Much like his nephew, the Duke of York, except Dickon is 4, whereas George is a grown man.
The Sunne in Splendour: A War of the Roses Timeline
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
Dickon's troublemaking is stealing his sisters' dolls or causing them to trip. George's OTL's 'pranks' were
"Though most historians now believe Isabel's death was a result of either consumption or childbed fever, Clarence was convinced she had been poisoned by one of her ladies-in-waiting, Ankarette Twynyho, whom, as a consequence, he had judicially murdered in April 1477, by summarily arresting her and bullying a jury at Warwick into convicting her of murder by poisoning. She was hanged immediately after trial with John Thursby, a fellow defendant. She was posthumously pardoned in 1478 by King Edward. Clarence's mental state, never stable, deteriorated from that point and led to his involvement in yet another rebellion against his brother Edward.
In 1477 Clarence was again a suitor for the hand of Mary, who had just become duchess of Burgundy. Edward objected to the match, and Clarence left the court.[4]
The arrest and committal to the Tower of London of one of Clarence's retainers, an Oxford astronomer named John Stacey, led to his confession under torture that he had "imagined and compassed" the death of the king, and used the black arts to accomplish this. He implicated one Thomas Burdett, and one Thomas Blake, a chaplain at Stacey's college (Merton College, Oxford). All three were tried for treason, convicted, and condemned to be drawn to Tyburn and hanged. Blake was saved at the eleventh hour by a plea for his life from James Goldwell, Bishop of Norwich, but the other two were put to death as ordered.
This was a clear warning to Clarence, which he chose to ignore. He appointed John Goddard to burst into Parliament and regale the House with Burdett and Stacey's declarations of innocence that they had made before their deaths. Goddard was a very unwise choice, as he was an ex-Lancastrian who had expounded Henry VI's claim to the throne. Edward summoned Clarence to Windsor, severely upbraided him, accused him of treason, and ordered his immediate arrest and confinement."
Which means Edward was right not to trust him with guardianship of his children. I only wonder what he might have done with little eight year old Ned had he been given the power of a regent.
Edward IV hasn't died yet, so we should not think on what would happen with a regency that isn't a certainty as of now.
I don't think Edward will die, but I do think he will be incapacitated in some way or another. Maybe he gets wounded or something. Which will allow Richard or George to fight for power and show their true colors.
We'll see how this battle fans out before we say anything for certain about Richard or George.
February 1473.
February 1473. London, England.
Hold the Tower. Hold the Tower. Hold the Tower and save London. Hold the Tower. Hold the Tower. Hold the Tower and save London. Hold the Tower. Hold the Tower.
Edward maintained those thoughts in his mind as he battled his way through the significant army brought by the Earl of Rivers. His arm burned with the weight of his armour and his sword, but he would not stop fighting. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He would not allow himself to be lost by a stray arrow or a lucky blade. Not then and not ever. Not when the fate of his kingdom and his family rested on his shoulders. He might have made plans in case of his death, but he had no intention of letting those plans come to fruition.
No. Edward intended to die in bed, old and wheezing, surrounded by his grandchildren and his children. He wanted to see his sons turn to men, to see sweet Ned pick up his first sword, for Dickon to learn some responsibility and for George to run through the world. He wanted to deliver his daughters to the hand of their husbands, knowing they would be safe and cared for, loved.
He wanted to secure England for the Yorks, to expand his territory in France, to put down his name in history and make sure he’d be remembered. He was still young, having just turned thirty. If he die, they would have to drag him to the next plane kicking and screaming.
His sword whooshed through the air as he moved, cutting the necks and stabbing the stomachs of those who dared to come too close. Blood sprayed on his armour, slipping through the gaps and hitting his skin and clothes. Warm, sticky blood that he could almost taste. He spat out a mixture of spit and blood, rubbing at his helmet with one gauntleted hand and continued moving through the crowd. Edward had intended to cut through the army and take the head of Anthony Woodville himself, but others in the traitor’s army had the same idea, only about him instead.
“Usurper!” they shouted, but none said anything after his blade met the soft skin of their bodies and their lives were lost. Some pissed themselves, others shat, but the stench that filled his nostrils was intoxicating, made him gag and dry heave, but he continued.
He couldn’t see who was around him. Who was friend or foe, but he knew only one thing. He had to hold the Tower, to prevent Anthony Rivers from releasing Henry of Lancaster and ruining everything he had ever fought for. What were the wars if not because of revenge for his murdered father and brother, to bring peace back to England and stability? And why would he allow his great enemy out so that the entire cycle would begin anew? For legality, continuation of a dynasty that came from usurpation?
He was Edward Plantagenet, male-line heir of Edmund of Langley, female-line heir of Lionel of Antwerp. Son of Richard, Duke of York and Cecily Neville. Husband of Madeleine de France, father of eleven children and one yet unborn. One true King of England.
The sun seemed to come down upon him, weakened by winter, but still shining bright. Edward revelled in its light, bolstered by what he saw a sign of the Lord to him.
He adjusted his grip upon the sword, eager to kill some men.
“You!” someone shouted, voice rising high from the grunts and screams of the soldiers and the civilians trying to escape the wave of death that threatened London. Edward looked around, searching for the source of the sound. His eyes found Anthony Woodville, recognizable even through the armour. He was looking at a man wearing the colours of the Duke of Clarence, whose helmet had been knocked aside during the skirmish. Edward couldn’t see his face, only the way his hand flexed around the handle of his sword. “You! You killed my father!”
“Anthony Rivers!” shouted the King of England. “Prepare to die for your sins!”
The Earl of Rivers looked between him and the Clarence soldier before he smirked at Edward, coming closer to him, walking over the corpses of his men as he did so. Edward twirled his sword around and walked closer as well, feeling the weight of centuries of his family’s legacy, the responsibility he had over his wife, children and kingdom heavy on his shoulders.
“You have gone against the true king, Edward of York,” said the traitor. “But I shall set right this vicious wrong.”
“Don’t count your victories just yet, Anthony,” Edward replied. It seemed that only the two of them existed in the entire world, ready to fight to the death. “Didn’t your father hope to be made a duke? Look what happened to him.”
Anthony seethed. “Do you miss your father?” he asked, turning the situation around. “I’ll see you and your children join him shortly.”
Edward raised his sword. Anthony did the same. Then, they ran towards each other.
--
George was stationed close to the edge of the army, leading the flanks. He was surrounded on all sides by the dead and dying, moving his weapon around to those stupid enough to try and take him down. Everyone wanted the prestige of killing one of the royal Dukes, the King’s younger brother, heir to the throne, but he wouldn’t let them. No, he wouldn’t.
A light rain began to fall on him and he rubbed at his rain, spreading warm blood, dirt and grime, as well as rainwater. He was tired and couldn’t wait for this to be over, to sleep in his warm bed with a wench to help him release all the tension from his body.
This was all Edward’s fault. Couldn’t he have kept it in his pants, just once? If he had not lain with Elizabeth Woodville, allowed himself to be influenced by her, then Anthony Rivers would never have the power to oppose them. It was fucking ridiculous. When he became king, George swore he would never let that happen to England. He’d be a good king, especially once he had a son. Especially then.
His thoughts distracted him and he shook his head, clearing his mind. His eyes were drawn to the other side of the camp, where he saw Edward with his golden crown fighting with the Earl of Rivers. Two other men ran to join him as the minutes passed and George saw his brother’s defeat before it even happened.
Argh. He looked behind him, body stiffening as a large aching ray of pain ran through him. A warm liquid trickled down his back and he turned, seeing the handle of a long blade protruding from his shoulder. The man who had stabbed him grunted and pressed a foot to the ground on support as he removed the dagger, while another soldier stabbed George on the side. Blood trickled down his skin and body in warm quantities and he… and he…
He fell to his knees. “Bastards,” he grunted out.
Oh no… not George… Anyways, glad to see Edward being a devoted husband and father who wants to keep his people and kingdom safe.
Oh George is dead, what a shame... Also if I've read this correctly this battle has not at all gone Edward's way, I only hope he can escape with his life....
I don't give a flying f*** if you kill George, let Edward live! *raises the Sun of York banner and waves it around*
I don't want Madeleine to have more sorrow in her life than already!
March 1473.
March 1473. Westminster Palace, England.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester observed the arrival of the wounded into the castle, watching as the servants directed the helpers into different quarters where the men could get the help they needed to survive. It seemed to be working, for all day since the end of the battle, their groanings and shrieks of pain would rise and cross the corridors, making their displeasure and strength of life known.
“Has the King returned yet?” he asked a woman that was carrying piles of linen. She made him a quick curtsy but shook her head.
“No, my lord,” she said. “I have not heard anything about the King.” He nodded and let her go, scratching the itch under his chin.
He was rather nervous but determined not to be. Edward would arrive soon, he was sure. His brother always came back from battle, ever since the first time. Richard was only a child when the wars began, but his brother had assured him that he would return and see him afterwards. Edward kept the promise.
“Help! The Duke of Clarence!” someone shouted, breaking his line of thoughts and he ran towards the voice, heart racing.
Richard stopped in one of the entrances, watching as five men carried George inside. They were holding him in a makeshift litter and his brother was cursing and grunting, waving his arms around as if trying to fight off those who were helping him. He had his eyes closed and Richard felt his heart stop at the sight of him. Someone had removed his armour and his shirt, so he saw the large gaping wound on his brother’s ribs, bleeding profusely.
George was pale, hurt and yet he continued cursing. Was that good?
A physician entered the quarters they had set aside at the same time as Richard, observing the wounds as he barked out orders for those around them, demanding clean linen and herbs to prepare a poultice. George grunted and tried to sit up, but he fell back, hitting his dark head on the pillows. A serving girl tilted a cup of wine into his mouth and started massaging his throat afterwards to help him swallow, though heavy drops slipped from the sides of his lips, staining his skin and the fabric underneath.
“Bastards,” George babbled. “I’ll have your heads. Let me go!”
He’s delirious. Richard turned to the physician. “Will he live?”
“I do not know yet, my lord,” answered the doctor. “I’ll have more answers for you after I begin the treatment of the Duke.”
Richard nodded. “Please, do all you can,” he said. George might have been difficult, more prone to teasing him when they were young than helping him, but he was still his brother. And their mother would have been devasted to lose another one of her children.
He left then, mindful of hovering over the physician and preventing him from doing his work. Richard continued to walk through the corridors, asking anyone who entered his path if they had seen the King, though none did. He didn’t like this. Edward might have remained behind to be certain of the city’s defence, but he should’ve returned already. They had won, the city remained loyal and the army of Rivers either fled or surrendered. Henry of Lancaster was safe inside his prison and they were able to hold both the Tower and London. Surely, Edward should have come already, so they could celebrate. Right?
“Buckingham!” he called out. Before him, stood his cousin, Henry Stafford, 2nd Duke of Buckingham. When he saw him coming, Hal frowned and came closer. He was still in his armour, dark red hair wet with sweat and face dirty with grime, but he seemed well enough. Unharmed. “Where is the King? You were close to him, were you not?”
Hal shook his head. “It’s bad, Richard. Really bad.”
Richard frowned and looked behind Hal, almost expecting to see his brother coming out of one of the closed doors, or maybe even to hear his screams of pain. If it was bad, then that meant he was wounded, certainly? Maybe grievously wounded, by the expression of desolation on Hal’s face.
“What happened, Hal?” he asked. “Tell me.”
Hal shook his head again. “I tried to stop them, I swear I did, but I saw my uncle being injured and I was distracted… By the time, I looked upon him again…”
“Tell me, Hal!” Richard demanded, coming so close to his cousin that their breaths mingled. “Be honest. Is the King dead?”
“He was alive when I last saw him,” said Hal. “Anthony Rivers captured him. Those who tried to help him were killed and he was pulled away by the traitor and some of his followers.”
Richard stared at Hal until the words finally made sense in his head. Then, he took a deep breath and turned, walking back in the direction he came from.
“I’m sorry, Richard!” Hal said behind him. “I truly am!”
Richard found Harri Tudor and Francis Lovell in the banquet hall, eating rolls of bread and drinking from heavy cups of ale as they rested after the battle. There were others with them, all sharing the same tables, uncaring of who was noble and who was common-born.
His two closest friends smiled when they saw him, but continued eating. Richard was thankful that they were slightly isolated from the rest, sitting side by side while they spoke in hushed whispers. He sat in front of them, grabbing Harri’s cup and taking a long swig of the warm drink.
“Hey!” his friend complained, but Richard ignored him. He set the cup down with a thud and wiped the foam away from his mouth with his sleeve.
“Don’t be a little bitch,” Richard told him. Harri frowned, taking his cup back. It was unusual for the Duke of Gloucester to use such language. “I need your help.” He looked at Francis, who was leaning forward. “From both of you.”
“What happened?” his friend asked.
“Keep this information quiet for now,” he started. “I don’t want there to be panic.” Richard looked around them and was relieved to see that there wasn’t anyone paying attention to their conversation. “The King has been captured. The last sight of him was as Anthony Rivers and some others pulled him away from the battle.”
“Sweet Jesu,” said Harri. “Does that mean we lost?”
Richard shook his head. “No, we held the city and Henry of Lancaster remains in the Tower. The day is not lost.”
“So, what happens now?” Francis asked.
“With Edward imprisoned and George wounded, I’m the representative of the House of York,” said Richard, careful. He turned to the true Earl of Richmond then. “Harri, I want you to ride to Kings Langley with fifty men and bring Prince Edward and his brothers back to the city.” His friend nodded. “The Queen remains in her confinement, so it would be better for her, the princesses and the baby to remain there until she is churched.” He thought it would be far better for her to return only when Edward’s release was secure, but he couldn’t know when that would be, so he said nothing of the sort.
“Very well,” said Harri.
“And what should I do?” Francis asked.
“I want you to stay here and help secure my government,” he said. “Anthony Rivers might be stupid enough to take my brother’s head and if he did, the King left me as Lord Protector until Edward of Eltham comes of age.” And George would be furious about that if he ever recovered. As the older brother, he certainly would expect to be given such power, but there was a reason Edward trusted Richard and not him.
“Alright,” said Francis, nodding. “I can do that.”
“Do we have news about the Earl of Warwick?” He had left two weeks before the battle for Northumberland and yet, no rider had come with news of his certain victory. Richard did not like it. “I’ll need him by my side to make this work.”
“I haven’t heard anything about him,” said Harri. “But the rebels and the Earl of Rivers had made communication between the country almost impossible. Once the dust settles, we shall hear more.”
Richard nodded. “Then we must go. There’s much work to be done.”
--
Convent of St Vincent, England.
George, Duke of Bedford did not improve. In fact, he worsened during the days they spent in the convent, despite the constant prayers of Madeleine, her ladies and family, as well as that of the servants and soldiers that had accompanied them. Even the nuns prayed over his cot, asking the Lord to save him.
But their Maker worked in strange ways. George stopped eating and every drop of milk that entered his fragile body was quickly vomited again. Not even the heavy porridge made by the nuns, or the mulled wine they produced to support their congregation, helped him. His cries turned weak, his breaths ragged and his body was wracked with the strength of his heavy coughs.
Madeleine held him in her arms almost every waking moment of the day, rocking him and pressing him close to her chest. She hoped the warmth of her body would be enough to warm him up, even though his fever burned hot, and that maybe her strength would bleed over to him.
“Your Grace, please,” said Lady Richmond, walking behind Madeleine as she carried George around the room, pacing around like a caged animal. The Queen barely heard her, mostly focusing on the painful cries of her little boy, stroking his downy head in an attempt to comfort him through his suffering. “I beg of you to give the Duke to his wet nurse and rest. You’ll exhaust yourself if you keep this up.”
“How can I rest if my boy’s health does not improve?” she asked, tears running down her cheeks. “What sort of mother would I be if I did not care for him through his illness?”
“Your Grace,” Jane Woodville said, her own hand atop her slightly rotund belly. She was four months along. “Please. Think of the child in your womb. You must save your strength for the oncoming birth.”
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, turning when she got close to the wall so she could walk in the other direction. “I have had six children already. I can have the seventh without problems.”
“Then, at least take a seat,” said Jane, offering her a chair. “Otherwise, you’ll walk and walk until you have no feet to support you.”
Madeleine stared at the chair, then at her two ladies, who were worried about her. Her eyes then turned to her little boy in her arms, his mouth parted to let in shuddering breaths as his body shook with his coughs. She took a deep breath and walked to the chair, adjusting her skirts so she could sit properly.
Some of the servants and soldiers had gone to the road earlier in the week and recovered their belongings before thieves could take them away, which allowed them to change from their dirty travelling clothes and have more comfort during their stay in the convent. Madeleine remained in her nightgown and a thick robe to warm her, as she had set up clumsy confinement while there, though she still refused to part with George until the day his fever abated and he recovered.
Lady Richmond and Jane Woodville relaxed visibly when she sat and Madeleine could not deny how her body seemed relieved by the pause and the support provided by the chair, her feet and ankles especially. George fought against his swaddles, face red and she held him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
His cries began to stop, however, growing weaker and weaker. Madeleine felt her breath stop inside her throat as she continued to rock him, watching his chest rise and fall with larger and larger gaps between each breath. She could still feel the gaze of Lady Richmond in her, as well as that of Jane Woodville, but she ignored them, eyes focused on the Duke of Bedford.
In the end, it took at least an hour, but it was peaceful. His cries stopped, his face turning a shade of blue, but no one said anything. It was as if he went to sleep, but Madeleine observed his stillness as warmth slowly began to leave him.
A whimper escaped her tense mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. “George?” she whispered, squeaking and voice breaking with sorrow. “Georgie?”
He didn’t answer her. He was gone already, dead in his mother’s arms.
Lady Richmond knelt before her, placing a hand on her knee. “Your Grace?” she said. Madeleine didn’t move, her bones and body hurting after spending so many hours in the same position. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger and her throat ached with unshed tears, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t. “Give him to me, please.”
Madeleine felt her arms relax, handing his body to her friend. She raised her head and saw that Jane Woodville had changed her clothes and the Lady Hastings and the abbess had arrived in the room as well. How long had she stayed with her son’s body in her arms?
“Come, Your Grace,” Jane Woodville said, helping her stand up. “Let’s get you to bed.”
They didn’t get very far before Madeleine stopped, reaching out for Jane’s shoulder with her hand.
“What is it, my lady?” she asked, worried. Something warm trickled down her legs, slickening her thighs, and a deep wave of pain began low on her back, cramping down her stomach.
“My waters…” she whispered. Madeleine stepped back and saw the clear fluid spreading through the stone ground, mixed with blood. “The baby is coming.”
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i'm worried about both edward and madeleine. i hope edward isn't killed by anthony, since its true that it would be very stupid to kill him, but how would they get him back??? does richard ever have a plan about it/
and madeleine!!! will she survive this birth, as well as the child!!! i wont handle another loss! and don't think madeleine will either!
and madeleine!!! will she survive this birth, as well as the child!!! i wont handle another loss! and don't think madeleine will either!