Chapter VI

June 1492

The castle was swathed in black and the low keening of mourners echoed through the shadowy passages surrounding the chapel.

Inside said chapel lay a woman who had embodied both the role of a knight's daughter, wife and widow and that of a Queen of England. She had not always been loved for doing so, but she had done so and now that she was dead, she was being mourned as her rank demanded.

Three men knelt before her bier; two of them fair and golden as the sun on a spring morning, the other with hair as black as night. Two of them her sons, one of them both her brother-in-law and her mortal enemy. They were all praying, their lips moving so fast the words they were saying blurred into one another and their fingers flicking over the cool, hard beads of their rosaries. And that was how it should be. Despite their private mixed feelings towards the woman they now knelt to honour, they had all been trained in duty. They knew it was up to them to speed the woman's soul towards Heaven with their supplications to the Father Almighty, and so that was what they did.

That their minds might not be wholly intent upon their prayers, however, was evident from the way none of them could help flinching whenever a footfall was heard in the passage outside and from the way that the youngest of them eventually sprang up at the end of a decade, crossing himself hastily as he did so.

"Christ, Ned, I don't know how you can kneel there so calmly! If it were my bride in childbed, I'd be pacing the room outside her chamber, not kneeling before my mother's bier," he exclaimed and the one who had been kneeling beside him, the older of the golden-haired young men glanced up.

"There is nothing I can do for Isabella, Dickon. However, I can do my part in praying for Mother's soul. Ergo, my place is here, not with my wife."

He too, however, stood, and, for a long moment, glanced down at the waxen effigy atop the bier, "She looks peaceful, doesn't she? I don't think I ever saw her that peaceful in life."

"Peaceful was not a word one would generally use to describe your mother, My Lord," The final man before the bier now got to his feet, joining the conversation. Ned frowned at him, "Peace, Uncle Richard. I know you and my mother saw many things very differently, but above her bier is hardly a seemly time to air that fact. For better or for worse, my mother simply did what she thought was right by me and the rest of our family. She ought to be honoured for that, not scorned."

Duly chastened, Richard opened his mouth as if to say something, but a commotion at the chapel door forestalled him. The king's older sister, the Duchess of Albany, who had accompanied her husband to Court for her mother's funeral, looked in and curtsied at the sight of her brother.

"Sire. You're needed in Queen Isabella's chambers. Kate and I will take over your vigil here. Go."

Edward needed little convincing. He strode from the chapel purposefully, pausing only once on the threshold, "Do I have a son? Cecily, do I have a son?"

Cecily half-shrugged, an elegant, careless gesture she had picked up from the ladies of the French court during her husband's exile there, "I'll not say anything, Your Grace. Go and find out."

The way her lips quirked upwards, however, as she looked past the King and Duke of York as they hurried from the chapel at Richard, told the older man all he needed to know. His daughter had done her duty and given her young husband a son. The House of York was safe on the throne again at last.

Relief filled him and he couldn't help but glance down at the effigy of the woman he had resented for so long. He'd hated her for marrying their children, all those years ago, but as time had passed and the young sovereigns had grown together, first into their rule and then into marriage proper, he had come to realise that maybe, just maybe, things hadn't worked out so badly after all. And that despite all the plotting and counterplotting he and Elizabeth had engaged in in those first few hectic months of 1483. With hindsight, he'd realised that their internal feud might well have been the death of the House of York altogether. It was only thanks to a combination of bad weather and poor leadership on the rebels' part and luck on theirs that the Buckingham-Tudor rebellion had been so easy to crush that autumn. And then his son Ned had died and he and Elizabeth had been at each other's throats because of it. Almost unbelievably at the time, but thankfully, young King Edward had taken that as a sign that he would have to step up and start ruling for himself, rather than sit back and risk their implacable hatred of each other tearing England apart.

And he'd done a fine job of it. With one sister Duchess of Beja, another Duchess of Albany, the youngest in a convent and the others currently in negotiation with English noblemen such as their cousins of Buckingham and striving to secure Charlotte of Naples for his brother, Edward was proving to be every bit the diplomat his father had been, if not better. With the news that there was another York Prince of Wales crying in his mother's arms, they could truly look to the future now. They could look to securing the little boy a future as golden as the three suns in splendour that had once been his grandfather's banner.

Unexpectedly moved, Richard found himself brushing his hand over the waxen one that lay crossed over the effigy's breast.

"I'll see to it, Elizabeth," he vowed softly, "I know you didn't trust me in life, but I swear to you, upon my soul and upon all the chantries I've ever vowed to found, that I will do my utmost to give our grandson the world he deserves. You can trust me on this. I swear."

Drawing his sword, he laid it gently on the bier for a moment and bent to kiss the hilt where it formed a cross with the pommel. A sense of warmth and peace filled him, and, when he looked down upon the waxen face again, it seemed to him, just for a moment, as if the dead Queen's features softened and lost their habitual arrogance. As if, from wherever her soul was at the moment, she had heard and accepted his vow.

A moment later, the feeling was gone, Richard was shaking his head to clear it of such fanciful thoughts and turning on his heel to follow his nephews out of the chapel. Isabella had done her duty. It was time he went and told her how proud she'd made him into the bargain.

"Twins?" Edward breathed, gazing stupidly at the tiny bundles Izzy was holding. Despite the exhaustion plain on her face, she mustered the energy to smirk up at him, "Yes, husband. Twins."

"How on earth… Aren't twins dangerous?"

"All childbirth is dangerous. The midwives and St Margaret took good care of me. And honestly, we should have known something was different from your mother's experiences, looking back. The amount of times I felt the child move…"

Edward chuckled as Izzy pulled a face even at the memory, "Never mind, Izzy," he cut her off, "They're here now. They're here and you're safe. That's all I care about."

Leaning down, he kissed her and then took the slightly larger bundle into his arms, "I'm told we have one of each, is that right?"

"Yes. That's your son. Our son. Our Prince of Wales. And this is our daughter."

Edward looked across at the child she was holding. "I know we discussed Mary for a daughter, after my late sister, but I'm tempted to name her Margaret now, knowing she's a twin. As you say, St Margaret must have been watching over you to bring you all three safely through your ordeal."

"Margaret. Margaret," Izzy mumbled the name under her breath twice, then shook her head, "She's not a Margaret. It just doesn't feel right."

Edward sighed and hesitated. "Elizabeth?" he suggested. "After my mother and sister?"

This time, after testing the name out, Izzy nodded, "It suits her. And it is…well, naming her in her grandmother's honour seems fitting, don't you think?"

A note of melancholy entered the room at those words. For a long moment, neither of them dared even to breathe. At last, Edward swallowed visibly and reached to touch Izzy's hand.

"You're right," he choked, "It is fitting. She'd be so proud."

Then he shook himself and turned his attention to their son, "This boy's easy, of course. He'll be Edward, like his father, uncle and grandfather before him."

"No," Izzy retaliated, "He won't be."

"What?" Edward looked up in shock, "But we've always planned to name our firstborn Edward. After your brother. Besides, all the Yorkist Kings are named Edward. Why break with tradition?"

"We're naming his sister for your mother, the woman who did everything she could to secure your hold on England's throne. Who was the man at her side through it all? Who was named Protector for you in your father's will? Who led the royal forces against Tudor and Buckingham?"

Izzy's gaze was earnest and it was all too easy to guess what she wanted. Edward sighed inwardly, but he couldn't truly see a reason to deny her. She loved her father and he was a loyal subject. Besides, Richard was just as much a Yorkist name as Edward, if not more so, for it had been Richard, Duke of York who had first laid claim to England's throne in the name of his house back in the 1450s. All things considered, it wasn't worth insisting on naming their son Edward above Richard, not when she was so young and the aftereffects childbirth would be playing havoc with her emotions. Let her name the boy Richard after her father, if that was she really wanted. It wasn't as if they wouldn't have another son within the year, one they could name Edward.

If Edward had known then that the twins' birth had taken such a toll on Izzy's body that it would be almost a full decade before she'd carry another child to term, much less bear a living son, he might have fought harder for the name he wanted. As it was however, he contented himself with merely jibing lightly, "I'm not sure you could say your father was truly at my mother's side, love. They hated each other."

"Then their namesakes shall simply have to do better, shan't they?" Izzy teased back, before handing him their daughter.

"Go on, take them outside and show them off. I know you're burning to."

"It's amazing how well you know me, My Lady," Edward said softly, bending to kiss her forehead as she slipped back beneath the coverlet. She was so tired, she barely heard him leave the room.

Edward, on the other hand, stepped out into Izzy's public chambers, carefully balancing a child in each arm. The courtiers gathered around, chattering, hushed instantly, looking to him expectantly. He held the babies up, prolonging the suspense just that bit longer.

"My Lords, my Ladies, I present to you the Prince Richard and the Princess Elizabeth, the true succeeders of our noble House of York. God Save and Bless Their Highnesses!"

"Richard and Elizabeth!" The court cheered it back at him, startling the babies, who began to shriek, furious at being disturbed. Edward hardly heard them, however, so overwhelmed was he by joy and pride and relief. He'd done his duty. His father's legacy was safe at last.

And Richard of Gloucester too, thought the same, as he joined in the toast to England's newest Prince and Princess. After nearly a decade of scarcely-concealed uncertainty, the House of York was safe at last. After a lengthy winter of discontent, summer had come. Summer had come and the White Rose had bloomed again, finer and stronger than ever.