get out, I say!" the duchess howled, rousing her baby to do the same. "Get out, before I have your head cut off and your body fed to the dogs! Out!"
The physician squeaked, backing away from the outraged mother. Not wanting to risk his life or his neck, he did as she demanded, hurriedly seeing himself out from the infant's nursery.
"Quelle folle anglaise!" he thought to himself.
What a crazy Englishwoman.
ACROSS THE SEA, Melissa Woodville woke up when the sun's first rays hit her face. She did not open her eyes at first; felt the warmth upon her skin, inhaled the scent of lavender, and reminded herself to thank Eliza for pressing the pillows with sprigs of the flower. Though she had not been asked to do so, her lady-in-waiting knew it to be her favorite scent.
Still, as her other senses awakened, the duchess persisted in keeping her eyes closed. She did not want to reveal them to the world; did not want to face the drama of the day just yet. She stretched her arms above her head, moved them next to her, about to snuggle into Richard's side — but he was not there.
Frowning, Melissa finally opened her eyes. His side of the bed was rumpled, the sheets still bearing the imprint of his body. Brushing her hand upon where he had slept, she could feel the warmth there, lingering, yet fading by the moment. Her minds started to wonder — where could he be? Had Edward called him away from her side? So soon?
But then she heard it.
"No, papa!" a childish voice exclaimed, followed by hysterical giggles.
"What was that?" Richard teased. "More, papa? You need only ask, princess, and I shall obey."
"Nooo!" Lily screamed, but resumed her laughter as he — presumably — continued tickling her.
"Papa, play with me!" Will demanded, followed by Eddie's chant of "Me, me, me!"
"Oh? You all want to be tickled, is that right?"
Melissa emerged in the doorway, just in time to see her eldest son's eyes widen with horror.
"No-!"
But he was too late. His father had scooped both him and Eddie in his arms, bearing down on them with waiting fingers. Lily tried to squirm out of his arms while he was distracted with the boys, but Richard was more than strong enough to keep all three children in his thrall. They toppled down onto the ground, all four of them, a mess of giggles, shouts, and pleas of "no, papa!"
Melissa smiled fondly, shaking her head. Then her eyes wandered over to the corner of the room, where Guinevere stood above Ned's cradle. The girl was ignoring the chaotic mess next to her, concentrated instead on the blond-haired baby before her. Ned was awake (how could he not be, with all this noise) his green eyes following his cousin curiously, as she mimed at him and grinned.
Melissa started toward her, but was stopped by a desperate cry of "mama!" Will had spotted her.
Richard turned around, face flushed, his arms still tightly wound around the children.
"My love," he grinned. "Did we wake you?"
"No, I woke up before this racket started," she smirked. "But if I had been asleep, I have no doubt that you would have stirred me."
"Well, I am only doing as our children bid me, dear-heart." he turned to his sons and daughter. "Did you all not ask me for tickles?"
"No!" they shrieked, protesting the deflection of blame onto them.
"Well, I think that is quite enough, is it not?" Melissa laughed. She walked over and scooped Eddie out of her husband's arms. "This one looks as red as a strawberry."
"Mama," Eddie muttered, snuggling into her arms, sending his father a baleful glare.
Richard laughed and let the other two go. Will scrambled out of his grasp as quick as he could, ducking behind his mother's form warily. Lily, however, took the opportunity to gently smack her father's shoulder with a chiding look on her face.
"Bad," she wiggled a chubby finger, saying one of three words that she knew, the other two being "mama" and "no."
This sent Richard into another fit of laughter, fully collapsing on the ground as Lily left him, crawling over to Guinevere's side. Melissa joined her husband in giggling, and sat down next to him.
"You are incredibly silly, Richard Plantagenet," she chided him mockingly.
"Ah, but you love me anyway," he retorted, wiping a tear of amusement away from his eye.
"That is true," she acquiesced, laying her head on his shoulder. "Very, very true."
And so there they sat for the rest of the morning, Richard with his back to the wall, holding Melissa, who had Eddie snuggled in her arms. Guinevere eventually retired from her place in front of Ned, amusing herself with Will and Lily, the former pretending that she and her cousin were princesses in need of rescuing.
"I rescue Princess Guinevere and Princess Lily!" Will cried, brandishing a blunt wooden sword at the imaginary monsters in front of him. "I always rescue!"
JOAN NEVILLE DID not like dusting. She thought it to be a thankless task, reserved for the lowest of low maids — someone she clearly was not. Serving in her capacity as lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Gloucester, she had never once had to lower herself to such activities. She embroidered pillowcases, sewed and darned shirts for the poor, and ground together herbs for her mistresses perfumes and tisanes. Those were tasks suitable for someone of her station — not this.
Occupying her left hand was a feather duster, beaten and worn with use. She moved it over a candelabra, swished it across mantelpieces, and grimaced as the dust floated in her face, up her nostrils. If she were not so disgusted at the low she had come to, she would be coughing in its stead. The feeling of servitude that pervaded her, simply at having to dust objects across the study chamber, had her already hating Valognes, France, where her uncle and cousins had retreated to in their exile.
"Do not let them see you," Duchess Melissa had instructed. "For if they do, they will know you to be a spy."
But in Joan's humble opinion, the best disguises were the easiest, most obvious ones, and so she had darted into the estate where her extended family were staying, feigning an act as a maid.
"Besides," the girl had thought, while discarding her own attire for a spare smock and apron she had pilfered from a closet. "The duchess overestimates my cousins, and even my uncle. I am only one of their many useless relations — I would truly be surprised if they recognized me at all."
Nonetheless, in the spirit of caution, Joan had taken the extra step of lightening her hair a shade or two with multiple baths of lemon juice, the night before she departed England. Some streaks of kohl above her eyes and over-rouged cheeks made her seem (at least, to herself) unrecognizable.
"You! Find my wife and daughters. Tell them to come to me."
The girl barely resisted the urge to jump as her uncle barked so at the steward standing next to him.
"Here is an opportunity to learn something," she noted. "My uncle of Warwick seems agitated."
Indeed, the earl was. He had departed earlier that morning, after receiving the physician's diagnosis of Isabel's new baby.
"Very sorry, monsieur-- ... -- weak heart-- ... what can I do--..."
Joan had not heard as much as she would have liked, but even from those snippets, the state of her cousin's son was clear. Little Arthur was not like to survive the week.
"Poor Izzy," she sighed to herself, remembering the grief-stricken screams that had echoed from the upstairs chambers. She had never liked her uncle's eldest daughter, she was far too arrogant for them to ever get along. But in Joan's opinion, no one should go through the pain of losing their child — especially not after the difficult labor she had heard Isabel had gone through.
It took a few minutes (and some more dust up Joan's nose) before her uncle's wife and daughters came to see him. Seconds after them, George, the prodigal Duke of Clarence burst in.
"What is this about, Warwick? Where have you been?" he demanded, in a foul mood ever since he had been told of his son's weak heart.
"Richard gets three sons — three healthy sons! — and when mine is finally born, there is something wrong with him! Where is the justice in that?" he had bellowed for all to hear, before retreating to his chambers with a frustrated yell and a tankard of ale.
"Making arrangements," the earl's voice brought Joan back to the moment, and she chided her wandering mind as George asked, "What arrangements?"
"Are we going home, father?" Anne asked hopefully.
It took all the self-restraint Joan had in her not to scoff at her cousin's naivety, even as Lord Warwick said, "Yes. But not just yet."
"It would take nothing short of a miracle for them to ever step foot in the country ever again," she thought, skittering past George to dust the windowpane.
"You are to be married first, Anne."
That brought Joan up short.
"Married? Married to whom?"
Her cousin echoed that question, as the countess stated, "I was not consulted."
"There was not enough time," was the reply she received.
"To whom?" George interrupted impatiently, and Joan inwardly urged her uncle to answer the question. She, too, wanted to know who Anne was to be wed to.
"Prince Edward of Lancaster."
Joan dropped the feather duster. No one in the room noticed, however, because they were all as shocked as she was, at the news.
"Lord, heaven above!" The Neville girl thought anxiously, snatching the duster back up. "If uncle is doing what I think he is doing..."
"The Bad Queen's son?" Anne squeaked out, looking almost frozen with fear.
"You must not say that anymore," her father said, but she ignored him.
"Margaret of Anjou is our enemy; our greatest enemy! She hates us!"
"If this goes according to plan, she will be your mother-in-law."
"I do not understand what you are trying to do," George interrupted.
"But I do," Joan thought grimly, beginning to make her way out of the chambers. "He means to ally himself with Anjou and her mad son; claim the throne for Lancaster, and have his grandson as king, all through Anne." Daringly, she looked up at Warwick and thought, "How desperate you are, uncle. It does not become you."
She finally stepped out of the room, past Anne, Isabel, and their mother, all of whom were focused on Warwick and George, who had begun to argue about little Arthur and his ill health.
"I have news, finally, though it is not good. I do not think the duchess will thank me for the ill tides about to come her way." Joan mused worriedly, dropping the act of timid maid the farther she got from her relatives.
Leaving the estate, she made her way to the inn where she was staying at, intent on writing a letter to her mistress. The news was bad and urgent; it would have to reach England as fast as possible.
LATER THAT DAY, hours after Joan Neville had sent her mistress the grim news, Anne, Isabel, and their parents, the Earl and Countess of Warwick presented themselves in the abbey, where they were due to meet Margaret of Anjou, the deposed Queen of England.
"A queen my father means to give the throne back to," poor Anne — who was due to marry the mad prince — thought wildly.
She glanced up at her sister, who whose hand she tightly clenched.
"My god, Anne; she's here." Isabel hissed as quietly as possible, the noise of a shutting door reaching their ears.
Anne turned around, and was horrified to realize that her sister was correct. Margaret of Anjou, who had been the subject of so many of Isabel's frightening tales, was indeed walking into the abbey, red skirts swishing around her. She strode forward, hand in hand with her son, Edward of Lancaster.
"He ordered two men to die, when he was aged but seven," Anne could not help but think, a grimace pervading her face. "He must be so much worse now! Why, oh, why are you making me do this, father!?"
"I have always known I would see you on yours knees again ... Lord Warwick." The Bad Queen said, smirk evident in her voice.
Anne's father started to say something, but the girl could not register it. Her mind was still racing, her heart even faster.
"They will kill me, father!" She longed to cry out loud. "They will kill me as revenge for your betrayal! Why do you not see that? Why do you sell me to the devil!?"
But she did not say any of that. She watched, numbly, as Margaret of Anjou motioned her son forward, as Edward of Lancaster opened a bejeweled box containing a fragment of the True Cross, for her father to swear upon. Lord Warwick did so, and Anne could not help but feel as though her entire world was crashing down around her.
"We are lost," she thought deliriously. "We are utterly lost."
"Let me see the girl," Margaret of Anjou said, just as Anne thought she might faint from the stress.
Her father turned around, looked at her meaningfully, and — squeezing Isabel's hand one last time — Anne stepped forward, forward, forward; right in front of the woman she had nicknamed the "Bad Queen".
"So," the queen smiled, quite unpleasantly. "You are to marry my son."
Anne curtsied nervously.
"Come here."
She did so, and was taken aback when the woman took her face in hand, rotating it this way and that. The large, golden rings she wore were cold upon Anne's skin, colder than the air within the abbey.
"As cold as her soul, no doubt," was the Neville girl's thought.
"You do not give us much to work with," Margaret of Anjou eventually said. "Does she, Edward?"
"She will have to do, I suppose," the mad prince stated coldly, as his mother bid Anne to turn.
"Plain little thing, indeed."
"She is obedient, Your Grace," Anne heard her father say.
"Mm," the queen waved her off, and the small girl hurried back to her mother and sister. "Oh, well. At least she will be easily managed. Unlike the imposter Queen Elizabeth, another troublesome woman, Warwick."
"She is not a woman, she is a witch," were the earl's deriding words.
"Then why is she sitting on my throne!?"
"Not for much longer," Anne's father finally stood up. "You must send your--"
"And what of her sister?" Queen Margaret interrupted. "What of her? She is married to one of the false king's brothers, is she not?"
Warwick cleared his throat, "She is, Your Grace. But she is no threat."
"No?" A raised brow. "She has three sons, has she not? Unlike her sister?"
"Yes, however--"
"Then she is a threat, and so are her boys."
"You bid me do something about her?" Warwick asked, after a moment. "Send my men and--"
"I would meet her," the queen sighed. "When we reach England. She has three sons ... three sons of York." The final word was emphasized. "And if she is anything like her mother, like my old friend, Jacquetta ... then she will see reason and treat with me. Especially if her husband is dead."
"What do you intend to do?"
"Three sons of York, just like their predecessors. But loyal to Lancaster — loyal to my son and I. Would that not be a sight, Warwick?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Anne's father gritted out. He was not happy at how this meeting was going.
"The eldest boy can have his father's title; Gloucester. And in time, we will give the younger brother York — he will hold it with honor, unlike his treacherous grandfather."
"As you say."
Margaret of Anjou laughed, "Oh, be not so glum, Warwick. Not all is lost for you. As long as your daughter is fertile, all will be well."
"I am doomed," Anne could not help but think. "I am lost."
THE SUN WAS setting on England's shores when Joan Neville's messenger reached the Palace of Westminster. The man who delivered it, paid most handsomely by the lady, had dropped everything and boarded the first ship out of France — a spice freighter that landed at the port at Dover — and taken the fastest horse to the capital. By luck, he reached London before dark, and so was able to get through the city gates without much trouble.
When he reached the palace, a game of hand to hand commenced. The messenger gave the letter to a guard; the guard then gave it to another guard, who took it inside the palace and gave it to a maid. The maid found Lady Elizabeth Tilney, who — knowing whom the letter was from, and of the solemn task her fellow lady-in-waiting had — conveyed the missive to the Duchess of Gloucester, posthaste.
At the very moment before Eliza reached her, Melissa Woodville could be found in the King of England's solar, accompanied by her her father, her brother, Anthony and her husband, Richard. News had come from Calais — of Warwick's movements, and undecided reports of what he would do next. There was speculation on whether he would dare to approach Margaret of Anjou, whether he had truly fallen that low, when Lady Eliza finally found her mistress.
"Madame," she called out, slightly out of breath. Curtsying to the king and the duke, she continued, "Joan has written."
"Good," Melissa nodded briskly, taking the envelope from her lady. "Thank you, Eliza. You can go now."
The blonde departed as quick as she had come, and Melissa — feeling everybody's inquiring gazes on her — decided to elaborate on the situation as she broke the seal.
"I sent Joan away, yesterday. She is at Valognes."
"That is where Warwick landed," Anthony pointed out.
"Mhm," Melissa nodded, unfolding the parchment and beginning to read.
"You sent her to spy?" Richard raised a brow.
"I trust her, and she is good at gathering information."
"That is brilliant," Edward nodded admiringly. "Finally, we have news from a reliable source. Hopefully she will have more than just where Warwick has landed."
The duchess did not reply. She continued reading over the letter; a wealth of information that anyone at court would kill to have. After reading over the words once, twice, she handed the missive over to her husband.
As Richard began skimming it, Melissa spoke up, "Warwick has indeed allied with Margaret of Anjou. He hopes to use her armies to invade England, and to bind himself fully to her cause, he has betrothed his younger daughter to her son."
"Anne Neville is to marry Edward of Lancaster!" Baron Rivers exclaimed.
"Wha-- Richard, give me that!" The king growled, snatching the letter out of his brother's hand impatiently. Seeing that what Melissa said was indeed true, he cursed angrily.
"Damn him! Damn Warwick, and damn George!" He slammed the letter on the table and — in his anger — knocked a chair over. "How could they do this!? After all that we have endured under the hands of that woman," he spat the word out like it was an insult. "After what she did to our father, to Edmund--!"
"Actually, I reckon George did not even see this coming," Melissa interjected, her mind running over the provided information.
Richard and Anthony frowned, "What do you mean?" They asked, almost as one.
"Think about it," the red-head stated impatiently, leaning down to pick the toppled chair up. "What does George have to gain from all of this? Nothing. He wanted to be king, yes; but that cause is now doomed. His son," and here, she frowned. "Arthur is sick. He is not like to survive for long, and men will not follow him because of that. Warwick knows this, and so has reverted to Margaret of Anjou, because there is nothing else he can do. He is a desperate man. In marrying Anne to Edward of Lancaster, he ensures that — should the throne go back to Henry — he will eventually have his grandson as King of England."
"That will never happen!" Edward hissed heatedly.
Melissa waved him off, not quite finished speaking.
"George's cause, in the middle of all of this, is lost. He has turned his back on his brothers, on his house, in the hopes that he should sit atop the throne. But Margaret of Anjou would never agree to that — in fact, she would sooner lop your brother's head off before agreeing to work with him in any capacity. And so George ... he is aloft. He, himself, no longer has a cause he can work towards. Which means..."
"He can be swayed to York again." Anthony finished, smiling appreciatively at the conclusion.
"Yes," Melissa nodded.
Her husband and his brother exchanged a look.
"Do you mean to say," Edward began.
"That George would turn his back on Warwick?" Richard completed.
"Yes," the duchess reaffirmed. "Forgive me, but your brother is fickle in matters that do not benefit him. He no longer has any use for Warwick, so abandoning his cause will certainly be no chore. And in this case, George will have nothing to gain by Lancaster on the throne once more. I would wager he hates Margaret of Anjou as much as you two do, and he has been blindsided by Warwick's sudden turn of allegiance."
Edward began to nod.
"Yes, yes ... but how would he know we will receive him back?"
"I could write to Joan," Melissa offered. "As well as have her give him a letter from your mother. George trusts her implicitly, even if he does not share the same sentiments toward us."
"That is perfect," Richard stated, pressing a kissing atop his wife's head. "I am sure mother would be more than willing to write such a letter."
"He is her favorite, after all." Edward muttered.
"Not now," his younger brother gritted, before turning back to his wife. "Melissa, would you--?"
"You need not ask," the red-head assured him. "I will go ask her now."
"Thank you," Edward called out gratefully. "Truly. If not for your foresight, we would be lost right now."
"I am only defending my family," Melissa pointed out. "And you are all my family."
She turned around and left after that, so did not notice the touched look on the king's face. Her mind was only focused on one destination: Duchess Cecily's chambers.
HER MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS sitting on a throne-like behemoth of a chair at the foot of her bed when Melissa entered the chambers. Next to her were Anne and Bess, her daughters, and they were all surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, who offered ewers of water and fresh, clean towels for their hands.
Bess spotted her first, and her eyes brightened, "Melissa!"
Duchess Cecily and Anne both looked up at that.
Melissa smiled tensely and curtsied, "Lady mother. Sisters."
"Something is wrong," Anne noted. "What is it?"
"I wonder if I may speak with you all alone?"
Her mother-in-law looked at the ladies and waved them off. They left, after curtsying, with only Lady Sutcliffe remaining, whom Melissa knew was Cecily's only confidante.
"What is the matter?" the dowager duchess frowned.
Wordlessly, the red-head handed her the letter. Cecily began reading it, and the farther down she got, the more her face clouded over. Abruptly, she dropped the parchment and stood up.
"That fool!"
"Mother!" Bess cried out. "What is happening?"
Anne picked up the discarded letter and began reading it out-loud.
"Isabel has had a boy ... his name is Arthur. He is weak ... George is furious and inconsolable, and Cousin Warwick-- what!?"
"What?" Bess snatched the letter from her elder sister's grasp.
"What a fool he is," Duchess Cecily continued, ignoring her daughters. "What fools they both are! Did I not tell George what would happen if he continued down the path he was going? Did I not warn them both?"
"Warwick has allied with Margaret of Anjou!" Bess exclaimed, looking betrayed. "How could he?"
"After what the filth did to our father and brother, too!" Anne hissed out. "The absolute gall that he has! If Edward does not kill him, I will tear his throat out myself!"
"Oh, George..." Duchess Cecily sighed anxiously. "Poor fool. He was always the most gullible of my sons. My nephew swayed him to that cause, and now he is trapped. He has dishonored the house of York, his late father's name, and he no longer has any honor left. There is no way back from this."
"But there is!" Melissa interjected.
Cecily, Anne, and Bess all looked at her.
"If you would only write a letter, lady mother, telling him that he will be welcomed back, should he turn his back on Warwick, I can send it along with my own missive to Joan. She will give it to him."
"He will be welcomed back?" Her mother-in-law arched an eyebrow.
"I have talked to Edward, and he is open to taking George in. They are brothers, after all, despite everything that has happened between them. Now, George may not trust us, but he knows that you will not lead him astray. If you were to write to him..."
Duchess Cecily nodded firmly.
"I shall do so immediately. Lady Sutcliffe can take it to France, and she and Joan can both appeal to George. He will not deny the truth of the words with the both of them there."
And with that, she went to her writing desk and pulled a fresh piece of parchment, a well of ink, and a sharply trimmed quill out.
a.n. you know ... i didn't really intend for this to be as long as it is ... but here we are, i guess. enjoy 😬😬
a lot of things happened in this chapter. baby arthur was examined by the physician, and is revealed to have a weak heart. they don't think he'll live for long, but we'll have to see 🤷🏻♀️
anne is going to marry edward of lancaster as planned, and we saw the first scene with margaret of anjou. clearly, she has some ideas for melissa and her sons 😬 i won't give anything away, but i will tell you that they're gonna meet at some point.
joan's being in france came in pretty handy, as you saw. she sent a letter to melissa (and i am aware that in real life, letters took much longer to receive their intended recipient back then, but this is my story and i needed things to speed up a little), and you saw what happened after that.
something i wanted to ask: what do you guys think of melissa's dynamic with certain characters? did u like the fluff i wrote earlier in the chapter? would you like to see more of that? tell me what kind of things you want to see; i always appreciate new ideas!
for now, though, i'm signing off. i really hope you liked this chapter, and i appreciate every single vote and comment you guys give me. i live off of it, actually 😂
bisous 😘 and have a great rest of your week!