3A/N: Richard and Anne try to come to terms with the loss of Edward.
Two years after the BBC adaptation of The White Queen/The Red Queen/The Kingmaker's Daughter aired, The Cousins' War fandom has taken a hold of me again and so I felt compelled to re-write this scene.
As I am not Philippa Gregory nor have anything to do with the show, how can I possibly own The Cousins War? I am simply an armchair historian trying to flesh out the real life characters of this historical drama into something of my choosing- please don't sue me!
The Boar and the Swallow
'Your Grace,
I am deeply sorry to tell you that your son, Prince Edward, had died this night of a fever which we could not cool.' – The Kingmaker's Daughter pg. 401
I cannot move.
I cannot speak.
The letter slips from my hand without feeling, my fingers icy; the blow not yet received.
All I feel is numbness. Somewhere I feel the cold hands of the York Princess; this icy winter girl reach to brush my fingers but I cannot look at her. I know as well as she does that our claim is lost, my husband's claim is lost. She knows as well as I do that the next in line will be her cousin, funny little Teddy, Isabelle's boy. That our cause, my husband's cause and all that went with it is as good as gone now, Richard's honour, our children, our support in the North…
Isabelle…
My stomach tightens at the thought of her on her deathbed, her face frozen in death; her deep, dark eyes closed forever.
And with the grief comes the realisation, the realisation that I will never see either of them again. I will never hear Issy's stories about the dreaded Wolf Queen who haunted our nightmares as children and forced me to break my allegiance with the house of York in order to marry her Lancastrian son; dead all too soon during the chaos of the battle of Barnet with my father and thousands of other loyal supporters. I will never hold my boy, my Edward again; or see his bright grey eyes sparkle with joy at seeing his cousins or riding his pony.
I will never watch him grow up, grow into his manhood where he would take the crown that is his birth right and have his reign shine through the sun of York.
Elizabeth's hand has tentatively gripped mine, wanting nothing more but to comfort me, to unite us in our grief; her for her lost father and brothers and me for my sister and son.
I cannot let her touch me. I will not let her touch me. I have to fight all my instincts to curl up and howl the grief away, to tear her apart like I saw Margaret of Anjou howl like a wounded lioness as she prowled Tukesbery Abbey. I have to keep my mask, my iron mask that I have worn for so long in place so that she does not, she cannot see how much this is hurting me.
The sensation of a hand, a rougher hand reaching down to pull me to my feet does little to pull me out of the grief stained stupor that I have found myself in. It is a hard hand, a battle worn hand that has explored every inch of me in happier times, it is Richard's hand but even when he kneels to look at me, I cannot acknowledge him.
All I see is his dark, chiselled face blanched pale with expectation and I find it impossible to believe that he does not know; that the weight of grief that is crushing my very soul has not consumed him yet.
'What is it?' His voice is barely a whisper; a breath of a question, so low that I hardly hear it. 'They said you had a letter. They did not... They could not tell me more….' The words are so low that I can almost fool myself that it is just the two of us together, that I can say this privately and we can share our grief; that Elizabeth is not present, that she will not hear it and understand what it means for us, what it means for her upstart of a family….
The letter. That scrap of paper sodden with silent tears that is scrunched in my fist, barely readable now.
I cannot answer him. I know that I have to, that Edward was just as much his son, his hopes and dreams as he was mine, but I find that I cannot. My grief is straining at its' boundaries, willing me to let it burst forth in a great torrent of pain.
I feel myself take a breath, try to steady myself, to steel myself against the all -consuming grief that is threatening to overwhelm me.
'It is Edward', I say; but the words are not my own. Dimly I hear his sharp intake of breath and selfishly will for the silence that has lapsed between us to continue forever, that he will continue to be unknowing and if he is unknowing then it does not have to be true and we can retire to Middelham and everything will be as it was before.
'Our Edward', I repeat before I can stop myself, forcing myself to relay to him the worst news in the world before I lose my nerve completely. 'He is dead of a fever. Richard… Oh Richard… We have… We have lost our son'.
The court appears to have fallen under a magic spell, its' warm vitality shrouded in an impenetrable blue fog. Richard, my Richard; the boy who I knew at Middelham with his dark eyes and unquenchable thirst for valiant honour seems to have aged ten years in the space of two weeks.
I am a doll; stiff in my grief, unyielding in my sorrow at the loss of my son; my boy; the pinnacle of all our hopes and dreams. My maids sense this and dress me like one, with not even Elizabeth's soft touch able to rise me from my waking sleep.
All too soon, my grief turns to anger, anger that burns low in the pit of my stomach. The tears I shed at night are hot, angry tears; anger at myself for not being with the children, shameful anger at not being able to bear a strong, healthy boy like the ones born to the witch Elizabeth Woodville; now all but vanished from the Tower or Teddy; in whom I will always see the spirit of my lost son, however hard I try to look away. The shame seems to claw at me, strangle me until I find it impossible to breathe; shame at not giving Richard a second heir; a second heir that would secure our claim, a second heir to share the joyous burden of Richard's triumph and refuses to let me go.
The journey to Middleham is one of heavy, grief filled silence. The thought of seeing Maggie and Teddy after so long kindles a slight flame of joy inside me; but all too soon the memory of Edward, our Edward returns and it is extinguished.
The remaining children are found kneeling beside a child's coffin; their grief etched all too clearly upon their pale, thin faces.
Maggie reaches for me and instinctively I draw her close; wanting nothing more than to hold her as she cries; whispering over and over again, 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry'. It is almost as if she thinks that the words are a spell that could reverse all that has happened and Edward; the strength of the house could be with us once more.
We stay there for what feels like an eternity; my face buried in the gown of a ten year old girl, my niece who has lost her parents and her cousin and now; at the tender age of ten, is trying with all her might to be a mother to the ones she has left.
I do not cry. I cannot cry for there are no tears left for me to shed. At night, Richard and I sleep in separate bed chambers; wishing to be alone in our grief. The grief is silent now; a feeling of complete and utter emptiness that seems to consume our very souls. I welcome it. I have wished to feel nothing for so long, after having felt everything far too keenly for far too long.
Our façade can only last so long though. One night, when the first signs of spring are just peeping into bloom and the days are beginning to lengthen; he comes to visit me, his footsteps as silent as those of a kitchen cat.
'Anne', he whispers; his voice trying to be the loving, tender caress it had been in the first glorious flush of love.
I cannot answer him at first. I do not wish to answer him, I do not even want him here; not now, not after all this time. 'Anne. You must carry on. For the sake of the children…'
For the sake of the children! A hard, harsh, derisive laugh bubbles up inside my throat and I struggle to bite it back.
'They are not my children', I manage to whisper into the still night air. 'They are Isabelle's, they never can be mine'.
'They need a mother,' he whispers in my hair, the words hard with a lead-like emotion. I feel the bed begin to creak under his weight as he sits beside me, one hand caressing the spillage of golden locks that I was so proud of as a little girl.
I do not reply, I need not reply as without a word, I feel myself being lifted into his arms; the same arms that had carried me away from the carnage of Teweksbury Abbey, the same arms that have explored every inch of me and never tired.
'I was a mother', I say at last, forcing the words through the tears that are threatening to spill at any moment. 'I was a mother and… And she… She…' I do not need to elaborate on who I mean by 'she'. I know that Richard knows as clear as I do that I am referring to Elizabeth Woodville and her daughters who have cursed our line out of spite for losing their boys. The two witches who had worked their Burgundian magic around our beloved Edward like a silent cloak, tearing and enflaming his lungs and then his heart; his poor, poor heart.
'I know', he says at last, drawing me close so that I can hear the steady thump of his heart against my own. I know what he is doing. I know he thinks that by putting the broken hearts of two people together, the combined pain can be lessened.
It does not help. Nothing can ever help but as I find myself engulfed within the security of his arms, his head rested on my hair; I am finally able to allow myself to howl the grief that has been consuming my soul for so long away.
Fin
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x