Oh damn, the York boys are fighting. I’m kinda with Dickon here, although I feel a certain darkness from him
The Sunne in Splendour: A War of the Roses Timeline
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
Oh boy, I hope this spat dosen't worsen particularly as both boys get older... Great chapter!
I think it will if they both continue thinking the other one is treating Blanche dishonourably.
Hopefully Magdalena can put a lid on this before it boild out of proportion.
That's true. The Plantagenets was known as the Devil's Brood for a reason, after all.
Hey, everyone, I made the decision some weeks ago to create a patreon. It's just for those who wish to support me and stuff, those who think I'm doing a good job. It only has one-tier so far, but I have posted stories that will never see the light of day there, due to reasons, so you can read some of my extra work. I do plan on posting chapters there first and then a week or so later, posting it here. With the way things are going right now, you could even, as a patreon, read several chapters ahead before even one is published.
So if you think that's something you're interested in, feel free to check it out.
So if you think that's something you're interested in, feel free to check it out.
tbh I'm on the side of Ned here, why the hell was Dick hanging out with Blanche when there are no minders around? Cause he gave cause for suspicion and the beginnings of a rivalry with his older brother. He could have avoided all that if he had just talked with her with a minder nearby or something.
He likes her and he doesn't want anyone listening in to the conversation.
Sorry, I meant to say this with the context of suspicion in mind. Like other nobles/the king being paranoid and the like. I think he likes her, but I don't think it was clear enough. But that's just me.
September 1482.
Chapter first posted on my patreon on 02/02/2023.
September 1482. London, England.
The day was an auspicious one for a coronation and all agreed, from the lowest beggar to the richest of merchants. It was the 416th anniversary of William the Conqueror’s landing at Pevensey and the great start of the royal line that had remained unbroken since, passed from father to son, grandfather to grandson.
Not just that, but the day was clear, the sun was high in the sky and no clouds seemed visible. It was a miracle for the season and it made people think that it was a sign that the Lord favoured the young king and queen. After all, why else would it be such a beautiful morning? The people were smiling, and celebrating, throwing white petals through the streets that lead from the Tower to the Abbey, preparing for a coronation not seen since the Dowager Queen herself was anointed.
Every symbol of the York dynasty is on display. The white roses, the black bull of Clarence, the falcon and fetterlock. And, never to be forgotten, the sun in splendour, a remembrance of the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross, when three suns appeared in the sky. Three suns for the three sons of York, Edward, George and Richard.
Eleven white stallions were trusted to take the royal family and their close kin to the chapel, with the exception of Queen Mother Magdalena. As for the King and Queen themselves, they were carefully sitting on a pair of matching gold litters, carried by the strongest and tallest men available in London. The King was wearing a handsome doublet of blue and gold, dark hair reaching his chin, while the Queen, slightly behind him, wore a beautiful dress of red velvet, a stark remembrance to her Lancastrian ancestry. It caused a roar to rise up in the crowds, who now remembered fully that their marriage had been cemented to create peace in England, to make their country great again.
“Long live the King!” the commons shouted. “Long live the Queen!” They thought the young couple was very handsome, with the Queen possessing a large mane of auburn hair that cascaded down her back, a sign of both her virginity and her assured fertility.
Dickon, the Duke of York, rode behind his brother and Blanche, sitting in his white stallion with self-assurance. He was a boy of nearly fourteen, with his mother’s dark hair and blue eyes. The second son of King Edward IV, he was betrothed to Infanta Beatriz de Viseu to seek a reconciliation between the English and the Portuguese, but sometimes, Dickon was sure that he would not be happy with the infanta.
He caught a glimpse of striking red hair and shook his head. For a moment, he was thankful that no one could listen in to his thoughts, because if they did, he would certainly lose his head. Lord and Lady Somerset would have the honour of carrying the monarchs’ trains, cloth-of-gold trimmed with ermine. As the King’s brother, he might have expected to be given the honour, but Ned was angry with him.
Which was alright, because he was angry with Ned too. His brother was a stubborn oaf, who didn’t know what he was talking about, when he argued with Dickon about being with Blanche unchaperoned. They were friends. Close friends. Blanche felt lonely, her household situated away from the court. Her servants were just servants, even the highborn girls placed to act as her companions. They did as she ordered, but nothing more. They weren’t her friends.
He was her friend. That was all he was. Even if at thirteen, almost fourteen, Dickon had already begun to notice girls around him. Pretty girls, with shining hair and bright blue eyes. Girls who were friends with him, and nothing else.
--
As soon as one song finished, another started, more and more nobles filtering into the dancing floor. High banners bearing the King and Queen’s coat of arms shone under the candlelight with silver and gold threads catching the light, while a thousand people raised their glasses in the name of King and Queen Blanche. Half of the courses had already been served: fatty swans, delicious tuna, creamy soup and most guests were already filled to the brim, with many plates being returned to be handed off to the commons later on.
Despite the happy day, the King had already left after a quick dance with his mistress, Kathy Herbert. The pair, young and drunk, were seen stumbling out to an empty room, to the chagrin of the Queen Mother, who remained sitting beside Ned’s stoic and neglected queen. At least, her Edward had respected her at her coronation feast, though they had already shared a bed and she had given him a son by then.
It was frustrating to watch her golden son follow in his father’s footsteps. Ned was supposed to be better than Edward, an improvement upon his sire, but he seemed more and more likely to be just like him.
She kept her eyes trained on the people before them and thus, she was able to quickly see it. Dickon stood up from his seat, as far away from the high table as decorum could allow, to walk to them. For a moment, she almost expected her second son to ask her to dance, a request she would have to refuse, but he didn’t. Instead, he stopped before Blanche.
“Your Grace,” he began, offering a hand to the young queen, “Will you give me the honour?”
Blanche, eyes wide at the attention, started to nod, setting her cloth napkin aside so she could stand up, but Magdalena raised her hand. “That is not advisable, my son,” she said.
Dickon turned to her. “Mother, why could that be?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“There will be talk.” Magdalena kept her voice even, though her hands wrung themselves together out of her son’s sight. “Your brother will hear of this sooner or later. Will you consider for a moment that your actions have consequences?”
Her eyes were sharp and she had already heard of confrontations and arguments. The very walls had ears that traced to her, a fact her foolish sons seemed to so often forget. She was the Queen Mother, and she had to protect the dynasty Edward had fought so hard to establish. She had to protect her children, even if it was from themselves.
“Has Ned ever considered that his actions have consequences?” His tongue was sharp and Magdalena found herself cursing her husband’s ancestor for choosing to lay with a daughter of Satan. Such a brood of quarrelsome sons as Magdalena’s had not been seen since the time of Eleanor of Aquitaine.
“A dance is only a dance, Mother. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Dickon corrected himself, adopting the charming smile of his father, voice light and free of all care as he took Blanche’s hand into his own and swept her towards the floor. The sea of courtiers fell away, and Dickon gladly took the lead as he gestured for the musicians to strike up a graceful melody.
The picture was a pretty one, Magdalena could not deny that. Dickon was a handsome youth, and Blanche was a fair maid. They moved together, practising the steps with seamless grace, dazzling those watching in their glittering raiment. At thirteen and twelve, they were closer in age to each other than to Edward. If Blanche were not who she was, the last remaining Lancastrian heiress, then they might have even been married. But she was his brother’s wife. The Queen of England, and things were not simple.
She tried to keep her ears sharp for talk and gossip, but no one said anything. All they could see were two children dancing, celebrating their monarchs’ coronation. But Magdalena did not see a dance, not as Dickon smiled as if he were the luckiest man in Christendom, looking at Blanche with dazzling blue eyes. Or how Blanche clutched his arm whenever they met, looking up at him for reassurance in a way that she never did with Ned. She saw a storm, a hideous tempest looming over the horizon, blotting out the sun.