Chapter Text
May 8, 1528
“I had a dream last night,” Mary remarked as she nibbled on her bread half-heartedly, not having much of an appetite. She had felt out of sorts ever since she woke up, troubled by her dream, not understanding the meaning.
The Brandons were gathered together to break their fast. Her stepdaughters were entertaining their half-siblings, unaware of the adults’ conversation.
Charles had noticed that his wife had seemed a little disturbed this morning and distracted. He had tried to ask her about it when they first woke up, but she had waved him off, telling him it was nothing. He hadn’t believed her, but he suspected she would talk to him when she was ready.
“What was it about?” he prompted, taking a bite of his egg. He glanced back at his children, scrutinizing them for any sign they were eavesdropping. Once he was satisfied that they were not, he returned his gaze to his wife.
“I don’t know. It was odd,” Mary admitted, her face scrunched up in perplexation. “I was in a room that had no windows or doors, only mirrors. But they did not show my reflection. Instead, there were….” She paused, searching for the right word. “It was like I was watching scenes from different plays.”
“Go on,” the Earl of Lincoln encouraged, reaching across the table to rub her arm.
Mary swallowed thickly. “The first one was of a king lying in bed, bursting into flames, burning to nothing but a husk as the flames spread throughout the castle, destroying many in its path.” She shuddered at the memory.
I would be willing to bet anything that the king is King Edward, Charles speculated, not wanting to speak about the monarch’s death out loud, even in the privacy of his home. However, the past four years after Ritchie’s death, the English ruler’s health had grown worse, his sickness becoming more frequent. It was only a question of how much time he had left.
“The second one was odd.” Mary’s face twisted in perplexation, chewing her lip. "There was two people in a jail cell. A woman with her back towards me and the man had his head bowed, crying. He had a parchment clutched in his hand and he was sobbing about killing him.”
“I see.” The earl was beginning to realize why she had been so reluctant to talk about this bizarre dream. “What happened next?”
“War,” she replied simply. “Two armies faced each other. I only saw it for a moment, but I could make out the flags. One was of House Tudor and the other of House York.”
Charles shivered. Henry had been right. His uncle Richard was going to cause a war. This was not good. “Anything else?”
“Lastly, I saw a red-haired woman with dark eyes in splendid red gown standing at an altar, holding hands with blonde haired man with brilliant green orbs,” Mary continued. “At first I thought it might be my grandparents, King Edward the Fourth and Elizabeth Woodville, but there were some differences in appearances.”
“Perhaps it was your mother and your father,” Charles suggested.
Mary gave him an annoyed look. “My father had dark hair and blue eyes.”
Brandon had the good grace to appear bashful. “Ah yes, he did, didn’t he?” He covered his embarrassment by grabbing a sweetbread and biting into it. He then began to ponder the dream. “I think we should talk to Henry about this.”
His wife shook his head. “He’ll dismiss it as just a dream. He won’t listen. Besides, we don’t even know half of what it means.”
“Trouble,” Charles uttered bluntly. “It means there will be trouble very soon.”
With those ominous words, the pair fell into silence, both trying to understand what the dream meant and if it were a vision of a future to come, how they could prevent it.
Miles away in Richmond Palace, Duke Henry was handling some statecraft. Something he found to be tedious and boring. In truth he would prefer to be spending his days riding, hawking, playing tennis. On a good day, all three.
What would father say if he could hear me? Henry mused with a wry smile on his face as his gaze drifted to his father’s portrait on the wall adjacent to his desk. The portrait showed his father dressed in armor, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword which had been driven into the ground, in his other arm was his helmet. He had a grim visage, his blue eyes had a trace of determination, always seeming to glower at his son, reminding him of his duties.
My father was a miser, a man who never cracked a smile, mused Henry, stroking his beard as he leaned back in his chair. And yet his virtues were exemplary, a true knight who proved himself time and time again. Regardless of how boring I might find it, I shall not dishonor his memory by doing less than he would.
With an annoyed grunt, Henry returned to his work, reading over his secretary’s report. He was relieved when there was a on knock on the door and the distinct sound of his children’s laughter reached his ears.
“Come,” he called, getting up from behind the desk and moving to the front so he could greet the interlopers properly. They burst in like water gushing past the floodgates, climbing on him with great excitement.
“Father! Father!” Margaret exclaimed. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement, her blondish red hair was pinned back with white ribbon. “Bessie just said her first sentence.”
Hal glared at his sister. “In French. She said it in French,” he snapped, sounding affronted that Margaret had somehow insinuated that their almost three-year-old sister wasn’t talking.
Although he was the youngest of the children by Henry’s first wife, he was a head taller than both his full sisters and sometimes took that to mean he could boss them around. Unlike their namesakes, Maggie and Mary allowed him to do so unless they felt he was acting unforgivably rude which was often.
“Mama Nan said her pronunciation was perfect,” enthused Mary, grim splitting across her face at the memory, full of pride for her baby sister. She was short for her age, her eyes a lighter shade of blue and her hair almost auburn.
Henry beamed at his youngest, loving her nickname for her stepmother. “Well, then, let her come and show her papa.”
As if on cue---and knowing his wife, she was most certainly outside his door waiting---in came Anne holding little Elizabeth’s hand as they swept inside. Sweet little Bess had the Tudor red hair, but her dark orbs were purely Boleyn from the shape to the color.
Henry crouched down, opening his arms for Bess to run into them. She let go of her mother’s hand before darting to her father. “Ça va Papa?”
“Ça va bien, ma petite,” Henry answered, rising to his feet, hoisting her upwards. His little girl was so clever. All four of his children were intelligent. He had hired the best tutors he could buy.
Elizabeth glanced at her mother who gave her an encouraging nod. The three other children exchanged mischievous grins which was spotted by their father. “What is this? He demanded, pretending to become aggravated. “Is there a conspiracy going on?”
“Je… serai …une …. grande…. soeur,” Elizabeth spoke slowly, testing each word on her tongue, scrunching her nose up in concentration.
It took Henry a minute to understand what she was saying. “A big sister!” he repeated, pivoting so he was facing Anne, his eyes wide with joy. “Truly?”
“Oui,” Anne replied, placing a pale hand on her stomach. Her husband rushed to her, embracing her with one arm so not to squash their daughter.
“Isn’t that wonderful, Father?” Mary enthused. “A new baby!” She clasped her hands together in delight.
“I hope it is a boy this time,” Hal put in, wrinkling his noses. “I hate being the only boy.”
“Don’t be rude, Hal.” Margaret made the perfect impression of her namesake aunt, complete with the hands on her hips.
“Well, it is true,” Hal snapped. “I am outnumbered.”
Henry beamed at his son. “We shall work on that, won’t we, Anne?” He winked at his wife.
“It is in God’s hands,” Anne opined with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “But we shall try as many times as we can.”
“Try what?” Hal inquired.
“For a baby,” Margaret huffed as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.
Henry winced as his son scrunched up his face in confusion, bracing himself for what was coming next.
“How do they try for a baby?” the Earl of Pembroke asked innocently. His sisters glanced at their father and their stepmother curiously, looking eager for that answer as well. Even toddler Elizabeth seemed intrigued.
“Who wants some sweets,” Anne blurted out, ushering the children out of Henry’s study something he was very grateful for.
“Papa.” Elizabeth reminded her father that he was still holding onto her. “I would like some sweets.”
“As would I, my dear heart,” Henry declared, kissing the top of her head before racing after his wife and children. He needed a break anyway.
His father would have understood. There were days when a man must spend time with the family instead of working.
May 15, 1528
Navarre
Queen Katherine admired the Château de Pau. It had once been a military structure on a hill overlooking the Gave river. When the Spanish had conquered lower Navarre, the royal court had moved official residences to Pau Castle.
It was a lovely structure, made from gleaming white brick. But in Katherine’s opinion, its splendor paled in comparison to the person inside those sturdy walls. She smiled radiantly as she was ushered inside, led through the winding corridors. She did not even bother changing out of her traveling clothes. There was time for that later. Right now, she needed to see her precious daughter.
King Henri had wanted to delight his beautiful bride who had birthed her first babe just a fortnight ago, knowing how much she loved the rare visits from her beloved mother. He had wanted to surprise her, something Katherine was all too happy to indulge.
She met with the king outside her daughter’s chambers. After exchanging pleasantries, they entered the queen of Navarre’s apartments with Henri going into the bedroom first to tell his wife that he had a surprise for her. Seconds later, Katherine entered, her eyes sweeping over the chamber, searching for her precious girl.
“Mother!” Marie was dressed in a white lace nightgown, still recovering from childbirth. She lay on gold velvet sheets underneath a golden canopy that displayed the badge of the House de Albert.
Katherine wasted no time rushing over to her daughter, wrapping her arms around her. “My Maria.” She then held her at arm’s length so she could study her. The last time they had seen each other Marie had been fourteen, freshly married to the King of Navarre. Now she was a woman of twenty-two. She had grown from a mousy slip of a girl into a bright and lovely flower.
“I missed you so,” Marie murmured as she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Her husband ushered her maids out of the room, allowing the pair to have some privacy.
“Not as much as I have missed you, my sweet girl,” professed Katherine, stroking her hair. “Oh, to think it has been over two decades since I held you in my arms. Now you have your own little one.”
“We named her Catherine after both our mothers,” the younger queen revealed. As she moved over so her mother could sit down. “Oh, she is so precious, Mama. I hate being apart from her.”
Katherine glanced down at her hands as if she could see her baby daughter as she had been in her arms. “I know that feeling.”
Marie grabbed Katherine’s hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Aunt Anne told me how much it hurt leaving me behind. I know if you had a choice, you would have never left me. I never resented you for it.” She had her moments of insecurity that her mother preferred her half-siblings over her, but she never for a single second thought she had been abandoned.
The Spanish woman embraced her daughter fiercely, tears springing to her eyes. She didn’t know how much she needed to hear those words until they had fallen from Marie’s lips.
“How long will you stay?” Marie inquired, her blue eyes sparkling in hope.
Katherine bit her lip. King Henri’s invitation was for however long they wanted (he had made that expressively clear). Ned had urged her to stay at least a month, knowing it would bring both her and her daughter joy. However, with her husband’s worsening health, she feared staying away from England, least he fell ill again. And yet, how could she say no those pleading azure orbs?
“For as long as you have me,” she answered, drawing a delighted Marie into her arms.
May 20, 1528
England
“Ed!” The look of pure joy lit up his brother’s narrow visage. The seventeen-year-old still had a baby face, cleanshaven, which made him look much younger than he did. His brother, Liam, used to joke that people would mistake him for the older brother.
The Duke of Exter smiled as he embraced his favorite brother. “Did you really think I’d miss your wedding?”
“Technically, Renée and I are already married,” John pointed out. “She will just arrive in England, and we will have a celebration.”
Ed chuckled, throwing his arm around John’s shoulder as they walked through the garden of Whitehall Palace. “Are you nervous?”
“A little,” John admitted, rubbing his neck. “But Renée and I have been exchanging letters for years. I am certain we shall get along. I just don’t know if we will connect as husband and wife.”
His older brother gave him an indulgent hair ruffle. “Little brother, let me give you a piece of friendly advice from someone who has been married for a very long time. As long as you can come to an understanding you will have a harmonious marriage.”
“Understanding?” Prince John’s brow knitted together, bewildered.
Ed smirked as his gaze followed a butterfly flying to a nearby flower bed, seemingly distracted for a moment. “Quiteria doesn’t complain about my mistresses, and I don’t complain that she hasn’t had a pregnancy since we were married.”
The Duke of Bedford sucked in a breath. Although the lack of offspring between the Exters had been noted, it had not been commented on. “I’m sorry, Ed.”
The older York prince shrugged, his eyes averted. “It is not like I would have made a good father anyway.”
John could almost hear the unspoken “Not after what I did to Ritchie.” Even after four years, his older brother had not stopped punishing himself. He was the only member of the family, barring Charlotte and Lizzie, who had not met the posthumans twins of Ritchie.
“Ed,” he began, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” He wished his brother could understand that. Sure, Ed could be aggressive at times, but even in his worst moments, he never intended to cause harm.
“That didn’t stop Charlotte from sending me a letter calling me a murderer and a monster,” snapped Ed. “She has sent me a letter on Ritchie’s birthday and the anniversary of his death, reminding me of my sins and how she always knew I was a brute.”
“Since when have you cared what that bitch thinks!” John sneered, fury crashing into him like stormy waves pounding a ship to bits. As a rule, the younger prince loved everyone and everybody, but Charlotte was the exception to that rule. She was rude and arrogant. The knowledge that even miles away in Austria, she was still causing trouble infuriated him, going out of her way to be spiteful and hateful.
“I don’t,” insisted Exter, untangling himself from John, walking to a tree and punching it, causing the branches to shake. “It was an accident. But I am still the reason four children have no father, two of whom will never get to meet him.”
“I know how you feel,” the Duke of Rivers told him softly.
“NO, YOU DON’T!” Ed roared, spinning around, his face suddenly a nasty shade of red, his lips curled up into a snarl.
John took a step back. Ed never yelled at him. Never. His shock must have been visible on his countenance because his older brother softened at once.
“Come on, let’s go back inside,” he declared, beginning to stride down the stone path they had been on. John followed him dutifully, not wanting to upset him again and cause him to run back to Ireland for another four years.
They rounded a shrubbery and stumbled on a sight. Right in front of a grand fountain was Prince Tom embracing Anne Boleyn’s older sister. The couple separated once they realized they had company.
At once the gloom that had been hanging over Ed’s head like a storm cloud cleared and the grin that spread across his face was almost predatory. “What do we have here? Brother, are you being naughty?”
The Duke of Bedford glared at Ed, but before he could open his mouth, Lady Mary quickly intervened, “May I take my leave, Your Grace?” she requested, her eyes only on Tom who gave her a gentle smile and a small nod. The blond curtsied three times before hurrying away as quickly as she could.
“Well?” Ed’s manner was delighted as if he was glad to have something to lord over his younger brother’s head. “Have your being naughty?”
Tom glared at him. “I would not dishonor Lady Boleyn in such a way. She is a married woman, and I would not harm her reputation being doing anything untoward.”
“Then you are a better man than our uncle,” Ed snorted before clapping Tom on the back. “So, what exactly did John and I just see? Were you checking her temperature or was she feeling faint and just needed two strong arms to catch her and hold her?”
“That’s enough,” Tom growled. He was a fairly mellow man, but he did not put up with Ed’s teasing.
“I have an idea,” John interjected, hoping to prevent an argument. “Why don’t we fetch Liam and the four of us can go on a hunt. We can even see if Izzy and Kitty might be willing to join us.”
“That is a fine idea!” Ed declared, his earlier sour mood completely forgotten. “What do you say, Tom?”
Despite usually not liking outdoor activities, to the point where he was becoming a bit round in the gut, the Duke of Bedford smiled. “That’s sounds grand.”
With that, the brothers walked back in the direction of Whitehall, unaware this would be the last time they would be so peaceful.
May 31, 1528
King Edward drummed his quill on his mahogany desk, trying to concentrate on the words on the parchment. Negotiations with the Duke of Ferrara for the marriage between his son and the Princess Catherine were coming along nicely. His daughter was fourteen years old and would leave for the province of Ferrara in less than two years.
With Liam joining the clergy and Princess Isabel marrying Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, that left only Tom without a certain future. In truth, Edward felt that Tom had grown distant over the years, preferring the countryside. He talked to him about getting a wife or perhaps joining the church but neither had interested the middle child of his and Ali’s offspring.
Sighing heavily, Ned ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing as he felt the spots where it was thinning. He had two more years until he turned sixty, but the way he felt, he might as well have been eighty. In just four years, he was balding, going grey, and he couldn’t even sneeze without him being confined in his bed for weeks, an endless line of regents standing in for him.
Little Hal is only eight, and he will soon be thrust into kinghood, Edward bemoaned.
A knock on his door distracted him from depressive thoughts. “Come,” he commanded. A young man entered, his eyes wild in fear. At once the hairs stood up on Edward’s neck. It was undoubtedly bad news. “What is it? What happened?”
“News from London, Majesty.” The young man began to quiver, his voice shaking. “They say several people have fallen ill with terrible fever and there is a scent of vinegar.”
Edward was inundated with dread, his stomach flip flopping with fear. The sweat, he realized. The dreadful sickness was back.
June 10, 1528
What happened? That was Henry’s only thought as the carriage barreled towards Ludlow, racing to stay ahead of the deadly disease that had suddenly swept over England.
Right now, he was cramped in this box with his mother and his children, struggling to keep himself calm as they fled. It all seemed surreal. Just a fortnight ago he and Anne were discussing baby names. Then she went to Hever to visit her parents. Then…
Thank God she chose not to bring Elizabeth with her, Henry mused grimly, pressing the toddler closer to him, kissing her sweet head. It was bad enough that his beloved Anne was languishing in Hever, ill with the sweat, but had Elizabeth been there, she might have fallen sick as well. The bright light that was his youngest daughter would have extinguished after spending a short time on this earth.
And what of Anne? What will happen to my wife? What if she----
“Henry!” Elizabeth of York’s voice was sharp but quiet. She did not want to disturb the sleeping children. Mary and Hal were both resting their heads on her lap. Margaret on the other hand was leaning against the padded side of the carriage while she held her father’s hand. Henry’s other arm was around the toddler Elizabeth, clinging to her more than she was to him.
Once she was sure that she had gotten her son’s attention without waking up her slumbering grandchildren, Elizabeth spoke gently, “Remember what Dr. Butts told us. We must remain calm and not give into despair. We must stay strong.”
“I know, Mother, I know,” Henry affirmed, his stomach lurching as the carriage rolled over a bump in the road. “But Anne is sick. I fear for her health as well as our baby.”
Elizabeth of York reached across to pat her son’s hand. “I know. This is a terrifying time for us all. But we must keep faith. Believe in her strength to overcome her illness.”
Henry swallowed thickly, nodding. He wished he could be as confident as his mother, but he had lost so many people in his life, he could not help but be afraid.
June 22, 1528
The view was lovely from the balcony. The way the setting sun hit the river, making it gleam. Admiring the sunset was a good distraction. Princess Leonor enjoyed such distractions, taking her mind off of her troubles. She sat at a table, dressed in a gown of black brocade, wearing a matching Spanish headdress, complete with her mourning veil.
She had not meant to fall so hard as she did for her beloved husband, but Ritchie was so open, so genuine, so loving, that every day without him was one of pure agony. They should have spent the rest of their lives together, until they were old and gray. To lose him so early, while their children were still babes, was a tragedy of the upmost cruelty.
“Your Highness.” Jane Seymour was one of her newest ladies, blonde haired with a pale complexion. She was quiet and unassuming and yet the way her blue eyes seemed to peer into her very soul, it was like she could see that her mistress was drifting off towards despair. “May I get you something? You didn’t eat much supper. I could have the kitchens send something for you to nibble on. Or perhaps----”
“I am most well, Mistress Seymour,” Leonor interjected, suddenly aware of water dripping down her cheeks. She glanced up expecting it to be raining but she could see nothing. “Perhaps I will retire early.”
Her lady was like a startled rabbit, jumping towards her, ready to help her up. Thankfully, one glare was enough to get her to back off.
“I might be gloomy, but that does not make an invalid.” When she was married to Ritchie, she was someone important. The other half of the royal couple in waiting. Now she was the dowager princess, the widow of the king who never would be. If it weren’t for the birth of the heir and the spare, she would be shipped back to her brother who would sell her to the next groom he could find, expecting her to forget about the man she loved.
I would rather die than marry again, Leonor declared. The worst part was the knowledge that if her son became king before he reached the age of majority, the Lord Protector could very well send her packing, uncaring that they would be separating four underage children from their remaining parent.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, I did not mean to overstep.” Jane dipped into a curtsy lowering her eyes. “I merely wish to attend you as best I can.”
Leonor softened. The girl was only a decade younger than her and yet there was some naivety in her, a girlish charm. “I know you mean well, Mistress Seymour. You are new and yet you show great loyalty to me.”
Jane’s cheeks flushed pink. “You are a great lady, and I cannot help but admire your strength and dignity.”
The Dowager Princess of Wales chuckled, lifting herself out of her chair, allowing her limbs to stretch after spending so much time sitting. Suddenly she heard her stomach rumble and realized perhaps she should not have been so quick to refuse food. She was about to tell her lady as much when Lady Katherine Edgcumbe came bursting into the rooms, darting out to the balcony.
Lady Edgecumbe was plump woman in her thirties, medium height, and sweet round face. Right now, her countenance was contorted with fear and despair. “My lady, I have terrible news from London,” she proclaimed.
Leonor’s heartbeat quickened until she felt it would burst out of her chest. “Say on,” she commanded, her voice shaking.
“The king has fallen ill with the sweat,” Lady Edgecumbe announced, tears leaking out of her eyes. She dabbed them with her handkerchief.
Leonor did not even realize she had fallen forwards until she felt Lady Seymour’s hands grasping her arm. The younger woman guided her to a chair while Edgecumbe barked for a servant to bring some calming herbs.
The princess barely comprehended all that went on around her, still trying to process what she had just heard. It seemed her fears were coming true sooner than she thought.
Oh, my love, please give me the strength, she prayed, closing her eyes as she remembered the touch of her husband, pretending to feel the warmth of his embrace. Our children need me, and I need you.
Meanwhile, the walls of York Palace seemed to shake with the loud shouting of the Duke of York and the Earl of Nottingham. They had just received the news of the king’s condition and to no one’s surprise, Dickon wanted to fly to his brother’s side. Robert strongly disagreed.
“My brother is dying.” Dickon paced around the room of his solar like a caged beast. The spacious room were filled with tapestries of famed knights, a few decorative vases done in Greek style. But all of that mattered little to the two men. “And you have the nerve to tell me that I cannot go. Like I was some naughty child.”
“Father, forgive me.” While his words were polite, Robert’s manner was mocking as he gritted his teeth. “As foolish as it may sound, I do not want you riding to your death.” He really wished his mother were here. Maybe she could get through to his father’s thick skull. He’d even take the obvious pandering and manipulating Henry Percy if that got the Duke of York to see reason for once.
“How dare you!” Dickon thundered. “I am your father, boy! You have no right to speak to me in that tone of voice!”
“You are my father,” agreed Robert. “And that is why I don’t want you running off to London where a contagious disease is continuing to spread. Dammit, Father, do you have any sense of self preservation.”
“His wife is dead, the Spanish queen abandoned him, the only sister he has left is on her way to Wales,” Dickon protested. “I am the only one who can be there for him.”
It took all of his son’s willpower not to slap his forehead in frustration. He decided to try a different tactic. “Would he want you risking your life over him? What would he say if he knew you were planning to charge off to London, despite the risk of your health?”
Dickon opened his mouth to speak, but then reconsidered. “He would tell me, he needed me to live. That he needed me to be alive for his grandchildren, protect them from those who might do to them what was done to us.”
Robert sighed, knowing full well what his father was hinting at. However, if his paranoia of the Tudors meant he would stay away from the counties still in the grips of the sweat, then he was willing to indulge it for once.
“But he is my brother, and he needs me!” Dickon all but collapsed in an armchair, burying his face in his hands. “He used to say it was us against the world. That as long as he was alive, he would always protect me. What kind of brother would I be if I weren’t there for him when he needed me the most?”
Robert went over to his father, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Uncle Ned loved you more than anyone else. He would want you alive especially now. He will need you to be regent for his grandson.”
The Duke of York’s head shot up, determination flickering in his eyes. “I have to protect Prince Hal. Ned will make me Lord Protector and I must be ready to guard him from our enemies!” Of course, his brother would make him regent. There was no one else more dedicated or loyal than him.
He then rose from his chair and embraced his son. “You are so sensible and shrewd.”
“I get it from my mother,” Robert quipped, causing his father to break out in a belly laugh.
“Aye, you do, my boy.” Dickon grinned at him, not at all upset by the stealth insult. “As soon as the Sweat has gone, I want you to send for your brothers. Even if Ned lives through this, I think we need to have a strong faction to help him while he recovers. But if he doesn’t, I want to be prepared. I wouldn’t put it past Richmond to do what my hateful uncle did.”
Robert sighed but nodded. If it kept his father away from London, there was no harm indulging his wishes. He just prayed that if the worst happened and Edward really died, the people his father had angered wouldn’t join together to usurp his position as Lord Protector.
June 30, 1528
King Edward lay on his great bed, sweat dripping off him like waves. He felt like he was on fire and yet at the same time, he was so cold. He was dying and he knew it. Archbishop Warham was standing a few feet away from the foot of his bed as was his secretary. No one else dared to be in the same room as him.
Black curtains were drawn over the window, leaving the only light to be dozens of candles that caused the grim countenances of his two mourners to glow.
“Your Majesty, do you have any last words?” Warham questioned, his vice sounding far away.
“I ask my lords, my brother, my wife, my nephews, my sons to help King Henry the Seventh,” he croaked. “Protect him, guide him. He will need it just as I have. I ask that they put aside any petty bickering to work for the good of the realm. I ask for God to judge me justly. And for my loved ones not to weep for I am finally at peace.”
Warham began to say a prayer, but Edward could barely make out what he was saying. Everything was going dark, and it was like the sound was slowly fading out.
Suddenly his world was white like he was in the middle of a blizzard. Edward looked around, expecting to see Ali, Ritchie, his mother, or his father.
“Your Majesty.”
The monarch’s heart leapt and suddenly he was a boy again, searching for an ally and finding a father figure instead.
“Are there titles here, Henry?” he demanded, beholding the man in front of him with a big grin.
The original Duke of Richmond seemed years younger, though no less stern. However, he managed to crack a smile. “I suppose not, Ned.” He didn’t even lecture the younger man when he embraced him. “Now let’s get you to our family. Your children and your wife were kind enough to distract your parents before I had a chance to greet you. Your half-brothers were bickering with your sisters while I snuck away.”
Edward grinned as they walked into the mist, feeling far freer than he had since the day his father died. It was like all his troubles had come to an end and he could finally be at rest.
He just wished he could say the same for the ones he left behind.
“They will get through this just as you did,” Henry promised him as though he could read Edward’s thoughts. “You have served England for over thirty years. It is time for you to have some peace.”