𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙....
In a world of bloody war and misgivings that lead to treason, there is only one thing Catherine Percy can be sure of and that is danger.
Her life had not always been thus, f...
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~Our York Boy~
October 1468, Fotheringhay's Nursery....
"He is so....perfect. I cannot quiet believe he is real"
"Ah but he is, my Love" Richard murmured, almost dreamily, as he and Catherine gazed at the baby sleeping sweetly in his cradle by the nursery window. Their son, Henry of Gloucester. A name Richard had initially balked at, unwilling to accept such Lancastrian roots until Catherine reminded him of the men named as such in his own family.
Eager to please and reward her for her efforts, he had agreed, albeit rather reluctantly, but that reluctance was short lived for it mattered not what their son was called, he would always adore him. But a name was not her only reward, oh no, and it seemed not a day went by when the Duchess was not presented with a gift by her adoring husband!
Two strong stallions now made their home in the stables and a new hawk often circled the skies above the bailey, watched by its young owner with a small smile. Jewels overflowed from the chests on her dressing table, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, rubies, all adorning necklaces, rings, bracelets, delicate earrings and broaches. Catherine's coffers were fit to burst, filled to the brim with new gowns of the latest fashions and finest materials.
Silks, satins, brocades of all colours sat against her skin, lined with ermine and cloth of silver that made her appear a Queen! Richard had spared no expense, that was for certain!
With the birth of their boy, all other life seemed to melt away, he was their sole purpose, and there was not one moment where they were parted from him.
Often they would place him on their bed, lying either side of while he rolled around on the soft covers, little limbs flailing and blue eyes staring around in curious wonder. He liked to reach for their hands, flexing his little fists while they tried to curl around his Mother or Father's fingers. It was a touch both Catherine and Richard treasured, so slight and yet somehow beautiful in it's soft affection.
He slept a lot, as babes do, and when he did, his young parents loved to gaze on him. They did not hunt, they did not dance, letting the normal entertainments of nobility melt away in favour of gazing lovingly at their boy. He looked beautiful when he slept, perfectly angelic in every way, like a little cherub on the ceiling of a chapel with his wispy golden curls.
Petal soft and sugar sweet, they loved him fiercely, easily more than their very lives. Lives they knew they would not hesitate to sacrifice for him if need be but both were determined to raise their boy together. Catherine and Richard knew well the pain of being parted from family, having both lost their Fathers, and were anxious that their precious son would never feel such agony.
