Possibly giving a French King with a claim to England and an English King with a claim to France, intriguing...
The Sunne in Splendour: A War of the Roses Timeline
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
November 1470.
November 1470.
Dear Harri Tudor,
As you can already see, I’m writing to you in Welsh. Isn’t that fun? My tutor said I could practice by writing letters and I said you were a good receiver. So he told me to write to you, so here I am. Writing letters. To you.
I hope you are well and healthy since I haven’t seen you in over a year. I wish I could have come to my uncle, the Duke of Gloucester’s wedding, but my governess said I wasn’t allowed to go. That I was too small and that court is not good for me. I don’t think that’s fair. He is my uncle and my mother says I’ll marry my cousin Ned and be Queen. Shouldn’t I, as the future queen, be allowed to attend my uncle’s wedding?
Anyway, it doesn't matter. What is in the past can't hurt us. My governess told me that. Doesn't it sound smart? If you ever use it, you must say I was the one who said it to you, not her. I want people to think I'm very smart.
I hope to see you soon. Maybe you could convince my uncle King to let me come to court at Christmas? I know Prince Ned will come, so it's unfair for me to not come as well.
My Welsh tutor is helping me write this letter, but I swear he is not helping with everything. Ifan, that’s my tutor, says I’m a very diligent student and that my Welsh is very good for a lady my age. He's a priest, isn't that fun? He used to live in Richmond too! I asked if he knew your lord father, but he said no. I'm making a pouty face as I'm writing this, so please imagine it.
I'm eagerly awaiting your response.
Love,
Annie Holland.
--
Dearest Henry,
Why will you not write to me? I’m your uncle. I deserve to hear of your health and your accomplishments. I know what they are teaching you, that I am a traitor, that I abandoned you, but I did not. The Yorks forced me out of my home, took away my titles, just like they did to you. They have separated us, nephew. You must see that.
I think of you every day. Since they told me you became the Usurper's ward, I have prayed for you nightly. It's why I beg for you to write to me, so my poor old heart can be reassured.
Please, Henry. Write to me.
Love,
Your uncle, the Earl of Pembroke.
--
Dear Annie,
I'm very happy to have received your letter. See, I'm writing in Welsh to you too. My tutor says our correspondence can be a good way to practice the language. He's a priest too, but I don't think he came from Richmond. He said he is from Powys.
The King says you are more than welcome to come at Christmas. I didn’t even have to convince him! I just had to ask him and he said, ‘Well, of course’. I’m really looking forward to seeing you in a month.
I’m sorry I’m not writing as long a letter as you did. I don’t really know what to say here. No one really writes me letters. Only my mother did, but now that we are both living at court, there really isn’t a reason for her to write me a letter when she could just find me in my room.
Love,
Harri Tudor,
Looks like I am the only one who caught that bit… And in any case was pretty obvious
I did catch it. It makes perfect sense, of course Edward wouldn't want Harri to talk to his traitor uncle.
Why in god's green earth would Edward let Jasper's letters reach Harri?
December 1470.
Fontainebleau, France. December 1470.
The young knight landed on the ground with a sickening crunch and Margaret cringed, settling back against her seat. Her stomach tumbled in disgust at the sight of his oddly twisted leg, the screams of pain he gave out, and she turned away. A group of people ran to help the man and helped him off the path. His opponent, face hiding under a metal visor, said nothing, merely bowing once before the royal box. He rode off, to rest and prepare for the next of his rounds in the jousting.
France was in the middle of the celebrations to the birth of a Dauphin, the first time something had been celebrated since her own husband had been born, almost fifty years earlier. As the mother to the Dauphin, Margaret had an important role in the events, as if she herself was being celebrated, and not her little son Charles de Valois. Two months had passed since she gave birth and she had only recently been allowed to witness the celebrations, having been churched a week before.
With her husband absent, as some matter of state needed his attention more, she was the sole representative of the royal family. Her unmarried stepdaughters were considered too young to attend and Anne, being the Duchess of Orléans, stayed with her husband. If Margaret had to be honest, she would say that it felt lonely in the royal box, despite her ladies surrounding her.
She felt lonely since she arrived in France, a year before. Louis dismissed her English ladies and surrounded her with those who would be loyal to him, watching her every move for a fault that could be reported back to the King. She knew her letters were read, both those written by her hand and those she received. Sometimes, when a month or two would pass without her receiving news from home, she wondered what had her family said to displease her husband.
She once had been desperate for marriage, eager for a husband and children, but Louis quickly taught her to long for nothing.
A chill ran through her and Margaret shivered, feeling her shoulders tensing up. Two more riders entered the arena, one in a perfectly white horse with glinting armour that caught the light as he moved one way and the other. Her eyes went directly at his shield, which had yellow and blue stripes, surrounded by red. Before she left for France, she had taken care to learn about all of the peers of her husband’s lands, their sigils and symbols. She knew well who that man was.
She turned to one of her ladies. “Why is Burgundy here?” she asked in French. Margaret wasn’t afraid he would hear her, so far away, but the rider continued to look at her as if he knew what she was saying just from the way her lips were moving. It made her shiver again.
“He came for the baptism, Your Grace,” said Elisabeth. “The King choose him to be one of the Dauphin’s godfathers.”
“We are at war with Burgundy,” murmured Margaret. She looked back at Burgundy and saw that he had tapped his feet to the sides of his horse, leading the animal directly to her. Her heart raced.
When he came to stand right before her, Burgundy lifted his visors, deep blue eyes staring at her. “Your Grace,” he said in a careful and practised voice that brought a chill to her spine. “Will you give me the honour of letting me wear your colours today?”
Her mouth ran dry and she could feel everyone looking at her, waiting for her move. Her wrist, where her favour had been quickly tied earlier in the morning, burned and she moved her tongue to wet her chapped lips. Burgundy was France’s enemy, she had always learned that. Louis had been at war with Burgundy since he became King. Should she betray her husband for chivalry?
Before she could make a true decision, Margaret felt as her body forced her to stand up, fingers moving to the gold and red ribbon at her arm as she walked to him. She untied her favour and her lips curled into a small smile as she moved to retie it on Burgundy’s horse’s throatslash. When she was finished, she looked back at him. Their eyes met and she lost her breath at the intensity of his gaze. She wished she could see more of his face, hidden under his helmet.
“Thank you, my Queen,” he said, voice sultry. “I’m sure it shall bring me luck.” Burgundy smiled. She knew he did. She could see the way his eyes wrinkled as his face moved. “When it does, I’ll give to you the victor’s laurel.”
“Bien sur,” said Margaret. She smiled at him and returned to her throne, curling her hands around the arms.
It took a long time before Burgundy removed his eyes from her and returned to his joust.
I mean, there's playing with fire and then there's playing with fire.... This could well turn out to be another Tour de Nesle affair, if Margaret isn't careful! To paraphrase a certain Lady Mary Crawley, "Thank Heavens the Dauphin is already born, or people could spin all sorts of fairytales."