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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~The Prince and the Queen~
April 1483, Westminster Palace....
The corridors were filled with whispers carried on the worried wind. Rumours, plots, schemes, all spoken from lips whose owner's senses reeled with the suffocating scent of incense.
It was meant to cleanse the air, banishing evil in favour of purity but all Catherine could think as she and Richard made their way through the palace, looking at the courtiers with handkerchiefs clasped to their noses, was that it made the very essence of life die in everything it touched. She hated it, the sickly sweetness of it all, stinging her throat and eyes.
Sweetness turned sour, snatching the life from a soul who sought to keep it.
Edward could not die. He couldn't. He was the epitome of an English warrior King and while Catherine had never agreed with all of his decisions she couldn't deny he'd kept the realm in order!
He had won Northampton, Towton, Barnet, Tewksbury! There could be no doubt of his power and even though his physical health had declined (for which he only had himself to blame) he had not lost his wits! Surely his body could hold on for him? For England?
Were he to die, the wheel of fortune would have made its most wicked turn.
His eldest son was only twelve 'twelve!' She thought, remembering Henry when he was that age: so sweet and innocent. Even at 14 (near fifteen) he would be older than the new King and with almost just as strong a claim.
'No, don't think like that!' She told herself sharply, none would ever consider her boy a threat, especially when she and Richard were so loyal to their house! They supported Edward and if he did not heal, they would support his son. She remembered she'd once told Elizabeth she was happy her sons were to live under her son's reign. If only she'd realised it might come so soon.
Beside her Richard cut a figure of darkness, a living shadow that slunk through the palace with firm, meaningful steps; only one thing on his mind. He ignored the bows, the mutters through handkerchiefs of 'your grace' that were offered, keeping Catherine's hand clasped tightly in his.
The entrance to the King's rooms was lit bright with torches, illuminating each figure that lingered outside, a large crowd of murmuring plotters. Richard's face twisted with disgust and had he not had self control, he would've thrown all of them from the palace himself. They nudged one another when they saw the Duke and Duchess approached and bowed low but Richard only glared at them, eyes sweeping over each of their faces.
He would remember them.
"Even before my brother takes his last breath on this earth you plot to gain your own place in power" He hissed and they averted their eyes, staring at the floor. They did not want him to remember them "Do you not pray for his recovery? Do you not pray for his health? I can see each of you are just like the others in this nest of vipers, now leave!"
