The Forgotten Rose {COMPLETED}

Part I: Chapter Twenty-Two - The Three Princesses

"Your Graces." Anne said as she curtsied before the Queen and her son. Isabelle was to her side and too curtsied. The queen looked in fondness at the two sisters, they were no longer the two little girls who had attended her coronation.

"Lady Anne, Lady Isabel." The Queen nodded her head to the two. Her eyes gleaming down at them as they rose to stand. Anne smiled at the warmth which Queen Elizabeth radiated. It was nice to see someone so kind and loving. Someone who did not fear what the war was to doing to England and loved their family, not simply the crown.

At the thought Anne looked to her sister who tried to smile at the woman whom she hated. Beneath her forced smile, Isabelle's teeth were gritted and a thousand curses ran riot in her thoughts. If only she could shout them out. Let the world know the poison that Elizabeth Woodville brought to court, to England.

They spoke no gossip as they would as girls. Nor did they need their mother to tell them where to stand. They knew where they stood, behind the Queen and her children.

If they had still been girls, Isabelle would have muttered some fanciful rumour and have told Anne that the woman behind with the strange face was a witch, who would cast her off if she miss behaved. And as a girl Anne had believe the fables her sister had muttered. She wanted there to be something more to her life than dressing up prettily and pleasing men. Unfortunately they were stories Isabel had told her, there were no witches in the real world.

On this day Isabelle took no pleasure in where she stood, she should have been at the front with her own children. Not the usurpers wife. But she would be, she just had to bide her time. Her anger grew as she saw Margaret Beaufort stood beside the Queen, the Lancastrian who turned to York. A woman she had never stopped hating. A woman who's son would be amongst the first to lose his head when she was Queen. No challenger would live whilst George was king. Not a single one.

Margaret Beaufort held the young Prince Richard. He could walk, just as Anne's son Edward could walk. But whilst presenting the highest of the high to court was not a good time for him to forget.

"She could have had the curtesy to ask someone of higher rank." Isabelle sneered to her sister as the doors to the hall opened wide and the women prepared to enter. "Beaufort is not even of York, she is of Lancaster. She should lose her head. When I am Queen..." Her voice was little more than a whisper but Anne worried that the queen might hear.

"Isabelle." Anne scolded. Just like as girls one silenced the other. Only this time it was Anne's turn. Somehow Anne was not so surprised that with time their relationship had changed so. In a way she was happy, she had some control over someone.

The musicians began to play and the Queen led the group into the hall. Her hand was on her elder son's shoulder. She held her head high, she was not afraid. Warwick had been gone a long time, he could not make her fall. Anjou was locked in the tower, her son and husband dead. Who was her enemy? No body would dare ride out against Edward. Maybe George would, but the war. The war would remind him how he adored fighting alongside his brothers, not against them.

Isabel settled down and together the two proud Neville sisters walked into the hall side by side. Both held their heads high, they could not look down. They were to show pride and Neville honour, just as their father had taught them. She sighed as they walked slowly towards the Queen's throne. It must have been punishment for the crimes of her father. She was the walk to the throne, which she should be sat upon, and see another perched upon it looking down on her. Not only that but she would have to appear pleased that Elizabeth Woodville was Queen instead of her.

The entire room fell into a deep curtsy as the Queen and her son sat upon their thrones and the music stopped. Isabelle swallowed her disgust as she curtsied with Anne still at her side, just like it was as girls. They both looked down, no higher than the hem of Queen Elizabeth's dress. If they had stayed down any longer Isabelle was sure she could have recited the embroidery and sewn it onto her own cloth.