𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 || 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝑋𝐿𝐼

~The Storm~

Tracing patterns over Richard's smooth chest, Catherine listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. It soothed, her soul, her head, reminding her that though the world was dark, her Richard still lived and as long as he did there was always light to be found.

Though they had been abed many hours, she had not slept one wink, taking instead to staring at the canopy above or her sleeping husband. Her troubled mind would not allow rest but, for once, it claimed Richard soundly and she was glad of that.

He looked so peaceful when he slept, so serene and carefree, so unlike the brooding figure he presented in waking hours. How she loved him, her Dickon, her husband. The fear of another rebellion stirred hot in the pit of her stomach and Catherine could hardly bear the thought of seeing him away to war, against his own kin of all people! But with Isabel pregnant, she could see no alternative.

And neither could the Queen.

Elizabeth would have laid her magic by that time, she knew, would have visited the river and even then perhaps be carrying the long sought Prince within her belly.

But she could not help but wonder, would that Prince ever see the crown parliament deemed rightfully his on his Father's death? Warwick and George may have been playing upon the facade of returning prodigals, eager for their King's forgiveness (although he'd foolishly made it seem there was naught to forgive) but she knew their treasonous roots still lay beneath.

Soon to emerge, soon to twist and twine around each and every one of their enemies; crushing them in their grip.

She shivered involuntarily at the thought and her thoughts turned to her own Prince, her boy. An innocent to be crushed and she feared he would be, after all, he was fourth in line to the throne. A threat to any who wished to place their own blood beneath the crown of England, even his own kin.

Carefully pushing back the covers of the bed, Catherine drew her robe around her and slowly tiptoed to the small anti chamber where her son slept.

Decorated with curtains of blue and murrey, red and yellow and heavy tapestries adorning the walls, it was a pretty room and she knew Henry was safe within its confines. The fire, glowing bright in the hearth gave the room a warmth, an amber glow that made the carvings on the side of Henry's cradle dance. She hoped he dreamt sweet dreams, peaceful ones where he was a knight rescuing a fair damsel in distress.

She was unsure if his young mind was capable of conjuring such fanciful images yet but his face was peaceful as she peered over the side of his cradle; a soft smile on his pink lips. Oh so perfect.