20th September 1486
It is done, my granddaughter has given birth to a son, and the Lancastrian bastard has an heir to his Tudor throne, the same throne he stole from my son, my last Yorkist son whose claim was better than the bastard line of Beaufort.
I raised my tired eyes to the scared bleeding Christ on the altar, as the bells; oh those damn bells continue to ring in every church in every town of this blood soaked land. Piercing my sanctuary in my home of Fotheringhay Castle, the birthplace of my little Richard whose death still stabs my heart, a heart that has known many lose over these great years.
The coldness of the chapel crept into my old bones as my knees grew painful from their mourning prayers. I clasped and unclasped my wrinkled hands my eyes never wavering from the dying Jesus on the cross, Is this what he died for? For us in England to know such pain in our earthly life?
"I am ready Lord, I have lived long enough please curse me no longer with this long life, take me to your kingdom, take me to my husband." I whispered in prayer, my 71st year had only past a few months ago, but my life I fear goes on too long. I have lived to see six Kings rise and fall I wonder if I will live to see Arthur as King.
YOU ARE READING
The Rose of York
Historical FictionAt the age of fourteen Cecily Neville married into the House of York, unaware that the blissful marriage would change the very shape of England itself. With war looming Cecily will find herself in the middle of the Cousin's War.
