22nd November 1469

In the sanctum that was her dreams, Isabel gladly shed the chains enslaving her to the temporal. For the past months she willed merry thoughts visit her in those sweet hours. Now that mind finally prevailed over matter, she wove herself among rosy images of frolicking unicorns and walks in perfumed gardens. There, white roses surrounded, their scent ever more sweet in spite of their diamond petals. Hand-in-hand with her, George shone even brighter and they never tired no matter how far they walked. The never-changing image, freely eager rushed to her, like she imagined peasant children would towards their mothers.

A brisk wind bellowed through the damp corners of London's narrow streets, its whistle pressing onto even the city's most officious dwellers to not venture further than the thresholds of their homes, as the first sleep was coming to an end. Isabel gently rose and tucked the errant dark strands that had escaped the confines of the silk she took to wrapping around the length of her hair, to preserve its softness. The next time she awoke, would be in the dreaded anticipation of returning to the Woodville court where after so many months she would have to once again see for herself her father and husband cornered by the Edward's household men and their sidelong glances.

As typical, no creases were to be found on the pearly linen. George used to joke that should anyone ever think to intrude into her chambers during those hours they would think that she was in fact lying in state, face placid and pale, fingers crossed over an unmoving belly. Now visibly with child, her mother thought it improper for them to be seen sharing a bed, her prudery extending this veto to even Anne who selflessly offered herself for sisterly companionship. Now alone and enveloped in the heaviness of stale silence, came the irresistible draw to stay awake yet unmoved, to seize the calmness.

She peered at the wooden leg, supporting her canopy, to find that the little tyke had also decided to shed itself free from its earthly collar and rope. Isabel feared the greyhound had already entered into the advanced stages of its rampage of L'Erber; laying siege on her mother's settles. She drew her fox furs over her shoulders before making for the stairwell, grumbling to herself ' What possessed me to accept this pup, when I know dogs never listen to me? Should have left all four of the whelps to Anne, Father and George'

The main hall of L'Erber was adrift with slumber, it bode well with the sombre carvings in the English Oak of the chairs and longtables. The row of oriel windows were like large eyes into the gardens, the grass sleek after the succession of rainy days bowed them to nature's will turned oppressive. After throwing some quick glances, she continued to her father's cabinet as the moonlight sprang in intensity colouring the cream threshold arch, into a patchwork of shades of jewelled blues, reds and greens, mirrors to the glass' reflections.

In the chasm of night, she could make out the sound of light steps drawing closer. She met them with the free long-strides afforded to her by her nightgown and found George clutching at her dog. To her, he looked as strange in his white shirt and plain breeches, as the kitchenboy would donned in his plumed caps.

Whispering yet startled, he beckoned her into the cabinet. 'The poor thing was parched, my sweet, I found it trying for Anne's room, I gave it some water and would return it you'

Isabel cocked her head and smiled 'of course it did, my sister seems to retain some magic over these creatures'

The bolt slid behind them with a thump 'maybe she remembers to feed them or perhaps your dousing of flowery scents does not agree with them' he teased reverting to his normal pitch

'I do not douse myself' she protested before feeling a heat penetrate through the flimsy satin of her sleeves and the scent of wax fill the air from the half-a-dozen candles burning about a wooden table. She knew instantly to ask 'what you seem grave, my love, what troubles you so?'

He looked to the papers as the silver glow from outside mingled with the golden candlelight; sharpening the lines of his cheekbones and nose, it mingled with the hazel in his eyes setting their golden aglow like the pages in an illumination. Her breath caught in her throat, sudden awe washing over her in pangs. In the past, they seldom came accompanied by feelings of inadequacy, but tonight they did. 'Nothing truly important Isabel. I paid a simple revisit to the terms of the amnesty, granted to us yesterday'

Thin dark eyebrows knitted in slight confusion 'Aren't such documents about four pages? I see at least one hundred there'

She took deliberate steps towards the mound, but he got there first. The pile nearest to her was filled with sums and numbers jumbled around within its mahogany leather covers. Lone deeds were interspersed around, surrounded, like rushes on the flagstones, they dropped to the floor with each frantic movement of George's hands.

She knelt to pick up a ceaded scrap, across it, lines were scrawled in fours, the penmanship raw and inelegant. Before she could make out the words, George reached in and in one fell movement plonked it in his pitcher. The ink turned the contents blue as its truth unravelled in the water.

Isabel froze 'what-', he regarded her, a defeated intensity came in response with a blank stare 'Your father, I shall put simply, scorns my efforts. He gambled for Edward like he would not, now for me. It strikes me, how fool I was to shut my ears when he was accused of favouring the party of Margaret of Anjou', he then entered into a slurred babble as he slowly sat down as if in the grips of a headache 'Monipenny, him and the spider, Calais, the charges-'

'Husband of mine, would you let your doubt divide?' she plead feeling herself kneel beside his chair, the oaken floors hard and numbingly painful under cold knees. 'Does our dream no longer beseech you? The perfumed garden of England, the Camelot, through which we shall all walk, forever'

'That may be so, truly I trust your dear heart. But here in your father's dreams the white roses have wilted to red, ever since the disillusionment that was my brother. This accursed amnesty, I did not want it, your father alone did, and for what? Do not even have me begin on your uncle of Northumberland'

'My father, my uncle.. Husband they are your cousins too, not my kin alone' she felt her voice reduce to a harsh whisper 'Men to fight Humphrey of Brancepath could not be mustered until Edward were released. If father had not ridden north with Edward the Lancastrians would have breached the northern defenses, scoured our territories seizing off them any value. Neville lands to which I feel you too often forget are your livelihood also, as your mother's son'

He felt her eyes bore into his from below, glowering in shivering green glints 'Rise up, I will never have you kneeling, my sweet, not even to me' he cajoled, while caressing the softness of her cheeks. When reaching the curve of her downturned eyes she could feel his fingers pull firmly, pinching even. 'Do not think I have forgotten. Your father makes good work of reminding me every day of the Neville exceptionalism, a debt borne from my blood on your wealth. In the past, where a King alienated his barons, a violent fall was never too far behind. All the same, whenever a baron rose too high...' He started acidly, stood drawing her up to him. Certain sentences did not need to be ended.

She shook clinging to him, twisting in a strange guilt as she sought the warmth spreading from his hands. To her surprise, his winded tightly around her in instinctive protection. Disjointed moments like this were becoming more commonplace, shrouded in these fogs of light-headededness Isabel could never quite make out who George meant to make his enemies, their enemies. As a girl she was taught to hate Lancaster. It was easy, they were the murderers of her grandfather and uncle. As a woman it was Edward's York. They who took those sacrifices for linen scraps in surplus, past use, unworthy of embedment in the regalia of these robes made for Edward's new age. Learning to hate Neville was as impossible as learning to hate George. When the day comes that those two shall split, so shall I, in two equally bloodied parts.

'He loves you George, differently than he did Edward. But, he is past gambling' is what finally came out in muffled notes between palpitations 'I speak not for uncle, but father, like the lord, he works in mysterious ways. He is patient and biding his time'

'Biding his time Isabel?' he retorted incredulously 'By setting us backwards?'

'No no, now with the Grand Council's amnesty granted, you will be able to muster troops soon, you see. What is necessitated is time' she drew away to his unconvinced eyes narrowing 'I tell you how insulted he was, gravely so, when parliament denied you' as if you were the son he never had and had forgotten he still wanted. A hope that lay dormant first when I showed no interest in military tactics and again when for a good year, Anne would cry every time venison was served. You came and it revived in you, his Neville heir, the recievor of the smile that which had once been for my eyes only. It became her to verbally lay onto George all the praises that he inspired in her, but this, she would not realise by saying, and would continually for as long as circumstances were not so dire to force them from her mouth.

She beckoned him to the window seat, somewhere to level them, her dog pacing behind them mirroring the sound of their steps with its light staccato ones like an echo in the void. 'Edward is not a king for England, he will show himself thus and everytime it will lodge itself into the minds of the men in the commons, bearing into their conscience. That must be father's plan' she decided

'A passive attack, one with too many variables, truly wife-' began George

'Your reign will not be as Edward's, why must it surprise you that your path is not modelled in the likeness of the one he took? You face a harder foe than he ever did, in time the commons will think on Clarence for daft Henry of Lancaster be no substitute. Look to two months past, then only uncle John could enter London now...'

'Now we are "his bestest friends"' chuckled George to Isabel's relief, resting a hand on her womb, suspicion was smothered bloodlessly in its infancy. 'Until our son comes into this world, right you are, clever wife of mine, as your father thinks, we will bide our time' he took on a sterner tone, proclaiming 'smiling and revelling while the populace shall stir clandestinely in our shadows. As we shall prosper, Edward will rest easily lulled into the bed built onto the false security he so desperately seeks'

She covered his hand with hers, feeling their intertwined weights protecting the beggining of their glorious legacy, now safely tucked by the blanketing darkness that lay beyond the guttering candles, until it would rise glorious like the three suns at Mortimer's Cross, humbling all men in its blinding promise . How fortunate he is, saddled with a wife who does not shirk glory for comfort. Glory... For a matter of moments her mind was throttled to Rivers and his son, mechanically it reclaimed its place before guilt could 'England will be ready then, and only then could Camelot be reborn, in all its bygone beauty. Arthur rose in you, now as England needed' she said with the luxury of earnestness not necessity. If it were not for his mention of the child, she would have forgotten its role in all of this. Premonitions were now matched. She now stood witness to his beam, eerie in its small belonging.

'Why do you look at me like this?' she whispered perplexed, by then the passage of time had snuffed out the orange light, leaving only silver beams for them to make any likeness of each other, nevertheless his countenance shone, pure in its bareness.

The soft sigh that followed hid an unexampled longing better than it did his amusement. A kin of numbing dolour, but through whose clasp seeped joys plangent, like sands, rushing the tighter they are gripped. 'I shudder to think what you will ask if I ever look upon you in anger' he murmured. 'My do you have a knack at reading expressions' he replied in a sarcasm that resounded far too gently to be playfully intended.

'Why, but the same could be said for you' she chided sighing 'You roam these halls, looking for what? Lancastrian bribes in father's log books? Secret promises to Edward in letters? Look about you, I am not alone in my love for you'

'You mean Margaret? I should hope so, but from her letters, I can see that Charles has claimed all her affections. A child shall come and I will be forgotten' he said sadly

'Your mother then, George' said her deep voice, twice older than her years 'That supper summer past your brother said-'

'Edward always believes he knows what tricks to employ, to get me to recant' interjected George looking out onto the gilded edges of some thirty rustling hedges 'He would stoop so low. To use her name as bait when the world knows how it was Richard she favoured, the one she praised who bore our father's features and was as diligent as her in anything he laid his hands on', with a yawn escaping him, he rubbed his eyes feeling them drop. He stared at his fist which now bore three fallen eyelashes, all curled and dark.

He blew them away recalling the same three wishes he always prayed upon, while her gaze was briefly dropped, scratching at the emblazoned roses bobbing at her hem, finding their point of strain. What would Edward know anyway?, it is not as if he had been his brother at Fotheringhay or Ludlow. Watching him grow into this man. I hasten the days when George will see that my love for him strangles - nay, could drown the love of a court. A sea crashing into a road hole, one a loaded waggon could ride over with ease.

'I confess I can not sleep, the cold does not agree with me' she heard him say and quietened with an offer to join her.

'These hours have made a different character of my proprietous wife, what would the lady Anne say to that or you wandering about in this cloth' he chuckled drawing a hand to his chest, imitating her indignant gesture of choice.

'She would say it would do none good to have you dozing off on father when your brother bids you genuflect next morrow, anyhow, I am hers to command no longer' she said straining for the dog, as her father's patters made themselves heard, inching towards the kitchens for a crumb or two of raspberry pie. A habit even her mother did not know of.

She stifled an amusement at George's initial fright before they scurried off like two miscreant children. Inside, the pup leapt from her hold, the silk from her head misplaced itself upon its nail. 'Come, leave your hair fall, it's such a rare sight for me that I sometimes forget we are wed' said George

With a nod she acquiesced, the featherbed was colder than when last left. 'As it were, the woes of having war marry us. I would have willed that I remained young Duchess for longer, before becoming a mother on the eve of her consignment'

George was clearly amused by her peculiarity, this woman who seemed to have revelled these months past, belly thrust forward, hands shielding it with every step she took 'But you seem eager for this child'

'Yes, but I would much rather have had my husband for longer as I did in Calais' the usual good-humoured simper twisted into what could nearly be said to be a wicked grin.

'I fear you are becoming wanton. Tell me, have I given you a smile to take to court tommorow?' he jested waving off the candles. He drew her into his arms, pressing himself against her, she matched him ardently as they kissed, tongues grasping at each others in frustration.

'You know, mother and Anne have accused me of mischief since having known you' she then delighted in saying 'and I do not think it would be well-recieved. I thought a lady does not smile at court'

'Have you already forgotten? all is gay now. Edward would not have people recall the soberness of Henry's time'

Across them, the mercer houses were settling into the second sleep, the yellow light through the glass stilting with each snuffed torch, She turned to him when the cold lunar glow took over. 'Will we have smiling and revelries at our court?'

'For certes, but not for those old enough for it to turn my stomach. Yours could never, no matter how advanced you would be in your years. I could not imagine you haggard'. He murmured himself to sleep, recounting his waking dreams as he buried his head deep in the nook between her belly and bosom.

She wrapped her hair about his shoulders like a midnight mantle of protection and felt her body drift as her mind made an attempt to depict him as an old man. Her imagination failed and the face beneath her eyelids would not mature like everyone else's. she clung to him tighter as she drifted off.

Mercifully, court had broken, all mummers complicit in that performance of peace scattered to their usual selves. Flurries of snow bouncing to the wind's tune, piled onto the grass in hundreds with every low note. Where Isabel stood, she knew that by Compline the hoare ground would rise, crashing against the flying buttresses about the quadrangle, like corpses on a battlefield come alive. Only in angular Westminster was god so.

Before returning to her chambers, she chanced upon a disappearing figure, shoulders hunched against the wind, his black cape leaving furrows through the snow. 'Earl Rivers-'

He turned, none too reticent 'Your Grace?' The wool in her strammel cloak shifted as she produced The Book of the City of Ladies, it lay heavy in her hand 'Here, may your mother have it back. I give her thanks for lending it to me, entrusting me, tell her that. Gramercy to you too, for telling me of it' she spoke quickly, her body already turning away.

'What did you make of it?' His tone lightened at her surprise. What I make of anything is that I did not think to have it returned to you under those circumstances. Inordinate favour has been shown to her uncle of Northumberland, if whispers were true then his son would be given the dukedom of Bedford, and Jacquetta Rivers would now be (as she were in truth) mere countess, her days as Lancastrian royal duchess extinguished beyond doubt.

She, roped between father and husband, now dangled like the hanged man on tarot cards. Father would now have his Neville heir, he does not particularly know nor love this nephew, though such considerations pale in father's mind when set against the shining legacy. The son of York stands securely on the throne and if it be through uncle John that father may stay sheltered in Edward's golden rays, then why pull George and I from the shadows. A chord is ready for the snip. Oh Woodville, you may think I have won this day, because we are pardoned as your father and brother lie unavenged. No no, George and I have not. For reason of the king's cunning that is. Foresee for your future what I see in my own.

'I think it a welcome rebuttal to Le Roman de la Rose, I liked how Lady Reason came first, built the city foundations. One sees how a logical mind makes for a sturdier shield than courtesy or beauty' Isabel's contempt for the temptress, La Rose, was evident. Yet, Anthony nodded with approval. Guileless eyes as his father's showed that he saw his sister as anything but. I hope to god that to some, I as well am more than Lady Wealth.

Months ago, Isabel found he was the only Woodville she was not averse to and apart from George and her FitzHugh cousins, whenever they did visit, the only person who had not avoided her, fearful of the allusions acquaintance with her would invite.

'Still, it does does not flow with beauteous images like in Le Roman. I am unsure if it will ever be as popular' he said meaning no doubt Christine de Pizan's beliefs and how they were made hods of earth therein.

'Yes, but it uglies all that was described beautiful in other literatures, implicitly by way of its direct criticism. So any wall or house in that city would therefore be the more beautiful' her younger self would shake her head at her, the girl whose world was walled by tapestries and illuminations. An unmoving life pre-ordained to be beautiful in presence.

'You see, I do wonder if the general man would be capable of your deft analysis' he said courteously

'The general man?' Isabel's puzzlement gave him the opportunity to lift his mood by explaining 'Yes, the Duchess of Burgundy has made use of my introducing of William Caxton to her. She is now his patroness. If such a printing enterprise were successful, such literatures would come in the hands of the general man. You know of him?'

George knows him. Rather, he did - as a boy during his exile. Isabel could not now speak of how she came upon this development when she met the Duchess in Calais. Less could she recount George's stories of that room in Caxton's Bruges house where what lay in the eyes of an eight year old, was a contraption like a wooden beast. How with the yank of a handle, entire pages would emerge as done amidst clouds of steam. Like alchemy but for the thought she recalled him once telling her. What she revealed was 'Indeed, I have heard him talked about. An honourable pursuit it is, though I can see it changing much'.

'Your grace, know that I do not lay at your feet the burdens of your father and husband's actions' he offered as if the power vested in him alone to exonerate her.

I see change does not petrify this one. In this prosperous age of beauty and learning, shall the new overawe the ancient. Are we to be obsolete? She wished she would ask this remarkable Duchess Margaret, now sister to them all, if she had ever considered the sacrifices. 'My Lord Rivers, would not Lady Rectitude say that it would be dishonest for women such as I to claim frailty when it suits us to distance our reputation from our husband's and father's? You are ever-so kind to say so and while filial and wifely piety incur a debt of responsibility unto me, I nevertheless shall not abandon justice and reason' Isabel inclined her head before she took her leave. Her gilded veil, masking her eyes and unspoken promises.