Kingmaker
07-24-2010, 09:38 PM
Hi. I've been in the process of writing this particular novel for well over 4 years now, but I inevitably get frustrated and start from scratch.
What's helped me develop as a writer most was critique and analysis of my work. In addition to helping me perfect what already exists, it has inspired me to write more even when the dreaded block has otherwise stunted my creativity.
Thus, I offer roughly a third of the first chapter of something I'm writing in the hopes that after some creative input, it'll spur my mind to continue writing. You see, I'm currently 'at' the first battle of St. Albans, which is fairly climactic and interesting in its' own right. Yet somehow I can't really come up with anything.
This latest version is about 13,600 words and spans the time between Edward's birth and the 1st Battle of St. Albans, though I have a draft that extends into the Battle of Blore Heath.
You may notice that I've <s>blatantly ripoffed</s> alluded to the opening of Luo Guanzhong's Romance of the Three Kingdoms. My ultimate goal is to emulate this masterful work, and I will abide by the commonly used phrase, "Seven parts fact, three parts fiction." that Luo Guanzhong is creditted for in Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
Prologue
A kingdom, after a long period of division, will unite; and after a long period of union, will divide. Edward III had four sons of distinction; his eldest, Edward the Black Price, Lionel of Antwerp, John of Gaunt, and his youngest, Edmund of Langley.
Edward the Black Prince begot Richard, who became king Richard II after the deaths of his father and grandfather. Lionel of Antwerp begot Philippa Plantagenet. John of Gaunt begot Henry of Bolingbroke, and Edmund of Langley begot Richard of Conisburgh.
Richard II was deposed in 1399, leaving the crown to his next closest relative, his cousin Henry of Bolingbroke. Henry’s line would go uninterrupted until the days of Henry VI, the current king who had separated from Edward III by five generations.
Philippa Plantagenet begot Roger Mortimer, who begot Anne Mortimer.
Richard of Conisburgh married his first cousin (twice removed), Anne Mortimer and they had Richard Plantagenet.
In this manner, Richard Plantagenet could claim descent from royalty by virtue of both his mother and his father, and was separated from Edward III by only three generations.
Chapter One
A cool wind blows across the war-tattered shores of the French kingdom, quietly making its way over the silent battlefields and lonely plains… As the tide ebbs and flows over the northern coast, so too does the invaders’ strength wax and wane. The endless tides have once borne witness to the exodus of the Normans, and as surely as the ocean’s design, they have returned…
All that remains of the invaders’ holdings is but Calais, a port city that tethers the French and their foe of a hundred years, England.
And this wind veered northwards, bound for the island nation above. Across the channel, it blew, heading for the city of London. It swept atop the tumultuous waters and into the busy docks. It wafted lazily through the crowded slums, towards the wealthier districts. And in its final lingering gusts, the wind found itself whispering towards the palace of Westminster…
A breeze blows softly against the curtains of a dimly-lit room, its interior painted by the soft orange hue cast by nearby candles. It is elegantly adorned and maintained to a standard most stringent, one determined proper for a royal household. A royal red drapes down over the bed set in the center of the room, obscuring all from within. There is much panting and screaming, a cacophony of great anguished urgency. In time, the room goes silent, with all within staring at an elderly woman emerging from the veiled bed, her hands laden with a small and noisy bundle.
“’Tis a boy, your grace.” Spoke the royal midwife to her liege, King Henry VI.
“Nay.” Corrected the flustered Queen Margaret D’Anjou as she crawled out from her bed and pushed aside the curtains obscuring the birth. She was a beautiful dark haired woman of twenty-three years, no less magnificent for the sweat and weariness upon her soft flesh. “’Tis a prince.” She said with a smile, “A prince named Edward.”
Despite having just endured the labor of her first child, the queen spoke with clarity and grace, and her composure was without fault… And even if the maiden’s native French accent had dared to infiltrate her finely practiced speech from time to time, it was not in any unwelcome tone of elegance or exotica.
The King, nigh a decade her senior, did not look as pleased as one might expect. This would be his first born and heir, and after nearly ten years of marriage without anything to show for it. His features, once pursed and proper with royal grace, had fallen to the state of a commoner’s. His chin went oft’ unshaven, and his eyelids drooped down, his brows similarly descended. The king’s mouth was wide, and his nose curled down towards the ground, as if he was always forced to appear forlorn and dismayed by some unseen manipulator. Yet never did he fail to display a wooden crucifix upon his breast. It was a simple and pious trinket, as he was himself. He wore simple robes when he fancied, and only rarely dressed up for anything less than a public appearance. Often, he appeared as if he had just been roused from sleep, or was soon to bury himself within a warm set of sheets.
He was a relatively thin and frail man, so unlike his great father, the warrior-king Henry V. Yet where his features were lacking, Margaret’s seemed of abundance… As a man of divinely inspired abstinence, Henry did not often look upon his wife wantonly. Her features were fair and round, and those who could keep their gaze away from her considerably displayed bosom would more easily find themselves peering into the deep brown eyes of a color suiting her hair. Even now, her belly still bulging and her body still in the throes of birth, she kept her composure and in that was her magnificent grace. So willful and so assertive for a woman of these times, Margaret was but fifteen years old when she arrived from France to wed the King, and it was not long before she became an object of lust for those nobles who were so desirous of such things. These blind infatuations were dangerous indeed, yet her beauty and status as a foreigner led to the rumors of an illegitimate prince. Many were eager to see her feminine …touch removed from the politics of English men.
“I suppose I must be off to inform everyone of the good news.” Henry said to his wife as she cradled the boy in her arms, gazing upon the boy with adoration, “Edmund and Humphrey must be right well anxious to know whether all is well. And I w-” The King, for a brief moment, leaned forward to take the child from her arms, but he hesitated. “A moment more.” She demanded, smiling sweetly to Edward all the while.
Henry leaned back and his eyes drifted to the curtains, nodding as he softly replied, “As you wish.”
It was the 13th of October, 1453 AD.
"Is that so? Pregnant you say?" A young man said as he tilted his head, much to the dismay of a painter illustrating his portrait. "Strange. The news of this birth is quite timely, wouldn't you say? -Considering that the revelation of her majesty’s pregnancy itself is about... oh, nine months late."
He was clean-shaven, with somewhat scruffy brown hair that was at least parted on his left side. This man did not betray any hint of emotion at that moment, for his round, childlike eyes remained lazily negligent to the task at hand. He dressed in finery and had around his fingers a ring, yet he was never so gaudy as to flaunt all of his wealth at once. His doublet was white and his coat was black, his pants were foreign and thin and his boots were hardy things worthy of a soldier’s appraisal. He wore a sash that was crimson and gold in it’s’ color, a pair he favored as much as he would the tint of his own flesh.
Opposite him, an older man lowered his head in contemplation. He shared the same round features, yet his were adorned by the comings of age. While they had in common a resemblance of physical appearance, the older man carried with him a different demeanor; less relaxed, yet still calm. So too does he lack his younger companion’s displays of wealth and power, yet he certainly is not one to dress modestly. He stood silent for a long time, contemplating these newly unveiled tidings from the south, far away from where the pair was staying in Middleham, the youth’s favored manor.
"I would think that our dear Queen feared for the life of her yet unborn son." The elder gentleman said at last before he drew his hazel eyes to the youth’s apathetic slouching figure.
"Bah." The younger said dismissively as he waved his hand, "And what unseen menace could bring about such an unfounded paranoia, I wonder?"
This was Richard Neville, the earl of Warwick, and his father of the same name, the earl of Salisbury. The pair was both powerful and wealthy; who through marriage profited greatly. The senior was a veteran of the Hundred Years War and in skirmishes against the Scots, and he was highly respected for his service to the nation. The younger, however, was untested, yet popular among nobleman and commoner alike, and not too well known for his ability to dispense kindness and malice in carefully measured doses. He juggled in his hands favor and hatred as any crafty prince would.
"Usurpation, perhaps." The Earl of Salisbury replied dryly.
"Still? York's quarrel was always with Somerset and Suffolk, not the crown itself.” The younger whined as he went back to his original pose for the artist’s sake, though his expression had changed to one of annoyance.
“You know he blames Somerset for our latent defeats to the French.” The elder reminded his son tentatively, “If it wasn’t for the Lancastrian King’s favoritism, Richard may not have been denied the troops and supplies he needed in that last campaign.”
“Well, since Suffolk's death, I daresay York's mellowed out a bit. The brazen old fox was lucky enough to avoid having all his lands and titles attained from him when he last took arms against the king in ‘fifty two! Now all we have to wait for is a band of peasants to string up Edmund Beaufort as well."
"You think we have chosen our friends unwisely... my son?" The elder cryptically asked, “Have you forgotten that Richard Plantagenet is related to you by marriage, and a man who graciously took us in after our quarrel with the Percies was made bloody?”
"I'll concede, I admire the man's chivalry and his altruistic ambitions, but the very important little thing to consider is that he can't have both. If he wishes for a stronger king, then he'll have to fight the current one. But to a man as worried about propriety as he is, I would wager and win that the thought alone is sickening. Always he is unwilling to follow through with his ‘rebellions’ and always he pushes his luck a little bit more than the last time."
"A fine assessment, my son." The senior remarked, warranting a sarcastic smile from the younger Neville.
"His lack of commitment is quite infuriating, -and I know what you'll say next!" The junior continued with a cocky smile and a pointed finger, as if he knew everything there was to know about anything, "It is that righteous quality which makes Richard such a fine candidate to reform the nepotism of the government. Psh, I would have thought the kingly blood in him was enough of a mandate." He added with a somewhat sour tone, "I say we ought to depose of King Harry and usher in another King Richard."
The artist painting the Earl of Warwick looked astonished, and even the steely nerves of his father were touched as such brazen words, “When did ever you become so revolutionary, my son?”
“Oh please.” The youth urged as he turned back towards the painter with an expression of displeasure as he listed off his reasoning, “What has our ‘good king’ done for the country? We, the nobles, are saddled with his responsibilities; a war that is all but lost when once we had the banner of England flying over the Seine. Debt so egregious that the royal household has found their dinner tables bare because the caterers refuse to work for promises! And worse off all, he’s married the enemy! A Frenchwoman! A French harlot whose slept with every member of the king’s retinue from duke to squire-“’
“That is enough!” The senior interjected, “There is little we can do now, so you waste your breath on curses. Like it or not, my son, this legitimate prince Edward will be here to stay.”
“So much for making Richard the heir to the throne.” The younger Neville sighed.
“Ah, Dick… but you have so much to learn.” His father said with fondness in his voice, “Do not be so eager to enter into this cutthroat world of politics, slander, and intrigue. It is rather easy to lose sight of one’s noble aspirations in such dark places. We are better off for attaching ourselves to a man whose vision is unwavering.”
“Ah, but father.” Richard said with a happy sigh, as if everything had been illuminated before him, “I had forgotten, you two are good friends.”
“Henry…” Margaret softly murmured beside her husband as she lowered her bright brown eyes to see into his own. “What troubles you so?”
She nudged closer within the sheets and took his delicate hand in her own, coddling it gently as she spoke. It was a rare occasion for them to ever sleep together, so she would not let this unusual opportunity for intimacy to go unnoticed. Mostly Margaret would retire to bed first, and her husband would almost never even think to join her. He would be found asleep in front of the fireplace or at a reading table, his hands limply hanging over a fallen copy of whatever book he was reading at the time, though the Bible rarely had any competition in his choice of reading material. This was a man who bottled up his emotions and thoughts and put them in the deepest and darkest places so that he could forget them in a dream world of scripture or fantasy.
While it was true that Margaret did not and never could love this son of an English king… yet she could feel pity for him.
He who was mocked by his own countrymen and forced into a role he had no desire to play out. He who had enemies that at every opportunity accepted his forgiveness and his mercy. He who had apparently even angered God with nothing but prayer and service in His name… His illness had not shown itself in quite some time, and for that the Queen was glad, but this melancholy he suffered from… She had seen it once before and it heralded the coming of a most dire affliction. Whenever things would get difficult, he would simply cease to function… and it was becoming harder and harder to keep such an illness secret.
“Henry…” She begged, “The burdens of a man are not his alone to bear, that is why God had made Eve from the rib of Adam. I’m here for you if you ever need someone to talk to you.”
She cuddled up closer to him, brushing her lips against his. It took even the most desperate and shameful advances Margaret had in her employ to seduce Henry into bedding her, but she had hoped he would derive some happiness from a simple kiss, an expression of her feelings. The illusion of love at least was all she could afford him. He remained still, eyes open yet unmoving like he had already gone asleep.
“Henry…?” She shook him… then harder still. On the verge of violence, she had managed to awaken him from his stupor, “…What were you saying, my dear?”
“Let’s go to Windsor, beloved.” She pleaded, her fingers wrapped around the collar of his chemise, “You love it there…”
“As you wish.” He conceded.
“Again?” a finely dressed elderly gentleman asked, concern in his weather-worn brown eyes, “This is awful.”
He was on the verge of balding, his hair evenly thinning to like grey straw needling forth from his scalp where once a fine auburn mane poured from. He had a small beard suffering likewise that he vainly tried to maintain, and in his demeanor was a man of fear and uncertainty. His clothing was as fine as one might expect from the Duke of Somerset, one of England’s greatest titles and most recently Edmund Beaufort’s.
“Margaret…” He said, putting his hands upon the queen’s own and leaning his head in close enough to whisper, “You know I would do anything for you. If Henry becomes… unable to protect you and Edward I would-”
“Enough!” She rebuked as she forced herself free from his grasp, “What if someone saw us, you smitten fool! There are enough rumors in London about, so be gone with yourself.”
He looked on gloomily as the beautiful Queen had swiftly left him to his own devices.
As she made her way around the corner of the Westminster palace’s extravagant halls, a short haired, bearded man had stopped her, merely by casually leaning against the wall and thumbing a coin with King Henry’s face upon it.
“Your majesty…” He softly said, “If I may take you for a moment of your time.”
“Humphrey.” She said, forcing a smile for an old friend after her unpleasant encounter with Edmund. Margaret nervously looked back, wondering if he had heard the exchange down the hall…
The man was aged and wizened, yet dignified and cool of wits. His beard was well-groomed and his dress elegant not for vanity of appearance but of a pride in maintenance. What he wore was befitting his station as one of the land’s nobles closest to the king, yet it seemed to be something he took little care in selecting.
“You know I am now and forever a servant of the crown.” He said with sympathy in his voice, “And nothing will ever diminish that steadfast loyalty to Henry …or to you, my Queen. I knew him since he was a hapless child… and I suppose I knew you since your days of teenage innocence as well.”
“What are you about, Lord Buckingham?” She said, her eyes widened in concern for whatever unpleasant subject he was about to bring up. Humphrey was never one for obscuring his thoughts when speaking to members of the royal family.
He sighed, unwilling to continue, “Is Edward…truly of King Henry’s lineage?”
Margaret recoiled back at the question and took a moment, then looked down at the floor, “Even you, Humphrey? Even you would pass such a vile judgment upon my poor soul?”
His gloved fingertips lifted up her chin as he spoke.
“… I do not presume to know for certain the nature of your deeds, my queen.” He admitted candidly, “But it is in my most sincere opinion that should Henry be unable or unwilling to produce an heir… you would be most resourceful in securing the King’s future. As the wife of a man beset by all sides from evil, you would do most anything for his sake, even something as shameful as adultery.”
She turned her head from him, genuinely hurt from his suggestions, “Keep your opinions to yourself, Humphrey.” She said before departing, leaving his hand hanging in the air to grasp at naught but the wind from a nearby open window.
“As you wish, my queen... I am now and forever a servant of the crown.” He reminded her with a bow. When she was gone from his sight, Humphrey Stafford looked down at the small coin bearing the King’s image in his hand.
He flipped it up in the air, caught it and then placed it upon his other forearm. Revealing it slowly, he leaned his head in close to survey the result most personally. “Heads. She was chaste.”
The Duke of Buckingham sighed as he put the bauble into one of his pockets, feeling rather disappointed with it all. He regrettably admitted to himself that he could never again so brazenly ask a question like that. If she found herself with a child unnaturally, Margaret would be forced to lie to him, and she was one to feel guilt with such an act, at least to an old friend like he. Yet if she was innocent, further questioning would only shame her, denigrating her confidence in the truth. Something like that spoken loud or long enough simply becomes fact, even to the one most qualified to disbelieve it.
Humphrey had never before witnessed this rarely seen vulnerability in Margaret; she was truly upset when he confessed his doubts… Whether it was the guilt of adultery or pain at the thought of his reproving judgment, he could not know for certain why she felt the way she did, only that it was not a subject she bore lightly upon her soul.
“Alright, Captain, what have you got for me?” inquired the junior Richard Neville as he paraded across a large formation of men-at-arms arrayed before the castle in Middleham. He looked over each one as he held a green apple in his hand and occasionally took a bite from it in his inspections.
He wore a thick fur coat, though it wasn’t exactly frigid out. His neck was obscured with a crimson and gold scarf over a white embroidered tunic, and upon his hands a pair of fine black gloves.
"Roughly a hundred and fifty men answered your call, my lord.” The soldier replied as he passed a piece of paper to the earl of Warwick.
Pleasantly surprised, Richard began to look over the names on the list, “Well done, my good man!”
The earl looked about the men before him, all varied in their dress and equipment, with none so uniform in their weaponry either. Among them in the first rank, a youth that could have been no more than seventeen let his eyes wander from beneath the fine helmet he wore, and they met the lord’s.
Richard paused mid-stride, and then went back to the boy, eying him curiously. “A bit young, are you? And why would you have made your mother worry so much on my account?”
“Y-Your grace offers a generous sum to those who take up arms in his name.” He replied with trepidation in his voice as he was scrutinized, “And your lordship’s concerns are the concerns of the commoners’. If Warwick sees in York hope for the future of our dear endangered kingdom, than so do I!”
Richard raised an eyebrow and smiled at the boy, leaning back as he nodded his head. With thoughts unspoken, Richard Neville marveled at the political awareness of one so lowly birthed. Even more so, this boy, like many other commoners throughout the realm, had such an unexpected willingness to pursue their own role, however slight, in the affairs of the nobility. “Is that a French bascinet you’re wearing, my boy? Where did you get that?” He asked with a smile as he tapped the visor of the helmet the boy wore.
“Uh… Yes, my lord.” The boy replied, instinctively reaching up to the visor and helmet he was wearing. “It was my grandfather’s, won at the battle of Agincourt! My father said it belonged to a knight who drowned in the mud beneath my grandfather’s stakes.”
Richard Neville looked over it closely, turning his head to the side to inspect it from other angles, “It’s a fine piece of armor, young man, well won in combat. A little old… but it will serve you well. It’s a shame your grandfather couldn’t carry back the rest of the set.” He said with a snicker as he turned away to regard the captain.
“What’s your name, my boy?” He asked, still turned as he trapped the apple within his jaws and began to scan the paper given to him.
“John of Daventry, my lord.” The boy eagerly replied.
“Alright.” He said with the apple still between his teeth, then he turned to the captain in charge of the newly recruited batch of men-at-arms and spat out the fruit to roll along the ground away from them, “Send them home and tell them to drill, I’ll call for the soldiers when I need them.”
Some of my concerns are;
Parts that are neccesary for the plot to develop are boring. The prologue, for example, while extremely important for the story... is also extremely dry, even for my own tastes.
Richard Neville the younger. He's arguably the most influencial noble of his time... but am I giving him too much credit or making him look too good? My aim is to make EVERY character sympathetic, each one a human being with virtues and flaws. I want the reader to be unsure as to who they want to root for. It's easy to dismiss Warwick as being power-hungry, but I'm trying to balance him out.
John Tiptoft... What the heck? How do I even start? He's such a complex character and yet history reveals so little. He was politically motivated yet deeply religious. Ruthless and bloodthirsty, yet a supporter of Richard's platform for good governing. How do I combine such polarizing traits and make him believable? Outright making him crazy doesn't really make him a good character...
What's helped me develop as a writer most was critique and analysis of my work. In addition to helping me perfect what already exists, it has inspired me to write more even when the dreaded block has otherwise stunted my creativity.
Thus, I offer roughly a third of the first chapter of something I'm writing in the hopes that after some creative input, it'll spur my mind to continue writing. You see, I'm currently 'at' the first battle of St. Albans, which is fairly climactic and interesting in its' own right. Yet somehow I can't really come up with anything.
This latest version is about 13,600 words and spans the time between Edward's birth and the 1st Battle of St. Albans, though I have a draft that extends into the Battle of Blore Heath.
You may notice that I've <s>blatantly ripoffed</s> alluded to the opening of Luo Guanzhong's Romance of the Three Kingdoms. My ultimate goal is to emulate this masterful work, and I will abide by the commonly used phrase, "Seven parts fact, three parts fiction." that Luo Guanzhong is creditted for in Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
Prologue
A kingdom, after a long period of division, will unite; and after a long period of union, will divide. Edward III had four sons of distinction; his eldest, Edward the Black Price, Lionel of Antwerp, John of Gaunt, and his youngest, Edmund of Langley.
Edward the Black Prince begot Richard, who became king Richard II after the deaths of his father and grandfather. Lionel of Antwerp begot Philippa Plantagenet. John of Gaunt begot Henry of Bolingbroke, and Edmund of Langley begot Richard of Conisburgh.
Richard II was deposed in 1399, leaving the crown to his next closest relative, his cousin Henry of Bolingbroke. Henry’s line would go uninterrupted until the days of Henry VI, the current king who had separated from Edward III by five generations.
Philippa Plantagenet begot Roger Mortimer, who begot Anne Mortimer.
Richard of Conisburgh married his first cousin (twice removed), Anne Mortimer and they had Richard Plantagenet.
In this manner, Richard Plantagenet could claim descent from royalty by virtue of both his mother and his father, and was separated from Edward III by only three generations.
Chapter One
A cool wind blows across the war-tattered shores of the French kingdom, quietly making its way over the silent battlefields and lonely plains… As the tide ebbs and flows over the northern coast, so too does the invaders’ strength wax and wane. The endless tides have once borne witness to the exodus of the Normans, and as surely as the ocean’s design, they have returned…
All that remains of the invaders’ holdings is but Calais, a port city that tethers the French and their foe of a hundred years, England.
And this wind veered northwards, bound for the island nation above. Across the channel, it blew, heading for the city of London. It swept atop the tumultuous waters and into the busy docks. It wafted lazily through the crowded slums, towards the wealthier districts. And in its final lingering gusts, the wind found itself whispering towards the palace of Westminster…
A breeze blows softly against the curtains of a dimly-lit room, its interior painted by the soft orange hue cast by nearby candles. It is elegantly adorned and maintained to a standard most stringent, one determined proper for a royal household. A royal red drapes down over the bed set in the center of the room, obscuring all from within. There is much panting and screaming, a cacophony of great anguished urgency. In time, the room goes silent, with all within staring at an elderly woman emerging from the veiled bed, her hands laden with a small and noisy bundle.
“’Tis a boy, your grace.” Spoke the royal midwife to her liege, King Henry VI.
“Nay.” Corrected the flustered Queen Margaret D’Anjou as she crawled out from her bed and pushed aside the curtains obscuring the birth. She was a beautiful dark haired woman of twenty-three years, no less magnificent for the sweat and weariness upon her soft flesh. “’Tis a prince.” She said with a smile, “A prince named Edward.”
Despite having just endured the labor of her first child, the queen spoke with clarity and grace, and her composure was without fault… And even if the maiden’s native French accent had dared to infiltrate her finely practiced speech from time to time, it was not in any unwelcome tone of elegance or exotica.
The King, nigh a decade her senior, did not look as pleased as one might expect. This would be his first born and heir, and after nearly ten years of marriage without anything to show for it. His features, once pursed and proper with royal grace, had fallen to the state of a commoner’s. His chin went oft’ unshaven, and his eyelids drooped down, his brows similarly descended. The king’s mouth was wide, and his nose curled down towards the ground, as if he was always forced to appear forlorn and dismayed by some unseen manipulator. Yet never did he fail to display a wooden crucifix upon his breast. It was a simple and pious trinket, as he was himself. He wore simple robes when he fancied, and only rarely dressed up for anything less than a public appearance. Often, he appeared as if he had just been roused from sleep, or was soon to bury himself within a warm set of sheets.
He was a relatively thin and frail man, so unlike his great father, the warrior-king Henry V. Yet where his features were lacking, Margaret’s seemed of abundance… As a man of divinely inspired abstinence, Henry did not often look upon his wife wantonly. Her features were fair and round, and those who could keep their gaze away from her considerably displayed bosom would more easily find themselves peering into the deep brown eyes of a color suiting her hair. Even now, her belly still bulging and her body still in the throes of birth, she kept her composure and in that was her magnificent grace. So willful and so assertive for a woman of these times, Margaret was but fifteen years old when she arrived from France to wed the King, and it was not long before she became an object of lust for those nobles who were so desirous of such things. These blind infatuations were dangerous indeed, yet her beauty and status as a foreigner led to the rumors of an illegitimate prince. Many were eager to see her feminine …touch removed from the politics of English men.
“I suppose I must be off to inform everyone of the good news.” Henry said to his wife as she cradled the boy in her arms, gazing upon the boy with adoration, “Edmund and Humphrey must be right well anxious to know whether all is well. And I w-” The King, for a brief moment, leaned forward to take the child from her arms, but he hesitated. “A moment more.” She demanded, smiling sweetly to Edward all the while.
Henry leaned back and his eyes drifted to the curtains, nodding as he softly replied, “As you wish.”
It was the 13th of October, 1453 AD.
"Is that so? Pregnant you say?" A young man said as he tilted his head, much to the dismay of a painter illustrating his portrait. "Strange. The news of this birth is quite timely, wouldn't you say? -Considering that the revelation of her majesty’s pregnancy itself is about... oh, nine months late."
He was clean-shaven, with somewhat scruffy brown hair that was at least parted on his left side. This man did not betray any hint of emotion at that moment, for his round, childlike eyes remained lazily negligent to the task at hand. He dressed in finery and had around his fingers a ring, yet he was never so gaudy as to flaunt all of his wealth at once. His doublet was white and his coat was black, his pants were foreign and thin and his boots were hardy things worthy of a soldier’s appraisal. He wore a sash that was crimson and gold in it’s’ color, a pair he favored as much as he would the tint of his own flesh.
Opposite him, an older man lowered his head in contemplation. He shared the same round features, yet his were adorned by the comings of age. While they had in common a resemblance of physical appearance, the older man carried with him a different demeanor; less relaxed, yet still calm. So too does he lack his younger companion’s displays of wealth and power, yet he certainly is not one to dress modestly. He stood silent for a long time, contemplating these newly unveiled tidings from the south, far away from where the pair was staying in Middleham, the youth’s favored manor.
"I would think that our dear Queen feared for the life of her yet unborn son." The elder gentleman said at last before he drew his hazel eyes to the youth’s apathetic slouching figure.
"Bah." The younger said dismissively as he waved his hand, "And what unseen menace could bring about such an unfounded paranoia, I wonder?"
This was Richard Neville, the earl of Warwick, and his father of the same name, the earl of Salisbury. The pair was both powerful and wealthy; who through marriage profited greatly. The senior was a veteran of the Hundred Years War and in skirmishes against the Scots, and he was highly respected for his service to the nation. The younger, however, was untested, yet popular among nobleman and commoner alike, and not too well known for his ability to dispense kindness and malice in carefully measured doses. He juggled in his hands favor and hatred as any crafty prince would.
"Usurpation, perhaps." The Earl of Salisbury replied dryly.
"Still? York's quarrel was always with Somerset and Suffolk, not the crown itself.” The younger whined as he went back to his original pose for the artist’s sake, though his expression had changed to one of annoyance.
“You know he blames Somerset for our latent defeats to the French.” The elder reminded his son tentatively, “If it wasn’t for the Lancastrian King’s favoritism, Richard may not have been denied the troops and supplies he needed in that last campaign.”
“Well, since Suffolk's death, I daresay York's mellowed out a bit. The brazen old fox was lucky enough to avoid having all his lands and titles attained from him when he last took arms against the king in ‘fifty two! Now all we have to wait for is a band of peasants to string up Edmund Beaufort as well."
"You think we have chosen our friends unwisely... my son?" The elder cryptically asked, “Have you forgotten that Richard Plantagenet is related to you by marriage, and a man who graciously took us in after our quarrel with the Percies was made bloody?”
"I'll concede, I admire the man's chivalry and his altruistic ambitions, but the very important little thing to consider is that he can't have both. If he wishes for a stronger king, then he'll have to fight the current one. But to a man as worried about propriety as he is, I would wager and win that the thought alone is sickening. Always he is unwilling to follow through with his ‘rebellions’ and always he pushes his luck a little bit more than the last time."
"A fine assessment, my son." The senior remarked, warranting a sarcastic smile from the younger Neville.
"His lack of commitment is quite infuriating, -and I know what you'll say next!" The junior continued with a cocky smile and a pointed finger, as if he knew everything there was to know about anything, "It is that righteous quality which makes Richard such a fine candidate to reform the nepotism of the government. Psh, I would have thought the kingly blood in him was enough of a mandate." He added with a somewhat sour tone, "I say we ought to depose of King Harry and usher in another King Richard."
The artist painting the Earl of Warwick looked astonished, and even the steely nerves of his father were touched as such brazen words, “When did ever you become so revolutionary, my son?”
“Oh please.” The youth urged as he turned back towards the painter with an expression of displeasure as he listed off his reasoning, “What has our ‘good king’ done for the country? We, the nobles, are saddled with his responsibilities; a war that is all but lost when once we had the banner of England flying over the Seine. Debt so egregious that the royal household has found their dinner tables bare because the caterers refuse to work for promises! And worse off all, he’s married the enemy! A Frenchwoman! A French harlot whose slept with every member of the king’s retinue from duke to squire-“’
“That is enough!” The senior interjected, “There is little we can do now, so you waste your breath on curses. Like it or not, my son, this legitimate prince Edward will be here to stay.”
“So much for making Richard the heir to the throne.” The younger Neville sighed.
“Ah, Dick… but you have so much to learn.” His father said with fondness in his voice, “Do not be so eager to enter into this cutthroat world of politics, slander, and intrigue. It is rather easy to lose sight of one’s noble aspirations in such dark places. We are better off for attaching ourselves to a man whose vision is unwavering.”
“Ah, but father.” Richard said with a happy sigh, as if everything had been illuminated before him, “I had forgotten, you two are good friends.”
“Henry…” Margaret softly murmured beside her husband as she lowered her bright brown eyes to see into his own. “What troubles you so?”
She nudged closer within the sheets and took his delicate hand in her own, coddling it gently as she spoke. It was a rare occasion for them to ever sleep together, so she would not let this unusual opportunity for intimacy to go unnoticed. Mostly Margaret would retire to bed first, and her husband would almost never even think to join her. He would be found asleep in front of the fireplace or at a reading table, his hands limply hanging over a fallen copy of whatever book he was reading at the time, though the Bible rarely had any competition in his choice of reading material. This was a man who bottled up his emotions and thoughts and put them in the deepest and darkest places so that he could forget them in a dream world of scripture or fantasy.
While it was true that Margaret did not and never could love this son of an English king… yet she could feel pity for him.
He who was mocked by his own countrymen and forced into a role he had no desire to play out. He who had enemies that at every opportunity accepted his forgiveness and his mercy. He who had apparently even angered God with nothing but prayer and service in His name… His illness had not shown itself in quite some time, and for that the Queen was glad, but this melancholy he suffered from… She had seen it once before and it heralded the coming of a most dire affliction. Whenever things would get difficult, he would simply cease to function… and it was becoming harder and harder to keep such an illness secret.
“Henry…” She begged, “The burdens of a man are not his alone to bear, that is why God had made Eve from the rib of Adam. I’m here for you if you ever need someone to talk to you.”
She cuddled up closer to him, brushing her lips against his. It took even the most desperate and shameful advances Margaret had in her employ to seduce Henry into bedding her, but she had hoped he would derive some happiness from a simple kiss, an expression of her feelings. The illusion of love at least was all she could afford him. He remained still, eyes open yet unmoving like he had already gone asleep.
“Henry…?” She shook him… then harder still. On the verge of violence, she had managed to awaken him from his stupor, “…What were you saying, my dear?”
“Let’s go to Windsor, beloved.” She pleaded, her fingers wrapped around the collar of his chemise, “You love it there…”
“As you wish.” He conceded.
“Again?” a finely dressed elderly gentleman asked, concern in his weather-worn brown eyes, “This is awful.”
He was on the verge of balding, his hair evenly thinning to like grey straw needling forth from his scalp where once a fine auburn mane poured from. He had a small beard suffering likewise that he vainly tried to maintain, and in his demeanor was a man of fear and uncertainty. His clothing was as fine as one might expect from the Duke of Somerset, one of England’s greatest titles and most recently Edmund Beaufort’s.
“Margaret…” He said, putting his hands upon the queen’s own and leaning his head in close enough to whisper, “You know I would do anything for you. If Henry becomes… unable to protect you and Edward I would-”
“Enough!” She rebuked as she forced herself free from his grasp, “What if someone saw us, you smitten fool! There are enough rumors in London about, so be gone with yourself.”
He looked on gloomily as the beautiful Queen had swiftly left him to his own devices.
As she made her way around the corner of the Westminster palace’s extravagant halls, a short haired, bearded man had stopped her, merely by casually leaning against the wall and thumbing a coin with King Henry’s face upon it.
“Your majesty…” He softly said, “If I may take you for a moment of your time.”
“Humphrey.” She said, forcing a smile for an old friend after her unpleasant encounter with Edmund. Margaret nervously looked back, wondering if he had heard the exchange down the hall…
The man was aged and wizened, yet dignified and cool of wits. His beard was well-groomed and his dress elegant not for vanity of appearance but of a pride in maintenance. What he wore was befitting his station as one of the land’s nobles closest to the king, yet it seemed to be something he took little care in selecting.
“You know I am now and forever a servant of the crown.” He said with sympathy in his voice, “And nothing will ever diminish that steadfast loyalty to Henry …or to you, my Queen. I knew him since he was a hapless child… and I suppose I knew you since your days of teenage innocence as well.”
“What are you about, Lord Buckingham?” She said, her eyes widened in concern for whatever unpleasant subject he was about to bring up. Humphrey was never one for obscuring his thoughts when speaking to members of the royal family.
He sighed, unwilling to continue, “Is Edward…truly of King Henry’s lineage?”
Margaret recoiled back at the question and took a moment, then looked down at the floor, “Even you, Humphrey? Even you would pass such a vile judgment upon my poor soul?”
His gloved fingertips lifted up her chin as he spoke.
“… I do not presume to know for certain the nature of your deeds, my queen.” He admitted candidly, “But it is in my most sincere opinion that should Henry be unable or unwilling to produce an heir… you would be most resourceful in securing the King’s future. As the wife of a man beset by all sides from evil, you would do most anything for his sake, even something as shameful as adultery.”
She turned her head from him, genuinely hurt from his suggestions, “Keep your opinions to yourself, Humphrey.” She said before departing, leaving his hand hanging in the air to grasp at naught but the wind from a nearby open window.
“As you wish, my queen... I am now and forever a servant of the crown.” He reminded her with a bow. When she was gone from his sight, Humphrey Stafford looked down at the small coin bearing the King’s image in his hand.
He flipped it up in the air, caught it and then placed it upon his other forearm. Revealing it slowly, he leaned his head in close to survey the result most personally. “Heads. She was chaste.”
The Duke of Buckingham sighed as he put the bauble into one of his pockets, feeling rather disappointed with it all. He regrettably admitted to himself that he could never again so brazenly ask a question like that. If she found herself with a child unnaturally, Margaret would be forced to lie to him, and she was one to feel guilt with such an act, at least to an old friend like he. Yet if she was innocent, further questioning would only shame her, denigrating her confidence in the truth. Something like that spoken loud or long enough simply becomes fact, even to the one most qualified to disbelieve it.
Humphrey had never before witnessed this rarely seen vulnerability in Margaret; she was truly upset when he confessed his doubts… Whether it was the guilt of adultery or pain at the thought of his reproving judgment, he could not know for certain why she felt the way she did, only that it was not a subject she bore lightly upon her soul.
“Alright, Captain, what have you got for me?” inquired the junior Richard Neville as he paraded across a large formation of men-at-arms arrayed before the castle in Middleham. He looked over each one as he held a green apple in his hand and occasionally took a bite from it in his inspections.
He wore a thick fur coat, though it wasn’t exactly frigid out. His neck was obscured with a crimson and gold scarf over a white embroidered tunic, and upon his hands a pair of fine black gloves.
"Roughly a hundred and fifty men answered your call, my lord.” The soldier replied as he passed a piece of paper to the earl of Warwick.
Pleasantly surprised, Richard began to look over the names on the list, “Well done, my good man!”
The earl looked about the men before him, all varied in their dress and equipment, with none so uniform in their weaponry either. Among them in the first rank, a youth that could have been no more than seventeen let his eyes wander from beneath the fine helmet he wore, and they met the lord’s.
Richard paused mid-stride, and then went back to the boy, eying him curiously. “A bit young, are you? And why would you have made your mother worry so much on my account?”
“Y-Your grace offers a generous sum to those who take up arms in his name.” He replied with trepidation in his voice as he was scrutinized, “And your lordship’s concerns are the concerns of the commoners’. If Warwick sees in York hope for the future of our dear endangered kingdom, than so do I!”
Richard raised an eyebrow and smiled at the boy, leaning back as he nodded his head. With thoughts unspoken, Richard Neville marveled at the political awareness of one so lowly birthed. Even more so, this boy, like many other commoners throughout the realm, had such an unexpected willingness to pursue their own role, however slight, in the affairs of the nobility. “Is that a French bascinet you’re wearing, my boy? Where did you get that?” He asked with a smile as he tapped the visor of the helmet the boy wore.
“Uh… Yes, my lord.” The boy replied, instinctively reaching up to the visor and helmet he was wearing. “It was my grandfather’s, won at the battle of Agincourt! My father said it belonged to a knight who drowned in the mud beneath my grandfather’s stakes.”
Richard Neville looked over it closely, turning his head to the side to inspect it from other angles, “It’s a fine piece of armor, young man, well won in combat. A little old… but it will serve you well. It’s a shame your grandfather couldn’t carry back the rest of the set.” He said with a snicker as he turned away to regard the captain.
“What’s your name, my boy?” He asked, still turned as he trapped the apple within his jaws and began to scan the paper given to him.
“John of Daventry, my lord.” The boy eagerly replied.
“Alright.” He said with the apple still between his teeth, then he turned to the captain in charge of the newly recruited batch of men-at-arms and spat out the fruit to roll along the ground away from them, “Send them home and tell them to drill, I’ll call for the soldiers when I need them.”
Some of my concerns are;
Parts that are neccesary for the plot to develop are boring. The prologue, for example, while extremely important for the story... is also extremely dry, even for my own tastes.
Richard Neville the younger. He's arguably the most influencial noble of his time... but am I giving him too much credit or making him look too good? My aim is to make EVERY character sympathetic, each one a human being with virtues and flaws. I want the reader to be unsure as to who they want to root for. It's easy to dismiss Warwick as being power-hungry, but I'm trying to balance him out.
John Tiptoft... What the heck? How do I even start? He's such a complex character and yet history reveals so little. He was politically motivated yet deeply religious. Ruthless and bloodthirsty, yet a supporter of Richard's platform for good governing. How do I combine such polarizing traits and make him believable? Outright making him crazy doesn't really make him a good character...