posted May 16, 2017 04:24 AM            

When Adam delved and Eve Span who then was the gentleman?-John Ball

For my Father.

February, 1504, Tower of London

posted July 19, 2017 10:08 PM            

By the morning, when the sun was just greeting the sky, we had arrived.
As the barge landed by the grass, I gazed up at the Abbey.
It was beautiful, I’ll give it that, but it did not, in the least bit, look inviting. No festive banners, no grand flags, just stone, with a stained glass window at the very top. To a child, it was fearful.
An Abbot received us warmly.
“Thank you so much for allowing us to stay Brother.” My mother uttered, as she held to his hands.
The Abbot was a tall man, younger though, with a long brown beard, and a kindly face that to a child was trusting.
“God does not wish for women and children to be drawn into war. You are always welcome here.”
“Still, you are risking your life.”
“I would risk my life a thousand times for the Queen and her children.”

Over the next month, Cecily, Mary, and I, thought it very strange that we no longer had the luxuries of court, the fine clothes, our nannies, and the sweetmeats, and we complained often. We did not understand how horrid things were now. Warwick, once a loving doting servant of the King’s, and my godfather, had turned sides, and set King Harry back on the throne, even Uncle George, Duke of Clarence, my father’s younger brother was on his side. Why, I could not have imagined. Worse yet, my father was now seeking refuge in Burgundy, bartering with my Uncle by marriage, Duke Charles the Bold, to give him aid to crush Lancaster.
But he had been gone five months now, and though Mama kept telling us girls he would come home any day now, I knew she was growing doubtful, and six months would be spent in a backroom of St. Margaret’s Church at the Abbey,
I watched my mother strut about the room, heavily pregnant, clutching to her booming belly. My blond hair, that I had inherited from the woman flowed freely about me, and I gazed upon her with curious grey eyes, as well as glancing every once and a while at my sisters play their make believe games. I could hear grandmother humming as she spun. She always was cheery, even in the darkest of times.
I could also hear Thomas and Richard clanging together their wooden swords in the other room. My father had offered to take them to battle, for indeed they were twelve and fourteen, but Mama distraught at losing them said no.
Mama was in distress, anyone could have seen, and when she was in such a state she sought Jaquetta’s council,
“I need a son, Mother,” she said pacing about.
“Patience, child,” sounded my grandmother’s kind, wise, elderly voice. “Did I not tell thee I see a boy?”
“Yes, but you said the future may always change!” the now Former Queen barked with agitation.
To enemies and others, she would have appeared very confident this time in giving the King a son. But around us, her worry would leak out. What if it were a still-born? Worse, what if it were another girl?
“If it is your will to change it, but, dear daughter, this is God’s will! And so cannot be opposed by any doings of man,” she declared in a proud manner. She just as calmly returned to her spinning.
They thought I was too young to understand, they thought that my staring was only a child’s curiosity, but I knew well why my mother needed a son, I knew there was a possibility that my father could not come home, and I knew I was going to have a brother, for my grandmother had said so, and I always did trust in her.

A month later came he, my brother, just as Grandmother had said.
After the birth, Mama sat up in the lowly peasant straw bed, the only thing to cover her nakedness, a warm wool blanket, her silky silver blonde hair strewn about at her sides.
It had been an easy birth, so the midwife had told Mary and me.
As the dark haired bundle lay at the former Queen’s breast, I and my sisters piled ourselves on the bedding to get a look at him.
He was fascinating, as babies so often are to young children. He was fare-skinned, but dark-haired with pale blue eyes. Almost like my Uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester. He resembled him so much, that you would have thought the child was his.
Mama was overjoyed to have such a precious little babe. She was prideful to have finally on the fourth try, given the King a son. He was given the name Edward as our father, but we called him ‘Baby Ned.’
Warwick had taken pity on us it seemed, for he sent a woman by the name of Alice Scrope to attend to us, and oh, she was loyal to him. During the screaming she had only stood in the corner while Jaquetta and the midwife gathered cool cloths, and fresh straw to absorb the blood. And now she tried to hide the grudging stare she made at the boy.
My Lady Mother smiled with nasty content at her.. “You may tell thy Master that I have given birth to England’s heir, and he nor that French ***** may do nothing of it, this child will be King.” She spoke this with great superiority, and held the boy above her.
“Behold the King!” She yelled with stinging joy.

posted July 19, 2017 10:12 PM            

In March, when baby Ned was four months old, and sister Cecily had turned two, Papa came to deliver us from sanctuary to announce his victory over Lancaster, to take us back to Westminster Castle.
We were not told of his coming, and as the six foot one man strutted in one dreary, rainy day , my sisters and I, who had been at play, jumped up, shrieking of happiness.
“Papa,” Cecily spoke eagerly, reaching her hands up to him. He obeyed her request.
“You bring me present?” The little two-year old asked while in his arms, it had been her birthday just days before, and she had grown accustomed to the tradition of gifts, as Mary and I had each made her a poppet.
He kissed her on the lips and laughed after he had done so. “No, no child, I have no presents for thee, but let me see your newborn brother before I speak with you.”
I was so happy to see Papa that I did not even notice Uncle Dicken, Uncle Anthony, and Will Hastings, my father’s close courtier, walk in after him.
Jaquetta lured out from the shadowed north east corner, holding the wriggling bundle, and the King took his first-born son in his arms. He then called us, his girls, to his side.
“Behold, daughters,” he spoke with joy. “Behold he whom shall be your King,”
Mary and Cecily ran their fingers all around his face and little hands, but I, I stood only humbly, quietly, marveling at the new-born Prince. Not daring touch him, as if doing so would bring about some horrid change. Mama, stood close to him, and tenderly, he took her face in his hand, and kissed her lips.
“You’ve done me good Lizbet,” he said lovingly.
He looked down to Baby Ned once again. “My son,” he whispered. “My beautiful son.”
For a few brief moments my father took merry with us. But as he threw a ball, and my sisters and I, like little puppies, ran to retrieve it, I heard behind me, the door to the back room open, shut and lock.
Turning right around, I noticed that Papa and Mama were gone, and I gave a hurt cry of rejection. Mary and I began to blame each other for this swift abandonment.
“It’s your fault Mary!” I yelled at her first, tears streaking my face.
“No it’s yours Bessie!” she yelled back, crying as well.
But in that room there was conflict beginning that possessed more elements then a mere child’s hurt, and I did not notice it until I heard the unsheathing of Uncle Anthony’s sword.
Even as a child, I had known that my father’s brothers and courtiers and my mother’s Woodville kin, had no liking for each other.
No!” I cried, running to Uncle Anthony and clung to his leg. I didn’t know what the conflict was about, but I felt, as a child, I was the only one to stop it.
“I began to bawl with fear. “Oh Uncle Anthony, Uncle Dicken didn’t mean it, I swear he didn’t!”
Thomas from behind Uncle Anthony whose sword half-way out of the sheath spat out; “oh Gloucester wouldn't try to fight back anyway” And snickered. Thomas was a disgusting creature, ever one to start a conflict, or deepen it, but never one to take up a sword, always hiding behind men more powerful than he, or God forbid our Mother. Even as a young girl, I had no liking for him, But Richard I loved.
Baby Ned was screaming with cries, and Grandmother, with sweat forming on her brow, attempted to soothe him with rocking.
“Have you all no shame!” she yelled. It was the only time I had ever seen her angered. “Kill each other on your own time! Do not do this affront of the children!”
I looked to Uncle Dicken, whose enraged face broke out into a smile when it saw me. He was the first to try and settle himself.
“Say Bessie, how would you and Mary like to go out for a ride with me on the river brook? Its spring, the ducklings are beginning to hatch.”
Mary ran to him in childish joy, forgetting all about the past situation.
“Oh Uncle Dicken!” She beamed. “Can we? Can we truly? Clutching to him, staring trustingly up at him.
He laughed and scooped her up. “Of course you can,” he said.
I looked to Jaquetta who nodded in a smile. “Papa will meet you at the Palace tonight; I think it best you go with Uncle Dicken,” she said kindly.
I smiled back at her, and ran to catch up with my sister and the Duke of Gloucestrer who had already made their way out the door.

There were three of us on the black mare; Uncle Dicken, Mary and I. I took delight at the beauty of the landscape spring brought; the cool air, heated only by the warm sun, the robins and blue jays perched on trees, singing their sweet songs, and the river brook shining pale blue, rather than grey.
But I was so very curious as to why Uncle Dicken and Uncle Anthony had such a malice for each other.
“Uncle Dicken,” I asked. “Why do you and Uncle Anthony hate each other so?
He sighed.
“Ah, its complicated Bessie, I best not share it with you,” spoke him drearily.
“Uncle Anthony is going to be Baby Ned’s protector,” Mary said idly, staring at some swan.
“Why do you say that?” Asked our Uncle in confusion.
“Mama told us.” I replied.
This again made my Uncle sigh. “That woman,” I heard him utter under his breath.
My mind quickly turned from that subject. “Uncle Dicken,” I beseeched him again. “Why did Godfather and Uncle George try to kill Papa?”
“Bessie!” he gasped. “How do you know of that?’
“Mama,” I replied.
Again he sighed.
“Well Bessie, sometimes men covet things and it does consume their mind.”
“What will happen to Uncle George now? Will he be executed? Oh, Uncle Dicken, I don’t want him to be executed!” I cried frantically.
“Don’t worry Bessie, he won’t be,” my uncle assured me calmly. “I’ve ever known your father to be a merciful man, but I can’t promise his crimes will not go unpunished.”
“Like when Lady Berners punishes me for eating too many cakes?” I asked. This made him laugh.
“A bit Bessie, a bit.” he replied. The rest of our ride, my Uncle listened in mock interest at mine and Mary’s talk of the goslings and ducklings nesting on the river’s edge.

posted July 19, 2017 10:16 PM            

But, things would soon become difficult and troublesome again. For the king would have to, once again leave for the battles.
It had been a month since the Royal family’s grand return to London. That day was a marvelous one indeed; the bright sunny day and the raining of flower petals down on mine, and my familys; heads. I was made sure to dress in yellow, the color of gaiety, renewal, and heroes of old. The banner of the white rose of York was drawn on the city gables, as my family and myself sat in a horse-drawn carriage. It was the duty of me and my sisters to occasionally throw a white rose out at the crowd nearly screaming with merriness; “all hail Good King Ned!” And All of London was delighted with King Edward’s beautiful little girls.

But, on that night, I listened curiously to my parent’s talk outside their chamber door.
“I will have to leave Lizbet,” I heard my father speak. “Margaret is coming back with a vengeance. She’s the French army on her side.”
“ Lizbet, I want you to know if anything happens to me I…”
“You’re leaving again, Papa?” I moaned, bursting into their chambers before he could finish. The King and Queen took great surprise in my swift arrival.
I was five years of age, and had a nasty habit of escaping the clutches and captivity of my nanny to loom outside my parent’s bedchamber, listening in on their conversation.
“I have to Bessie,” he said, taking me in his arms, I felt a stirring sorrow in my belly.
“But Papa, why can’t you stay here with me?” I entreated drearily.
“Elizabeth if I stay all will be lost,” he said gently.
I cocked my head to the side in confusion. As a child, I understood not of war and conflict, could not my father just have sent some general out to lead the army rather than himself?
“Elizabeth, why were you eavesdropping on us?” Demanded my mother shrilly. Whenever she scolded me, she addressed me by my full name.
I stared at my mother timidly, as Papa said to her; “oh, Lisbet, do not reprimand her, she is but a child, I was the same with my parents at her age.”
I threw my head on his shoulder, and tried my hardest not to release the tears. I wanted so much to show him how grown up I was.
“Papa, don’t go,” I said, through choked throat.
He kissed me on the head. “My daughter, my darling daughter,” he whispered into my ear. “It is not my wish to leave you and your mother, but if I do not, Margaret of Anjou will win, and the throne shall go to her son and not your brotheer, do you want that?”
I let my sobs burst from me. “No,” I wailed in reply.
I felt my mother stroke my back in sympathy. This is one of the only loving acts I can ever recall Mama visiting upon me.
“Bessie, it’s only for a little while, be a big girl while Papa is gone, big girls don’t cry,” he said in mock cheerfulness.
I sniffed back my tears and nodded at him. I set my head back on his shoulder, as he held me close.
“Elizabeth, I promise I’ll return to you, I promise.”

A week later, the King left. The day was blustery and rainy, dreary so to speak, matching my inner feelings. I had thought it was all over, but now I watched down from my chamber window, my father atop his steed, knowing this could be the last time I would ever see him. I wanted to run down on to the gardens and jump into his arms, maybe there was a chance he wouldn’t go if I were to do something like that, but my Lady Mother would have none of it. She would have none of us children there to see him leave.
“Princess, would you like to come away from the window? We could play a game of pickup sticks,” My Lady Berners had said, trying to persuade me away. I ignored her words.

I watched him ride away on his black war-horse, the army following swiftly behind.
“Papa!” I moaned, even though he could not hear me. I could hear the beating of the horse’s hooves upon the ground.
I sprung from the window.
“Princess!” Lady Berners yelled, as I ran out the room.
I ran out onto the lawns, tears streaking my face. Watching the army run away, the dust the horse’s picked up flowing like wind.
Every inch of my being screamed Papa would die, but, he had made a promise, a promise to return, and I had to trust that, my father never broke promises. At least, not to me.

posted July 19, 2017 10:17 PM            

Spring, the season of renewal. The time when all decaying and old things end, and new ones are born. It was so with Lancaster and York. For long the Lancastrians had, had their oppressive reign, but on that day, York had finally prevailed.
All that day, my sisters and I skipped ‘bout The Tower. My father was returning today, and he had requested his family be there, when he returned.
Baby Ned was feeding off the wet nurse’s breasts, and Mother, with the biggest smile that I had ever seen, or would ever see on her face, stared intently out the window.
Margaret of Anjou had finally been defeated; all of London was celebrating. Finally, the end of the disastrous reign of Lancaster and the beginning of the glorious one of York.
My head perked up joyfully, when we heard the blaring of the King’s trumpets. My sisters and I anxiously piled ourselves by the window to see the army, their metal armor shining in the sunlight. The King was at the head of them, on his steed which was marching proudly to the tower gates.
Just as the soldier’s, my father’s armor shone magnificently in the sunlight, and the banners of York were once again drawn on the city gables.
I had tried to focus on my Lord Father, but my attentions were drawn onwards as I saw in back of the first half of the army, the great French Queen being paraded in a cart drawn by two ***** . She was shackled ‘bout the arms.
The former Queen attempted to shield herself while peasants and low-life’s threw rotten eggs, rocks, and mud at her.
I let out a little girlish laugh, pressing my hands to my mouth. So this was Margaret of Anjou? The courageous, blood-thirsty, Queen Margaret? Well she did not look so fierce now. Her blonde hair was matted to her, dirt stained her face, and her dress was an under one, ripped and torn.
Though, today, I berate myself for this, even if I was only in my fifth year of life. Truthfully as time would have it, I would begin to regard Margaret as a sad figure. After all did she not love Edward as much as I love my little Hal?
But, my ever wondering gaze turned again to my father. Oh, how he looked so full of majesty upon his war dresdier, carrying a lance above his head.
I saw him enter the Tower gates from the window, and I rushed to the other end of the room, excitedly awaiting his arrival.
Several minutes later he burst into the room in triumph.
“My family!” He yelled. “We are finally safe, and supreme rulers. There will be no more wars! No more fighting! Peace has returned to us, and all of England!
He picked Cecily and Mary up in his arms, twirling them around on either shoulder, he kneeled to brush his lips against my head, he ruffled Thomas’s and Richard’s hair, he blew a kiss on baby Ned’s face, he kissed my mother long and passionately.
The joy I felt that day, I would never feel such again, and I watched Papa take my mother in a silly out-of-sync dance.
“Ned!” She laughed heartily as he twirled her ‘bout.
It was over, the war was finally over. And now all of England would bow to us, the Plantagenet’s of York. We would enjoy a great reign for hundreds of years to come.

That night, there was much feasting and rejoicing. Traditionally, the royal children were not to partake in the feasts ‘til the age of eight at least, but since it was such a grand triumph, Papa wanted all his children present.
In the Great Hall of Westminster, briskly ran my sisters and I, amidst and between the feasting, drinking and dancing people.
The music was loud, and it was very late, but it didn’t matter to us. We were only filled with joy at the prospect of being allowed to partake. And laughing, we tried to chase each other.
At the head of the Great Hall were my parents sitting at their royal table. Papa happily, and drunk raising his glass to the scene taking place a-front him; A young boy in the garb of the French Queen, with blonde, braided wig and all, was lazily wobbling around, holding his wood sword like a fool. The boy across from him was dressed in the fashion of the English King, my father. There was as well a man directing the whole array.
“She was fierce, but she was foolish!” He yelled. “And our Good King Ned did throw her down!”
With that the boy dressed as my father thrust his wooden sword into the folded arm of the one dressed as Margaret of Anjou, who made a noise of mock dying, and fell to the ground.
“Hail, hail!” My father yelled with the drunkenness, raising his royal goblet.
It was then he noticed Mary, Cecily, and me standing there watching.
“Girls! Girls!” He yelled. “Come to your Papa!” He held his arms out and briskly with joy we went.
Mama looked on in disapproval. “Ned, mayhap you are too…:” she began.
“Bah! I am never too anything for my children!” He yelled. “Where’s my boy! Bring me my boy!”
We scampered on our Papa’s lap, in which we could all three sit on, as Mama began again; “Ned it is late he is asleep, you wouldn’t…”
“I want my boy Lisbet!” He yelled again, but still with that drunken stupor grin.
She with a smile shook her head, and gave up.
Soon Baby Ned was carried by his nurse to our table, he wasn’t even crying with being awakened, rather his little eyes looked curiously about at the merry making.
“Give him!” Papa demanded, taking Baby Ned from the nurse’s arms. “Give him here. Ah that’s my boy.” He held him up.
“Listen!” The King yelled. “Listen here you blimey scoundrels!” The music was silenced and the merrymaking was ceased.
“This is my boy! He is the one who shall succeed me!” He held up the babe, and then briskly passed him to my Lady Mother.
My father then, in his happiness put Cecily on his shoulders, and picked Mary and I up in either arm.
“And these are my girls! The prettiest England-no-all of Europe has ever produced!”
Mama smiled beside him, we all were smiling.
Will Hastings, my father’s courtier stood, laughing, clapping at the same time.
“Let us drink to the Royal Family’s health!” He yelled.
“Ay!” The crowd yelled raising their cups and then taking a deep gulp of their ale.
I, suddenly had an urge, in act of attention, kissed my father on the cheek, which made the crowd yell in absolute adoring.
I smiled charmingly at them all.

posted August 08, 2017 09:21 PM            

"Princess Elizabeth how do you get such things in your hair!" Demanded Nanny Berners. I was nine years old, and she was being most merciless in scrubbing my scalp with the nearly scolding hot water and dandelion oil. I'd gone hunting earlier with Papa.
I had almost had that wren! In great pride, I lifted my arrow. Suddenly The King sang out loudly.

'We'll hunt the wren says Robin the Bobbin,
We'll hunt the wren says Richie the Robbin
We'll the wren says Jack 'o the land,
We'll hunt the wren says everyone.'

I slipped in the mud. He hadn't expected me to fall, and as I stubbornly held back tears of anger, he laughed scooped me up on his horse, and offered his condolences in a half apologetic half silly way.
"You did that on purpose!" I yelled at him riding my brown pony on the way back to Wesminster Castle.
He chuckled, "and so I did Bess, to teach you that attack is always around the corner if you focus your attentions only on one thing." No he did it to be foolish, but Papa always was sure to make you believe his motives and actions were for thine own good.
After we had entered the gates. He threw off his mantle and yelled; "Lady Berners where art thou?! Get my child clean! Get her ready for supper! I've a great announcement to be made to my family! And you too shall be present!"
From the corner of mine eye I saw a feast gathering in the great hall, and my nanny hurried me past it.

"It was his fault." I said with mild begrudging, in fact I was beginning to look back on it with humor. She poured a vat of hot water over me, my tresses darkened to a deep yellow as they formed affront my face, I must have looked like a shaggy dog.
"Ah, but you are his favorite." she said gently. "If I were your father I'd not let you to the hunt."
It was true, girl children were usually not permitted such things, but Papa loved to hunt with me. Mary came sometimes, and Cecily was always truly abhorred by the prospect, she was always too clean of a girl for such things, but I reveled in it.
Yes, I knew I was Papa's favorite. Even now that two more siblings had joined our family; two year old Richard, named for Uncle Dicken and newborn Anne.
I think my place in his heart was as much circumstance as it was mannerism. Papa secretly told me that he cared not for a boy or a girl when he discovered Mama was pregnant with me.
"'Tis ridiculous that men should think one year after winning their crown that a boy born should be a great fortune to their Kingdom. Indeed Bess, daughters can be just as valuable as sons, even moreso."
What he meant of course was alliances. Any King could have a Duke or Count against him, but two Kings on the same side, that was something to fear. Though, men seem slaves to their ego's, and in my experience these so called alliances never last long.
It would seem too that after Mary and Cecily had been born his worry for the son he did so desperately need would be weighing on him.
Papa was a learned man. Him and I read together often, he used to compare me to the Grey-eyed Goddess Athena from the Illiad. Indeed mine eyes were a silvery blue, like hers, and he claimed I had the fury of the Goddess herself. We would study the Divine Comedy, yes that one was was a favorite of ours. We even used to talk in jest of which circle we were most likely to be damned or blessed to. "Five, the sins of the wrathful. You have that fury as your Mother. But you will not go to such a place, you shall go to the highest heaven can promise," and then he would present me a sweet.
In his study I would oft curl myself at his feet and read, he too would do the same in his chair. The Printing Press had been created just ten years earlier in Germany and Father would waste no time in getting his hands on the knowledge it promised. Indeed, England was never as learned as it is now before he. It was King Edward IV who founded the first library of England. He admired my thirst for wisdom which the books did promise I had inherited it from him. Mary and Cecily were never as really interested it seems, but they did enjoy to listen to his solemn dramatic tone.
Cecily would take to his lap, and Mary and I would lounge on his bed. Before I was Queen I did not know that this was too much a tender moment often unheard of for Kings to do with their children. 'The King letting his daughters upon his bed?' Asked a Portuguese Ambassador years later. 'Should you not have a governess for that?' It made me love my father even more.
We loved The Canterbury Tales." Our favorite was the man of Law's tale, indeed, I've always had an interest in the Ottomans and their neighbors still to this day, I can contribute it to this story.
Papa was a very religious man, and no other King has ever given as much honor to England's Patron Saint as he; St. George the Dragon Slayer is perched above so many canopy's of mine and mine husband's castles because of this, and I and all my sisters were made Lady's of the the Saint's Blessed Garter. He relented to me often the tale. "And this Bess, is our knowing that England be blessed more then the Continent."
We recited rosary almost every night to in the chapel reserved for the top floor of Westminster, our home most of the time. Papa looked at her with a marvel unmatched by any man I've ever met. Utter devotion to the Immaculate Mother. He always retreated to the chapel when he and Mama were fighting. Mostly of his mistresses, and the visiting of brothels of the common folk, no less that he would go with Uncle George and Uncle Dicken.
However, he kept a court of merriment and fun. Minstrels abounded the Great hall and everywhere, French sewers who made our garments of Flemish thread, and the feasts! Sometimes even Peacocks! I truly wish mine own children; Arthur, Henry, Margaret, and Mary had known such a court.

England had been at peace three years now, and it seemed they were continuing to improve. There were no pesant uprisings, Good King Ned provided handsomely for them. I remember the day that the King dug up the bodies of his Father, the late Duke of York, killed by Margaret of Anjou herself, and his brother Edmund; the late Earl of Rutland. As we solemnly buried them in Westminster Abbey the King insisted that gold and copper coins be thrown to the peasants, who rightly made a great ruckus outside in joy. Their wine and ale allowances had been increased substantially, and the Serf's now could acquire their materials to make their wears. For, now my Aunt Margaret, younger sister to the King, was the Duchess of Burgundy, a powerful realm for the trades of the Continent, just across the Port of Dover. Uncle Dicken was now the Duke of Gloucester, the greatest title to hold in all of England third only the King, the Archbishop of Canterbury being second. Uncle George was now the Duke of Clarence, not too powerful, but necessity none the less. Though, he did resent Papa for this, and everyone could see tensions brewing between the brothers. My father's answer was simple:
"Did you not abandon me for Warwick and Margaret of Anjou in my time of most need? You should be grateful I give you anything at all." In fact just last Christmas there had been an outburst of Papa at both Uncle Anthony and Uncle George.

The King had been in a most dubious mood that night. The Queen was laughing and sipping her wine. Mama always had a way of outdoing herself. Her lips were a berry color and the black belladona 'round her eyes made her appear as if she were some Oriental Sultan's Wife, and not an English King's.
As I bit into a tasty sugar plumb my mouth fell open at the outburst. Supposedly Uncle Anthony was boasting how much he had helped the King when the Lancastrians had chased them away on the ship to Burgundy.
"If not for me the mast would have broke!" He was drunk I suppose.
Papa had been distant the whole night, but suddenly he stood. "Was it not me who saved your ass! Do you not know whose head they would have had!? The brother of a Lancastrian Widow turned York!? And then mine own. Never again boast you of your talents exist merely in your sheepish mind." He then turned to Uncle George
"And you! You swine! Be you lucky thou art my brother lest you would have knelt on Tower Green the day of my second coronation! Which I may add was won with the aid of my dearer brother Dicken!" The Duke of Gloucester gave a look in his direction. He was only twenty one, the most powerful and second youngest Lord of the Realm, the first belonging to my new baby brother; Richard christened for his namesake, the Duke of York. Yet his thirty two year old brother had granted him this because of his unwavering loyalty. Indeed only Will Hastings, his most loved courtier and now the Duke of Buckingham, could equal Dicken in his heart.
Yes indeed in those times even though life for England was flourishing, life within our family was deteriorating. Mama and Papa were not getting on well, and Uncle Anthony exerted so much influence over the Queen. Mama wanted Uncle Anthony to have the position of Uncle Dicken. The Earl of Rivers of course has no power to the Duke of Gloucester, and oh how Mama hated him. The Queen was given to her delight in tormenting her enemies, and everywhere she walked she was followed by at least seven Lady's, even for a stroll, she always had to exert the extent of her status. And why not? Knowing her personality; she was the widow of a Lancastrian Knight turned to the Queen of the Yorkist Edward IV. Her first husband had been the father of my older brothers; Thomas and Richard.
Mary and I used to make faces at her when she was not looking, and sing silently to each other;

'The brightest jewel in all my crown would be my Queen, would be my Queen, The brightest jewel in all my crown, my queen would ever be."

Yes, at a very young age we learned to resent our mother for her haughtiness.

Uncle George was always speaking out of turn in what he considered an embarrassment to his status as brother of the King. But the biggest problem was Uncle Dicken's marriage two years prior to Anne Neville, daughter of Warwick, and widow of Mad King Harry and Margaret of Anjou's son: Edward of Westminster.
Men who've only power on their minds blind themselves to the love that people should decently bear one another and indeed one should pity mine Uncle in some regard.
How many times did one have to explain that Uncle Richard and Aunt Anne had met as children and had always bore a love as deep as Solomon and the Queen of Sheba? It is sickening to think what men say of his love for her now. Who but him had made it his personal quest to seek her out? Save her from Bedlam with the shrieking mad and forgotten noble women who resided there? For, you see women are not to be punished for their husband's and fathers disobedience. Bedlam is the only hope sake for a noble woman to be saved from a life peasantry after their family is disgraced. Women must never be executed, even Papa rather then sending the French Queen to the block paid for her voyage back to France. I would later hear word that she died in great poverty.
Though, they speak that at Bedlam, they shackle the women sometimes from escaping so as not to find their surviving male brood. It is too a place for the noblewomen mad and their kin do not wish to acknowledge their existence. People used to speak of **** smearing the walls. and 'tis looked after graciously by nuns. Aunt Isabel was not long for the world, the wife of Uncle George. She never quite recovered from the sickness she had contracted on the ship that chased my father's own. Indeed the sea took her first child. Isabel and Anne were sisters you see, two powerful sisters for two powerful brothers and this is why it raised more then a few eyebrows of some of the Lords and Lady's of the realm.
At Uncle Dicken's wedding, Papa smiled and full heartily blessed the union. My sisters and I served as throwing the petals for Aunt Anne to walk upon.
We took joy, though, it was obvious that some of the other noble onlookers did not. Rumors abounded that the Duke of Clarence and the Duke of Gloucester were staging a coup to throw the King off the throne and set Uncle George upon it in his place. After all their Wives were the daughter of the Kingmaker who had himself claimed King Edward IV's right to the throne the first time, and King Henry VI after their falling out.
If the motive existed, it only did in Uncle George's mind. There was none as loyal to my father as Uncle Dicken and this is why he granted him the woman he loved for his Wife.
Such trials and tribulations seem to have an attempt of the adults at hiding too well. So much that they can see it better then if the issue were just explained in a logical manner.
Still, our lives as Princesses were enjoyable, and now the once Baby Ned resided at Ludlow to be trained in the duties of a King. The three year old boy had been warmly parted by the Lady Queen in a more sophisticated then tender manner and both Mama and Papa smiled as his carriage rolled out to Wales.

posted August 14, 2017 05:35 PM            

quote:

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Originally posted by mirage29:
Whitewitch... (you need to edit, and remove the 's' from https ... in order for us to hear your music links)

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posted August 29, 2017 08:26 AM            

"If there is to be a grand feast," I spoke after my underdress was on. "Then I should like to wear the sky blue dress. You know Nanny, the type of blue that the Thames reflects on a cloudless summer's day."
And I lost myself dreamily into colors.
But she shook her head and opened my closet. I noticed that there was something hanging which hadn't been there that morning.
"What's that?" I asked.
She pulled out the most colorful elaborate dress I had ever seen. Purple, but a deep purple so rare to come across in the dying of threads. The sleeves were a shade of green that could only be described as having hints of dark blue in it that would hug tightly to mine hands. and when you were to lift your arms a pattern of the feathers of a peacock were revealed. It even had a bodice that was the shade of a lavender and I giggled in modesty.
"A gift from the King of France," she said. "And you will like it," her look was stern moreso then I thought appropriate for a child to merely be joyed by how breathtaking it already was.
It had even come with a hat to compliment it, red and white striped with a peacock feather sticking out from it.
"How should my hair be made?" I asked.
"No, no Princess," she said. It is one of those French garments." And it went 'round mine head hugging comfortably setting right before the eyebrows. My hair fell straight down all around.
"What is Cecily and Mary's like?" I asked.
And she laughed. "You're the elder daughter, Princess Elizabeth and your things are always the grandest, don't you understand? Get thee used to it now. I've been governess to many a noble child, and though you are my first royal one, 'tis the same law of the land." There was an unusual pep in her tone.
It didn't strike me so much as strange that I felt bad for Cecily and Mary. Why couldn't they have pretty French dresses like me?
Come Princess Elizabeth," she said and led me out.

When the great hall of Westminster was open, my mouth dropped open wide.
There to me bowed all or most of the Lords of the Realm; The Dukes bowed affront the Eearls, who behind them bowed the counts, and behind them the Viscounts. Behind all them bowed the noble women of the land and nobody was bowing deeper and more accented then my father at the lead of them all.
His head rose slowely to look into mine eyes.
"All hail the Queen of France, Elizabeth Plantagenet of England!"
He had betrothed me.