I AM THE DAUGHTER OF YORK, I BOW TO NO ONE.
Isabella of York is formidable in her own right. She is no piece on a board. Do not let her play you like a fool, as she has done to so many others.
•NORWICH, ENGLAND• •Whitefriars Convent• •SUMMER OF 1465•
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Eleanor cried out, her howls of pain bounced off of the dark walls of the convent.
Giving birth in a convent, a coward's way out. But she had no choice, she had been publically spurned by the King of England for another woman.
"Lady Eleanor the babe comes fast, you must push." The midwife instructed her to push, and she did as hard as could. Her body felt as if it was being ripped apart.
Eleanor could only think that her foolish nature was to blame for this. The predicament she was in now. It was her fault, and now her indiscretion had swallowed her whole.
She grunts as she catches her breath, she keeps pushing. Pushing out the new life into the world.
"You have a daughter, my lady!" The midwife's jubilance is overzealous, as she takes the whining babe in her arms. "She is a beauty, my lady, just like her mother." She smiles as she hands the small crying bundle to Eleanor, who looks at the bundle with wonder.
"She is most beautiful." Eleanor could only marvel at the little miracle in her arms, she drinks her in like cold spring water on a hot summer day. Like she and John did as children in Shrewsbury, back before the war between the cousins had torn them apart. Back before she was married off before they were forced to grow up.
The midwife takes the babe out of her hands, "We must wash her and you, my lady."
And with the babe gone out of her arms, Eleanor felt numb. For the short time that she held her miracle, her child, Eleanor felt whole once again. Indeed, she was a miracle.
The next hour goes by like mere minutes as Eleanor is propped up in bed, the curtains in the convent are open, allowing the soft rays of the evening summer sun to peak its way through, each ray illuminating the light on her child's face.
"My lady?"
Eleanor looks up to see the mother superior comes in the chamber, she smiles to the aging woman, who had acted as a grandmother to her. "She is breathtaking." Eleanor beams, her first true smile.
"She has all her mother's beauty." Mother Superior Agatha's voice is a whisper as her hand's ghost of the babe's cheeks.
"She will grow to be much more beautiful than I." Eleanor looks into the blue eyes of her child, the same blue eyes her brother John had, those beautiful indigo eyes.
"My lady, the Duchess of York is here." Mother Superior's voice is reserved as if she did not want to tell Eleanor who waited outside her chamber door.
