Inspired by the thread 'Princess Over the Water' on Alternate History Discussion. Enjoy!
Nottingham,1484
"Richard."
Richard turned at his old friend's voice, surprised, but not entirely displeased to hear Francis's disregard for protocol. To use his Christian name, rather than any one of the slew of formal address that were his by virtue of his royal estate, spoke volumes for the trust and affection Francis held him in. And St Ninian knew Richard could do with those who trusted him – and whom he trusted in return - around him now, as he tried to re-stabilise the country in the wake of the southern rebellion this past autumn.
"Yes, Francis?"
"This just came from Middleham by urgent courier. I thought you ought to see it at once."
"Thank you," Richard nodded, reaching out a hand for the slim packet Francis was holding out to him and broke the seal.
His eyes darted over the close-written lines. The colour drained from his face and he had to clutch at a nearby chair to keep himself upright.
"Christ," he swore softly.
"Richard? Richard, what is it?"
Alarmed, Francis pulled Richard's hand off the chair and helped him to sit down in it, not at all liking the sudden pallor of his old friend's face. Richard let himself be manoeuvred, every inch of his body suddenly nerveless with shock. The parchment fluttered from his hands and he buried his head in them instead.
"What's happened?"
Francis crouched in front of Richard, trying to read the blankness in his eyes. When Richard finally lifted his head, it was as though he'd aged ten years in the span of as many seconds.
"It's the boys, Francis. My Ned and his cousin of Warwick."
"What about them?" Francis pressed, knowing even as he spoke that the news could not be good. Good news would not have rendered Richard this pale.
"They're dead."
The words were simple, starkly so, Francis thought later, but then, Richard had never been one for beating around the bush. And besides, no amount of pretty words could dress up the devastating impact this one simple fact would have on the English Succession.
"Dead?" Francis echoed, "Both of them? How?"
"Measles, so Lady Harrington writes. Young Warwick got it first, but you know how fond Ned is of his cousin. By the time they'd realised how serious the boy's illness was, he'd already passed it on to Ned."
Richard sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, "I swear, Francis, sometimes I think I'm cursed. I nearly lost my northern lands when young George died, Buckingham betrayed me after everything I'd done for him, and now, in one fell swoop, I lose not only my own son, but my brother's as well, my next best heir."
Francis didn't know quite what to say to that. In the end, he didn't say anything. A few seconds later, Richard exhaled.
"I'd better go and tell Anne. God knows how she'll take this. She doted on Ned and young Warwick was one of the few reminders she still had of her sister."
Without another word, he rose to his feet and forced himself out of the door, striding towards the Queen's apartments before he could lose his nerve.
Anne's bedchamber was shuttered, admitted neither light nor cheer. He signalled and behind him, a torch flared into life. Anne didn't stir as he approached the bed. Long, loose hair trailed limply over a bared shoulder. It was uncombed, dulled to a lifeless brittle brown. Her face was pinched and bloodless, as white as the sheets upon which she lay; her eyes were closed, but the lids looked bruised and inflamed. She looked lost in the vastness of their bed, huddled and still under the weight of silken summer coverlets.
Richard sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Her lashes lifted.
"Beloved, I'm sorry," he leaned over to touch his lips to her forehead and was taken aback when she turned her face away.
"Anne, are you angry with me?"
She shook her head swiftly, vehemently. Her face was pressed into the pillow and her voice so muffled, so indistinct, that he had to strain to hear her words.
"No. I'm angry with myself, Richard, not you."
"Why? What on earth can you be angry at yourself for?"
"I should have been there! We both know Ned was never the strongest. I should have been there to help Lady Harrington nurse him, and to nurse Bella's Edward too. But I thought my place was at Court, at your side, to be your Queen! But if I'd been there, if they'd known a mother's touch as they fought the disease, the boys might have lived! I might have saved them!"
"You don't know that! Anne, you can't know that. You've done nothing wrong, dearest, I swear. I swear."
Richard put his hand on Anne's bared shoulder. She stiffened, but didn't pull away. After several long moments, she rolled over to look up at him.
"Forgive me," she pleaded.
The pain in her eyes, in her voice, cut Richard to the quick. "Forgive? Forgive what, Anne? I don't understand."
Tears started to her eyes. She fought to hold them back for just a little longer, "I've failed you."
"Anne, that's not so."
"It's my duty to give you a son, multiple sons. You have the right to expect that of me. Yet I haven't. All I ever managed was to give you Ned, and he was never strong. And now he's gone. He's gone. I've failed you, Richard, I've failed you."
Richard pulled her up; wrapped an arm around her and turned her in to face his chest, nuzzling her dark blonde hair.
"No, Anne," he said softly, "No, that's not true. You haven't failed me at all. You gave me the best of sons. The best. His death is not your fault. It's just the way things are. Some children aren't meant to live to grow up. You know that. Your sister buried two, did she not? My mother, God save her, buried six of us before our time. She grieved them all, but she never blamed herself for what she could not help. So don't you do it either. Grieve for Ned, for Edward, that's only natural, but don't blame yourself for what you cannot help."
Burying her face in his shoulder, she wept fiercely, even as he tried to wipe her hot tears away with the pads of his fingers and kissed her wet lashes.
"Hush," he said, "Hush."
Lady Stanley was on her knees in the chapel, praying for guidance. She didn't want to rejoice over the little Prince's death, not truly. It was unchristian to rejoice over another's misfortune after all. Besides, the Queen was a good woman, even if she was rather blindly loyal to that usurping husband of hers.
On the other hand, however, there was no denying that with the little Prince and the young Earl of Warwick dead, two major obstacles had just been removed from her Henry's path. With all the male members of the House of York either dead or presumed to be so, no doubt it wouldn't be long before the time was right for Henry to return to England and claim the throne that was his by rights.
Of course, he would have to survive the next few months first. No doubt 'King' Richard would redouble his efforts to secure both him and Jasper, to lure them out of Brittany and into his clutches, especially now that Henry had made that oath to marry the eldest York girl and unite their warring families when he assumed the throne. That had been a stroke of genius on his part, the one good thing to come out of the shambles of the October rebellion. It had bolstered his claim, made him a far more credible figurehead for those disaffected by Richard's reign who still adhered to the House of York.
At the same time, however, Henry's new credibility made him more vulnerable to the machinations of the other great lords around him. Margaret wouldn't put it past the Bretons to sell him to 'King' Richard, if they thought they could gain any advantage by it.
Perhaps she should write and warn Henry of this, warn him to fly to France before it was too late. Oh, she wasn't meant to communicate with him, of course not, but Urswick would find a way to smuggle her letter out for her, she was sure of it. No one ever looked twice at chaplains. It was part of the reason she so often entrusted delicate matters to men of the cloth.
Her mind made up, Margaret murmured a final Lord's Prayer, crossed herself and rose, already crafting the letter in her mind as she left the chapel.