The Sunne in Splendour: A War of the Roses Timeline
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
I have to say this is one of the most creative timelines for the WoftR. Not a Lancaster or York wank or even the Tudors being shoe horned in the plot as realistically they would be considered after thoughts with big players like Warwick and Edward IV still around. Anyway keep up the good work, and I enjoy reading more!
Aaaaah thank you. Though I'm a yorkist through and through, I usually try to give all my players a fair chance. If one is so strong as to be comical, where is the fun? The conflict?
Just what I thought!
Now I really love little Harri and hope he and Annie end up happily married in Wales.
If I must be honest, I did not write this passage with the intention of it being foreshadowing. But who knows, I'm always open to change my mind while writing
Wasn't Richard's personal sigil the boar???
George sucks in any timeline. He can get run over by Welsh sheep led by Harri and Midnight.
I'm not not suggesting it... just thought it was worth commenting on
May 1469.
May 1469. Stirling Castle, Scotland.
It was a sad and sombre day for Scotland, but a happy and joyful one for Marguerite d’Anjou. She could barely contain her glee in her place before the crowd, seated in a place of honour at her son’s wedding. An acheful smile strained against her cheeks as she watched Margaret Stewart walk down the aisle. The Princess too was smiling, with her light reddish-blonde hair carefully tucked under a blue escoffin, heart-shaped and fitting perfectly with her high cheekbones. She wore a blue and red dress made with highly expensive Burgundian cloth. The long sleeves and bodice were scarlet and trimmed in ermine, cloth of gold comprising the collar and front panel of the gown. The flared skirts and cloak of the bride were in a deep blue that was almost black, also trimmed in ermine and billowing behind young Margaret Stewart. She looked like a queen.
Or rather, Queen in waiting. She chuckled at the thought.
Despite the bride’s smiles, the rest of the guests were serious, for not even the king had elected to make an appearance. The marriage was not his choice. He was for the Yorks and there were rumours aplenty at court that James III planned to marry his younger sister, Mary, to Richard, the so-called Duke of Gloucester, as soon as he came of age.
Marguerite was lucky thus that the regents were in favour of marrying Margaret to Edward so soon, that they supported their cause (or rather, supported creating troubles in England). She thought if they waited another month, James would find cause to delay the wedding enough for his coming of age, where he could stop his sister from marrying someone he regarded as a pretender.
In her opinion, the marriage could have happened months earlier. Margaret was fourteen and Edward, almost sixteen. It was high they wed and consummate their relationship. With Henry gone, Edward needed to have a son of his own. For goodness’ sake, the Pretender of York already had two sons of his own! Her Edward needed children to secure his line. If he had a daughter, he could very well promise her to the princes of Europe to gain alliances. With a son, he would have a true heir to the throne.
Edmund Beaufort by her side smiled when Edward stepped forward from the high dais, offering a hand to his bride. Her son was wearing ermine and cloth of gold, with his coat of arms as Prince of Wales embroidered to his cloak. Edward loved Margaret well and he was smiling as they kneeled before the priest. The ordainer was a simple man, a holy father without any fame or prestige to his name. It was sure to be seen as an insult, as the Bishop of Glasgow had refused to conduct the ceremony, but Marguerite found herself not minding it, despite everything.
It did not matter who married her son to his bride, as long as they were married. As long as the 50,000 promised by the regents as a dowry were handed over to her care. As long as Marguerite had a legitimate grandchild in the cradle within the year.
Nothing else mattered, as long as Edward became King of England.
Is someone gonna tell Marguerite that she’s not gonna see a single red cent of that dowry? How old is James again? She knows he would delay the wedding if he could, she doesn’t think he’ll block her from getting her hands on that money?
Caught that didnt you?
We skipped 3 years. It only makes sense that edward and madeleine have a couple more children
June 1469.
June 1469. The Tower of London, England.
His hands were tied.
Literally. Someone had used a rope to tie his wrists together behind his back, as well as to tie his ankles to the legs of the chair he was sitting on. They kept an empty sack of grains over his head, preventing him from seeing anything, or being well aware of where he was. Whenever he looked at his feet, the only place he could truly see rather well, he saw only his naked toes and the cold stone floor underneath them.
It was cold all around him. He didn’t know what time of year it was, so he assumed autumn, or close to it. He shivered. His clothes were thin, raggedy. There was a time when he didn’t dress in such poverty and squalor, but he could barely remember it. For the time being, he barely remembered anything about himself.
Hours passed where nothing happened. Or just minutes. He counted his breaths, thinking about his feet as he shivered of cold. When he thought of crying, the tears never came. He was very thirsty. Very tired. The monks used to take care of him, or were they even monks? They ignored him when he called them brothers. He knew they were his supporters, his friends, who were keeping him alive until the Queen returned with an army.
At first, they were all too hopeful. But after three weeks of waiting, they got too tired. Then, the soldiers came, but they came for him, told him they were bringing him to the King. He remembered a time when he met the King, when he was someone else.
He was thinking of his wife and the son they were supposed to have. How old was the boy now? Four? Five? He couldn’t remember exactly. He hadn’t seen him in days. All he wanted was to see his boy again and embrace his wife, though it was unlikely for her to want to see him again. She hated him. When he cried to her and said all he wanted was for her to love him, she lied and said that she did love him. He missed her lies.
The door opened, creaking as it did so, and a group of people stepped inside. He tried to count the number of feet he heard, the number of breaths, but he failed. He had never been that good with math. Someone removed the sack from his head and he blinked, eyes adjusting to the light around him.
There were five men before him, two wearing armour and three dressed in expensive and highly valuable clothes. He missed having clothes. Two of the three men looked at him as if they knew him, whereas the other remained to the side, not looking at anyone.
“Is this him, my lords?” asked one of the guards, turned to one of the men present, tall and fair, with dark blonde hair and blue-grey eyes. He thought he knew him, but that could be his mind playing tricks on him. It did that sometimes. His wife said people called him mad, but he was sure he wasn’t. He wasn’t mad!
“Yes,” said the other man, short with brown hair. On his chest, he had a pin bearing the arms of the Beauchamp family in gold and rubies. He thought he knew this man, “This is him.”
He looked at the tall and fair man, a question in his eyes.
“How are you, Henry?” asked the fair man, a smirk on his face. "It has been a very long time, cousin.”
He finally recognized the man. It was Edward of York.
--
Leeds Castle, England.
Madeleine de Valois stroked Guinefort’s back as she waited for her husband to return from London. He had left their tiny court many hours before, riding fervently on his horse with the Earl of Warwick. All because of a rider who came early in the morning with the news that their great enemy, Henry of Lancaster, had been apprehended in the North and was only a few hours away from the capital. Edward had left in a hurry, eager to see the man he called usurper in chains, leaving her and their children in the castle. Alone, despite his promises.
She shouldn’t feel angry with him. England and the war would always come first to him, and yet… he promised her a month away from court with their younger children, where all his attention would be on them. Madeleine had already been disappointed when she learned Ned could not come from Wales to be with them.
But now this, to have Edward ride away to deal with someone he called a pretender, someone who should be of no importance to him, leaving her alone with their children and their questions. Ceci and Magdalene asked about him all day and Dickon was too young at just eight months of age to understand why his papa, his reportedly favourite parent, wasn't there to pay attention to him.
And she had her own dealings with Edward, important news that she was eager to tell him, and yet he thought Henry of Lancaster was more important to him.
So she was angry. Just a little. Or a lot. She had no reason to be upset. And that made her even angrier, at herself though. She was a queen, a consort, a wife, not one of his whores to be indulged with gifts and kisses. She had to be better.
Guinefort whined low in his throat and Madeleine realized she had stopped her stroking. With a smile on her face, she continued, softly petting his grey-furred back. Satisfied, he sat back down by her feet, raising his head for her.
She thought they spent at least two hours after sundown in that position. To pass the time, she read a book of poetry given to her as a birthday present by the Constable of the Tower, the Earl of Worcester. Her eyes were burning with sleepiness and she was thinking of calling for her maids to help her undress for bed when a page came to warn her that the King had arrived.
"Tell His Grace I would like to speak to him when possible," she told him and he nodded, leaving with a bow.
It took another hour for Edward to come to her rooms. Guinefort was even already let out by her maids. She thought he was talking with Warwick and the few advisors he brought to Leeds before he finally led himself to her. Madeleine was already in bed when he did, having assumed, after a time, that he would soon send a page to tell her he couldn't see her that day.
But he arrived. Madeleine sat up on her bed when he entered, rubbing at his face. She watched in silence as he walked to her and sat on the spot next to her, pulling his foot up to his knee so he could remove his riding boot. He was already in the process of taking the next one off when she thought to ask, “Was it him?”
Edward nodded. “Yes, it was. Henry of Lancaster."
He had his back turned to her and she placed her hands on the mattress, crawling slightly to him.
"Where is he?"
"In the Tower," he answered. Edward moved his hands to his doublet, slowly undoing the unbuttons. "The Earl of Worcester has him."
Madeleine nodded, then a thought came to her. "What are you going to do with him?" She paused, apprehension settling in her stomach. "Are you going to kill him?"
"If I kill him, Marguerite de Anjou will simply crown her son Edward in his place." He removed his doublet and then moved his hands to his pants, unlacing them. "I will keep Henry in the Tower, where no one will touch him. As long as he is alive, the bastard of Lancaster can't be a king to rival me. Henry is more preferable as an enemy. He's weak, ineffective. Mad. Anyone who has to choose between the two of us will choose me, as the better option."
"Of course. You're very smart," she murmured. Edward removed his pants, staying only in his undershirt. He stood up and walked to her writing desk, touching the opened letters over it.
"News from France?" He looked at her with an arched eyebrow. Madeleine sighed. He was still angry with her brother over Louis' treachery in regards to Normandy. Only with much diplomacy did she manage to convince him not to turn such anger on to her.
She nodded. "Charlotte of Savoy is dead. She died in childbirth giving my brother another daughter, Marie."
He hummed and unfolded one letter, reading it. "Your niece has married the Duke of Orléans?" She nodded again. Anne was only eight and her groom, six. They needed a dispensation from being so young and so closely related. Madeleine did not like the news when she read it. The thought of her niece married at such a young age gave her a shudder. “I thought Louis would attempt to make her a Queen. He does not hide his preference for her, after all.”
“But he is,” Madeleine said. “After my brother Charles, the Duke of Orléans is heir to the throne. By marrying Anne to him, it’s as if he is saying that Louis will be King before Charles.” And as if he assumed he would never have a son and heir. That alone frightened her. If she could, Madeleine would read her brother’s mind and see what he truly intended. But she couldn’t, even if it was witchcraft. The man was unreadable.
Edward nodded.
“That makes sense," he said, "By marrying his daughter, little Louis is now his son. Though women can't inherit France, he is now one step closer to the throne."
He returned to the bed, leaving the letters behind. Edward laid down next to her, placing a hand on her back, stroking her skin softly. He reached back with his arm, resting his hand over it.
"Who do you think will be Queen of France now?" she asked. Maria of Burgundy came to mind, but she was awfully young, though Louis often disregarded things that limited his power.
"With any luck, my sister Margaret," he answered.
She frowned. "But I thought you were angry at my brother."
"Yes," he said, "But Louis is still very powerful and I'd like someone close to him. Someone I know is loyal to me."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"Marguerite de Anjou has left Scotland with her son, his wife and 15,000," he murmured. "Warwick thinks they are to go to Anjou, where her father lives. If Louis' wife and the mother of his son and heir is a York, he's more likely to help us."
"Louis is tricky," she whispered. "I don't want you being fooled by him." Madeleine thought of adding the word 'again' at the end of her phrase but thought he'd take offence at it.
"I'm tricky too," Edward responded. "I'm just as smart and stubborn as him."
She nodded. "Of course you are," she said.
Edward smiled and sat up again. He touched her face, pushing a curl behind her ear.
"Can we stop talking about your brother please?" he asked and she nodded. With a smile on his face, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.
They kissed for a few minutes before she pulled away, settling back on her ankles. "We can't," Madeleine said.
"Why not?" Edward arched a brow, confused.
"I'm with child again," she answered.
For a long moment, he said nothing. She wondered if he even understood her, if he was even listening, but then, slowly, a wide smile cut across his face. Edward laughed and kissed her again, curling her hair on his fingers, before leaning down and putting a hand on her belly. It was slightly round, not enough to appear beneath her full skirts when she is at court, but big enough for him to notice when she’s just in her nightgown, as she is in that moment. He caressed her stomach, rubbing circles on it, and tears prickled at her eyes.
“When?” he asked.
“End of November,” she murmured and he nodded.
“My little Duke of Bedford. You will keep me safe,” Edward whispered. He kissed her stomach once and rose up again, pressing his lips to hers one more time. “We will call him George, after the patron saint of England, who is surely watching over us at this time.”
Madeleine nodded. It was a happy image.