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foreversillythings · 8 years ago

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roses are red, roses are white chapter one

Prologue

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter one so wilts the red rose

It is the coldest Christmas Madge can remember.

It's everything she'd dreamed of and more, yet Madge cannot find any cheer. She is too young to truly understand what happened, but there is a black hole inside of her filled with fear, a fear that eats away at any joy she manages to discover. She should feel like a princess as she walks around the suite of rooms her family has been gifted, but instead she feels skittish and scared of shadows. Madge takes hesitant steps on the fur carpeting the stone floors to keep her feet warm and wants to sink her toes into it, wants to rejoice in the splendor around her but there's a prickle at the back of her neck, a tingle of something awful.

Her bed is large enough for her and several friends, covered in more pillows than she'll ever know what to do with. Delicate roses are etched into the wooden frame and she runs her fingers over them, traces the patterns with her nails. Red velvet curtains hang about the bed and the walls are adorned with finely threaded tapestries depicting battle scenes, the Virgin Mary and heroic deeds.

(Madge stares at those heroes each night before she climbs into bed, promises herself they're keeping her safe)

Her garments hang in a well carved wardrobe, a merry fire crackles in the hearth but it never fights away her chill and each item of dark wood furniture is glossy to the touch. She wishes she had flowers to put on every surface, to make the room feel bright and alive, but winter cold has killed them all.

(Madge almost believes they'd have withered anyway)

(there is something in the air at Westminster, something toxic)

Madge climbs into her great big bed and drowns in it, memories blending with nightmares to cling to her even in her waking hours. She stares at the panneled ceiling of her room, painted with roses, crowned wolves and King Coriolanus, and feels sick and lightheaded. The mesmerizing magic Madge had seen on her first foray into London has disappeared, replaced by the harsh light of day.

I just want to go home

Let us just go home

Fires blaze in every room, garlands are strewn across doorframes and banisters, and talented minstrels play music all day long but Madge does not feel the warmth or recognize the tunes, feels as horrible as her mother looks. Lady Bedford is pale and drawn, barely eats and speaks so quietly her words sound more like breaths. She withers and wastes under the King's dark eyes, but still attends every festivity, the hunts and feasts and masques, the performances and concerts and recitals. Her husband begins to lose his colour, rounded cheeks starting to thin, but the King doesn't seem to notice, greets them with oily smiles, offers them the best seats and the choicest foods and Madge's curiosity would usually ask why, but she is too dazed with horror to wonder.

The palace smells of holly and rich food, an army of cooks slaving in the kitchen for every hour of the day and each meal is a feast, course after course after course. Madge can barely stomach it all, would feel like a glutton if she even tried but King Coriolanus' court is one of extravagance and excess, always loud and full of people. The celebration never seems to end but Madge is listless and quiet, can't muster any excitement at magnificent decorations or beautifully dressed lords and ladies. Her father points them out to her, trying to rise her to emotion, to life.

"That is Lord Brutus, Duke of Somerset. He is a favourite of the King and Queen."

(hard and mean with angry eyes, Madge is not surprised)

"Over there is the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Boggs. The King's half-brother."

(younger and darker, he looks nothing like his brother. Madge cannot help but find that comforting)

"Beside him is his nephew, Finnick, Earl of Richmond."

(slightly older than her and already handsome, Madge would have swooned if she didn't see blood every time she closed her eyes)

"Ah yes, and that is the Earl of Richmond's mother, the Lady Alma and her new husband, Lord Heavensbee."

(she is grey and stern, he is colourful and laughing. What an odd combination)

(the Duke of York is nowhere to be seen)

None of her observations are enough to dislodge the monster taken root in her mind. The King fills every corner of her, dark eyed and cackling as heads roll. He looms over the festivities from his raised throne, dressed always in exquisite garments trimmed with fur. His bony fingers are weighed down by rings studded with every jewel she can name and even some she can't, and a glittering crown sits on his head, bright gold with dazzling gems. It presses down on him and makes him hunch, his neck bending under the weight.

He orders performances every night, but instead of Saint George and the Dragon or Noah's Arc, these players act out scenes all about the glory of His Majesty, King Coriolanus of England. Shimmering plates of solid gold piled with sugared deserts are laid before them as poets rhapsodize about the King and Madge finds herself unable to eat, the sweets appearing almost grotesque.

Madge counts the days as they pass, looks out snowy windows and prays they will soon return home.

(if anyone ever bothered to ask, Madge would say Westminster is more a prison than a palace)

Their last night in London finally comes, capped by the most opulent ball.

Madge is determined to enjoy herself, refuses to wallow in the same hole of misery she's been trapped in since they arrived here. She is tired of nightmares and fear and sadness, wants to have one night where everything is bright and lovely and wonderful. A fool's hope perhaps, but Madge promises herself she will be happy tonight, that she will greet this new year of 1463 with nothing but smiles. This will be a year of joy.

Not even a king shall take that from me she vows as her maids help her dress. They lace her into a white kirtle threaded through with silver and then her new periwinkle houppelande, the fabric decorated with delicate fleur-de-lis made of pearls and a collar of white velvet. They accent it with a white girdle jeweled with sapphires, then weave blue ribbons and pearls into her hair and Madge runs hands over the silk of her dress, enthusiasm flagging in her heart. One of the maids hangs a pretty string of diamonds and pearls around her neck and Madge looks at her reflection, tries to muster up some excitement. This should be a dream come true, after all, how often does she get to wear such finery?

Stop it, be happy

Madge pinches colour into her cheeks, puts on her rings, a ruby one from a grandmother who'd died before she was born, a sapphire one received as a gift from her father and affixes a silver and turquoise brooch from her mother to the front of her kirtle.

"You look beautiful, my lady," one of the maids tells her and Madge forces herself to preen like she usually would.

This shouldn't be so hard.

Just tonight, just be happy tonight.

They dab her with rosewater and then she steps outside her chamber to greet her parents, both of them in their very best garments. They walk down together but don't share a word, Westminster's forbidding walls leeching the life right out of them. Elegantly dressed lords and ladies crowd the halls and Madge feels a small thrill at the sight and focuses on it, tries to force that spark into an inferno. Her eyes drink in everything they pass and she desperately wants this night to be one worth remembering, wants to preserve just one happy memory from this trip.

The great gilded doors to the banqueting hall are already thrown open and Madge enters behind her parents, a tiny, tiny part of her managing to marvel at the golden festivities. She inhales deeply, the whole room hung with sweet smelling wreaths and garlands. Minstrels play lively music and the floor is scrubbed so clean it almost shines. Thousands of candles burn while roaring fires keep the room warm and silver bells jangle from the wrists and ankles of dancing girls dressed in floaty, nearly transparent costumes. A tiny sigh flutters in Madge's chest, in awe at the splendor and she looks up at the King's table, raised higher than all the rest. The royal family will be the last to arrive and the room feels brighter without them, the holidays slightly more merry.

Madge sits at the long banqueting table assigned to the various children and younger nobles, each one dressed in glittering finery. The wood shimmers in the candlelight and the handsome Earl of Richmond, thirteen year old Finnick Odair, sits at the head of the table, resplendent in emerald green. He talks excitedly, too far away for Madge to hear, but his very green eyes light up, his golden smile stretched wide. Heads turn in his direction, girls tittering excitedly and Madge guesses Prince Cato must be seething with jealousy.

(she feels the start of a genuine smile at the thought)

Madge looks around the table and tries to remember everyone's names but they blur in her head, her misery these past weeks having foiled her memory. A dark haired girl in purple sits to her left, but doesn't speak, her gaze lingering on Finnick of Richmond and Madge looks at her from the corner of her eye. She wracks her brain but honestly has no idea if they've been introduced before, an utter blank filling up her mind.

Do I introduce myself and hope for the best? But what if we've already met? What if I insult her?

After too many minutes spent agonizing, she decides not to say anything, not wanting to risk it but then she remembers her promise to herself, that she will be happy tonight, will enjoy herself. She plasters on a smile and hopes she looks sincere.

"Hello, I'm Madge of Bedford. My father's the Duke," she greets and the girl turns abruptly, lovely ocean eyes wide. She continues to stare at Madge in surpise, as if someone speaking to her is the most baffling possibility and Madge feels her smile start to wilt. Perhaps she'd have been better off remaining quiet. The girl ducks her head.

"My apologies, my lady. I'm Annie. Anne! Of Oxford. My father's the Earl."

Madge can see Anne's cheeks flush pink and wishes she would look up, but she supposes the daughter of a duke outranks that of an earl. Madge smiles as warmly as she can manage.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Lady Anne."

"And you Lady Madge."

A herald blares on his horn before they can say anymore and a deep hush falls over the room, every head turned to the doors. Madge feels her chest tighten.

"His Majesty, King Coriolanus!" the herald bellows and everyone stands. The men doff their hats and bow, the women all curtsy and the King sweeps in with an amused smirk, his lips smeared over with blood. Madge focuses in on that, that one disturbing detail and cannot help but wonder why his lips are always painted and dripping with blood. Is he diseased? Is it contagious?

He does not look sickly though, instead he glows, dressed in his finest houppelande of cloth of gold crusted with precious gems and a long ermine lined mantle that trails across the floor behind him. His hands twinkle with rings, his crown sparkles and the Queen beside him dazzles in a ruby red gown studded with diamonds, tourmalines and garnets. Prince Cato swaggers in behind them, his boots black and glossy, his doublet silvery and delicate. A golden coronet rests on his head and blends well with his sunny hair and Madge thinks he could be handsome if only he didn't make her so uneasy.

The royal family take their seats at the high table but the King waits for a few moments before commanding them all to sit. He enjoys this, Madge thinks, enjoys flaunting his authority.

"Be seated," he finally allows and they all sit as the music begins again. All eyes stay on the King, waiting for his instruction and Madge starts to feel an itch at the base of her spine, a bubble of discontent starting to grow inside her. The King roves lazy eyes over them, lingering over the dancers with his lips curled and then claps his hands. Silver angels enter with jugs of spiced wine and mead while golden ones bring trays laden with figs, dates, pears, apples and strawberries. Madge wants to be enchanted, she really does, but that bubble keeps growing larger, filling her up with no room left for anything else.

Don't do this

Be happy, please

Madge pinches her palm to clear her misgivings and focuses on the food in front of her. She knows it isn't ladylike, but she piles up her plate with strawberries, is always craving her favourite fruit.

(and maybe she hopes to pop that bubble inside of her with something she loves)

Lady Anne nibbles on a single pear and Madge feels a bit like a pig, her mountain of fruit looking monstrous in comparison. She peeks up at the King, juices running down his chin and catching in his beard, and feels decidedly better.

(though she supposes while someone might lecture her on her manners, no one would dare do so to the King)

The fruit is exquisite, the best she's ever had but that bubble stays inside of her, not even dented and Madge feels like a sinking ship. She's never been depressed a day in her life, and now, surrounded by more splendor than she could conjure in her wildest dreams, a smile feels impossible. Happiness has never been such a chore and Madge cannot help but blame the King. His wicked deeds have poisoned her.

(that's treason, comes a voice in her head)

(I know, she whispers back)

Servers come with basins for them to wash their hands before the second course and Madge shakes her head, stubbornly refuses to give up. She will enjoy herself tonight, she will. Angelic servers arrive with a variety of pies, filled with meat, eggs, vegetables and fruit, mountains and mountains of them, enough for an entire village. Madge takes in their delicately feathered wings and wishes real angels were here, children of light to fight off the shadows in every corner.

Stop thinking like that, stop it

Madge closes her eyes, digs nails into her wrists and inhales deeply. She opens her eyes, resolved again to banish unhappiness from tonight. She turns to the pie platters before her and knows it's silly after eating an entire plate full, but takes a strawberry pie from the pile anyway.

(gluttony some might say, but this is the only comfort she can find)

Her nurse would be utterly appalled, so Madge turns to Lady Anne beside her.

"Would you care to share? I think a whole pie might be too much for me."

(this is a lie)

(Madge could definitely eat a whole pie)

Lady Anne blinks at her but then smiles sweetly, eyes bright with pleasure. "I would love to."

Madge is surprised to feel a smile on her own face, that bubble in her stomach suddenly leaking air and cuts the pie carefully in half, sliding Lady Anne's portion onto her plate.

(maybe there is comfort to be found in other places too)

"Bon appetit," Madge says and Anne dips her head.

"And to you."

They giggle a bit and Madge wonders if this is what it feels like to have a friend, one who isn't a poppet or your parents. Not that Madge would be so presumptuous as to call Lady Anne her friend, but deep down, she feels a little better already. They dig in and the pie is delicious, though not quite as good as their cook's back home, and Madge is craving a hundred others. She wants more but knows she shouldn't, shoulders lighter after her exchange with Lady Anne.

(maybe because now she's not alone)

Thankfully the servers arrive to clear the dishes and Madge is saved from any decisions. Washing basins come around again and the pies are replaced with oysters, mussels, scallops and more fish than Madge could ever name. Anne takes dainty bites of a scallop and Madge knows it is a sin, but she cannot help but be envious of how birdlike she is, will never look quite so graceful as she eats.

Washing basins come to signal the end of the course and Madge washes her hands even though she didn't eat anything, would hate for people to think her unhygienic. Next comes meat, with beef, chicken, pork, mutton, lamb, venison, partridge, quail, goose and duck. Even more impressive, a staple of royalty, are the swans and peacocks, painstakingly re-feathered after they were cooked. Anne frowns.

"Is the scallop not agreeing with you?" Madge asks worriedly, having had her own bad experiences with fish and queasy stomachs.

Anne blushes down to her neck.

"Oh no, no of course not. I just...I don't like when it still looks like a real animal, like it might fly off any moment," she admits, embarrassed, but Madge takes a long look at the swans and peacocks and realizes she may be right.

"It is somewhat unnerving," she agrees and Anne sinks in her seat in relief. They share a smile and Madge helps herself to some quail while Anne takes a miniature amount of pork. Madge ladles a thick sauce onto her meat and everything is luxuriously spiced and seasoned, the heady aroma floating into her brain and making her hazy. Her eyes drift around the room and find Prince Cato, who has clearly inherited his father's table manners. He gorges himself on roasted swan and peacock, stuffing it in his face like a wild animal and Madge grimaces in disgust. Anne follows her line of sight and takes him in with wide eyes.

"Not quite so princely, is he?" she whispers and Madge giggles into her sleeve.

(he doesn't seem so frightening now)

They wash their hands again and then dine on doughnuts, biscuits and turnovers. Each one is scrumptious, but Madge makes sure not to eat too much, wants to be able to savor dessert.

"Is this your first time at court?" Anne asks her and she nods. "I thought so. How old are you, Lady Madge?"

"I shall be ten in March," she declares proudly and Anne smiles.

"I turned eleven in August," she says and Madge pouts even though she knows she shouldn't.

"Have you been to court before?" she questions, hoping she won't be beat in this too, but Anne nods slowly, eyes turned down to her plate.

"I have been coming ever since I was very young," she murmurs and there is something in her tone that makes Madge bite her lip. She grabs Anne's hand beneath the table, the fingers cold and trembling. Anne looks up with wet eyes and Madge smiles at her, wants to sweep away her sadness like Anne did hers. Anne sucks in her bottom lip and then smiles back, a cloud seemingly lifted and they keep their hands together until the servers come with more washing basins.

(what could make her so unhappy?)

(Madge is fairly certain she knows the answer)

Melancholy thoughts start to recede at the magnificent spread of subtleties laid out before them, decorated with the petals of roses, violets and elder flowers. They are presented with fritters, sweet custard, darioles, crepes with sugar, strawberry tarts, plum tarts, cherry tarts, mulled wine, aged cheese, fruit paste and fruits covered in sugar, honey or syrup. Several servers come out carrying a great replica of Westminster made of marchpane and people applaud as it is set on the head table.

Madge takes a few spoonfuls of custard, several syrupy strawberries and splits a crepe with Anne. She smiles, finally truly enjoying herself, and this is nice, is what she wanted all those months she dreamed at home. Prince Cato takes everything he can get his hands on, stuffing his face with darioles, honeyed pears, crepes and marchpane. Madge purses her lips, wonders if he's ever learned any manners, and her eyes slide to his father beside him, her blood suddenly running cold. There is a red smear left behind on the King's wine goblet, like a kiss of death and it terrifies her for reasons she can't explain, all the warmth and joy she'd began to feel draining away, the horrors of Westminster returning with a fresh virulence. She abandons the rest of her dessert, her stomach shriveled and small.

They wash their hands for the final time and the King claps his again, the music becoming more raucous. The dancers spill between the tables, spinning and whirling and performers stream into the hall, some juggling and others flipping through the air. People ooh and ahh as acrobats fly and a man breathes fire, a knife thrower earning gasps and applause. Madge yearns to enjoy herself as well, but she wants to retire, her excitement replaced with the claustrophobic dread she'd been feeling since that terrible day in the square. She squeezes her eyes shut as the memories flood back and this isn't what she wanted. Can she not have just one night?

(no)

The performances seem to carry on forever and Madge feels so tired, like she hasn't slept in months. I just want to go home. She needs her parents but can't find them in the sea of faces and finally the King stands, everyone hurrying to do the same, their benches scraping loudly over the stone floors. He steps down from the dais, Queen Enobaria and Prince Cato following after him and Madge prays this means the night is coming to it's end.

The bell wearing dancers begin to twirl from the room, the royal family falling in behind them. Soon, everyone in the hall is moving out as a procession, the musicians bringing up the rear. Madge wonders if she could just slip away and crawl up into her oversized bed, desperately wishes this night was over. Instead, they are led into a great hall, the dancers spinning around in the center of the room. The King and Queen sit on gilded thrones at the far end of the hall and everyone else fills in around the edges, the musicians setting up in the corner. Madge takes a look around the large, empty room and knows they've been brought here for after dinner dancing. Will this night never end?

(never ever)

No one moves, waits for the King to decide what happens next. He surveys them with smirking malice and then makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The dancers cease their movements, the echo of their bells tinkling around the hall. They drape themselves around his throne and Madge wonders if she's imagining the uneasiness in their eyes.

(she doubts it)

"Let the youngest among us begin tonight," the King commands and Madge feels like her feet are made of stone. A serving boy hurries to bring the King more wine and the children around her begin buzzing excitedly, each one searching for a partner. Even though she'd practised for so long, even though she'd be so looking forward to it, she prays no one will ask her to dance.

Various pairs form but the girls around her hold their breath and Madge realizes it's because Finnick of Richmond is looking around, eyes skipping over each girl they land on. Every girl seems to vibrate, desperate to dance with him but his gaze stops on Anne, her eyes sparkly as she takes in the dancefloor. He lights up and smiles, easy and slow as it stretches across his face. Lord Finnick walks over, girls deflating like old wine sacks when he passes them. He stops in front of Anne and smiles, bowing low.

"Lady Anne, may I have this dance?"

Her cheeks turn a deep, dark pink and she won't meet his eyes, but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hand in his. They step out onto the dancefloor, followed by venomous glares and Madge feels a little warm for a reason she can't explain. It vanishes quickly though, replaced with frigid unhappiness when she catches sight of Prince Cato. He sneers at her, but is definitely walking right towards her. She peeks around him and sees the King watching them, his eyes narrowed and his smirk bloody as always. Her stomach sinks and though she has no idea why, she knows he must have ordered the Prince to dance with her. Cato half-bows before her, eyes hard.

"Would you like to dance, Lady Madge?"

No, she wants to shout, no! She knows better though and dips into a curtsy.

"I would be most honoured, your Highness."

He takes her hand with sticky fingers and tugs her into the centre of the room. The music picks up in intensity and everyone stumbles through the appropriate steps, Madge's own legs weighed down with lead. Cato jerks her around the floor, her movements stiff and Madge counts each and every second of the dance until it is over. Cato takes issue with her inattention and stomps on her foot, pain screaming up from her crushed toes. She bites her lip to stop from crying out and knows he did it on purpose, his eyes mean and dark. She exhales sharply and does not glare at him no matter how much she wants to, chooses to peer over his shoulder and take comfort in Anne and Finnick, making such a pretty pair as they dance.

The song mercifully comes to an end and Cato releases her like he's been burned. He scowls, the edges of his teeth visible between his lips.

"You're not very good, are you?" he asks, voice harsh and loud enough for everyone around them to hear. Madge does not bristle even as lightning crackles beneath her skin, drops into a curtsy instead.

"My most sincere apologies, your Highness," she demures and he snorts, stomping off. She rises and people are staring at her, whispers passing behind their hands. She wants to run and hide, humiliation heavy on her shoulders but she doesn't, retreats instead to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster. This night was supposed to be her one perfect memory of this trip to court, but tonight she is as miserable as she's always been.

Perhaps there is no such thing as happiness here.

"Idiot!" the King's voice booms and Madge flinches, heart suddenly racing. There is a terrible sound of a hand striking flesh and Madge turns in time to see the King's serving boy crash to the floor, the force of the King's backhand sending him reeling. The wine jug he'd been carrying cracks as it lands on the stone, a dark puddle spreading out in every direction.

"Useless cur!" the King continues, the pointed toe of his shoe digging into the boy's back as he kicks him. Madge clamps her hands over her mouth, the urge to retch seizing hold of her. The King kicks the boy again, ignores his whimpers and then looks up, his face feverish.

"Did I say you were allowed to stop?" he barks at the minstrels and they hurriedly start playing again, their pace frenzied. Madge hadn't even realized they'd stopped, her whole world narrowed in on the bleeding boy on the floor. How could the King be so cruel?

"Remove this filth from my hall!" he snaps to a pair of guards and they haul the boy off, dragging him from the room.

"Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with," the King orders and the Duke of Somerset steps forward with an eager grin.

"As you command, my King."

The boy thrashes suddenly in the guards arms and begs for mercy, garbles out apologies, tears leaking onto his face. Madge wonders why he looks so terrified, wonders what awful punishment the King and Lord Brutus have in store.

(she's better off not knowing)

Everyone hurries to return to their dancing as the King sinks back into his throne but Madge cannot move, rooted to the floor with horror. This place is cursed she wants to wail but never would.

Even at nine, she knows she will receive no mercy.

Madge wakes early on their day of departure, a thick, sickly anticipation coursing through her veins. There is only the faintest hint of dawn light creeping through the window and Madge stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the outline of King Coriolanus' portrait. She can't make him out, but she knows he's there, looming over her and the thought makes her stomach turn. She yanks the covers up over her head to block him out, like the shields brave knights wear into battle.

"We'll be home soon," she whispers in the gloom, "home and safe."

(except there is no safe, not in King Coriolanus' England)

The maids help her dress for traveling and she vibrates with an eager intensity to flee this castle of terror. All her things are already packed, ready to be lugged into a litter and Madge waits impatiently for her parents, can't understand why they're taking so long. She paces along the length of her room, fingertips brushing extravagant furniture and oh, how she wishes she could be as enamored of it as she wants to be.

(but her eyes are open now, and beauty can't hide the hideous things that lie beneath it)

She thinks it must have been hours she's been pacing when a knock sounds at the door, a page of her father's bringing summons. She practically bounces out of the room, her nurse hurrying after her and already, it's like she's shed so many weights and pounds.

"Good morning," she chirps as she greets her parents, livelier than she's been in all the weeks they've been here. Her father smiles as he pulls on his travelling gloves and a lady's maid fastens a cloak over Madge's shoulders, tugs the hood up over her head. His grin is wider, like it always used to be and Madge puts on her own gloves with a sense of contentment she's been missing. Her mother still looks frail under her heavy winter wear but the colour is returning to her cheeks and Madge feels hope fluttering like a bird in her chest.

We're going to be okay

She clambers up into their carriage, her mother settling in beside her. Maids rush about, draping them in thick furs and placing hot bricks underneath their feet while Madge leans against the window edge, takes in Westminster Palace for what she hopes will be the very last time. Her father swings up onto his horse and winks at her. Madge bites her lip around a grin and their long train of horses, litters and men starts off, trundling down London's cold streets.

"Come away from the window, sweetheart," her mother says but Madge doesn't listen, drinks in the chilly air and the wan faces of the people they pass. Everyone averts their eyes as they roll by, all of their movements shifty and nervous. The air here is tense and she can feel it trying to leech away her glee at going home. Madge sucks in her bottom lip as she loses count of all the soldiers and guards sprinkled throughout the city, each one sporting a livery badge of the King, a silver wolf crowned in gold.

Why are there so many? Is London really so dangerous?

(the answer is yes, of course)

(the real question, is who in London is so dangerous)

They turn a corner and Madge inhales sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. Standing in the slushy road is a line of men bound together with chains, their clothes thin and ratty. The carriage lurches to a stop, the road blocked and her father's squire rides forward to speak with the man in charge of these men, his uniform a bloody red and emblazoned with the King's wolf. Each man is sallow and ill-fed, eyes sunken and cheek bones jutting out. Madge cannot take her eyes off of them even as her stomach rolls over and over and she leans forward, nearly hanging out of the window.

"Madge," her mother reprimands but she barely hears it over the crack of a whip, like thunder loud in her ears. Madge flinches as the men are hurried to the side of the street and one stumbles, his knobbly knees sinking into the grey snow. He hunches over and Madge watches in horror as the snow starts to redden, her throat burning with bile.

"Madge," her mother starts again and Madge closes her eyes, nails digging into the wood of the carriage. A wave of sickness crashes inside of her as the carriage starts again and she keeps her eyes closed until they turn another corner. She breathes deeply and blinks them open, the very top of Westminster still visible. It towers over London and Madge does not need to wonder about the fear she sees in the eyes of the people they pass. There is a shadow over London, a fear permeating the streets.

No one here is happy.

(except the King)

They reach the city gates and Madge says a last farewell to London, offering silent prayers that she never has to return. Her mother pulls her against her side and Madge snuggles into her arms, relieved to be on her way home.

The King can't touch them there.

(if only if only if only)

Bedford Castle is the most welcome sight Madge has ever seen and she throws herself out of the carriage almost before it's stopped.

She nearly trips over her skirts but her father swoops down from his horse and grabs her, swinging her up into his arms. Her mother climbs down from the carriage in a much more careful fashion and comes to stand beside them, her arm fitting snugly around her husband's waist.

"It is good to be back," her father says and Madge nods.

"It is good to be home," her mother corrects and they all seem to exhale together, expelling the toxins bleeding from Westminster's walls. Whatever happened in London is over, Madge assures herself, we are safe now, home and safe.

(how naive she is)

Only months later, before Madge has even turned ten, news comes of another revolt in London, followed by a mass execution.

(fifty four dead)

(fifty four)

Madge wraps her blankets around herself at night and knows she won't sleep a wink. The dead crawl like ghosts through the shadows of her room and she wonders if it will ever end, the rebellions and riots and death.

Why is it that so many people are willing to commit treason, to rise against their sovereign lord? Was he not ordained by God? Are they not compelled to show him fealty?

But he is wrong wails a voice in Madge's heart as she remembers the fear that hung heavy in London's streets, the terror in the eyes of its citizens. There had been a dark whisper then in the halls of Westminster, a promise of bloodshed to come.

Perhaps the time has finally come.

(not yet, but soon)

(here is a secret Madge learns at nine)

(the King is evil)

"It appears I've won again," the Duke of Bedford says with a grin, setting down his cards on the table. Madge pouts.

"Ladies do not pout, my love," her mother admonishes gently while her graceful fingers put the finishing touches on a purse for her husband. Madge tries to squish down her pout and fails, tossing her own cards onto the table. Her father laughs.

"Fear not, my sweet. Practice does make perfect. I'm sure you'll be beating me in no time."

Madge huffs softly. She'd like to be beating him now. Her mother examines the purse with a critical eye and then offers it to her husband.

"What think you, my lord?" she asks and the Duke takes it with careful hands.

"Magnificent," he declares and his wife rolls her eyes, "I shall wear it proudly."

Margaret of Bedford shakes her head fondly at him and he leans in for a kiss. Madge watches them and the smiles present on both their lips and feels her frustration ebb away.

"Try and keep better care of it this time, I would prefer to do more with my time than embroider purses," the Duchess teases and her husband grins, fastening the purse to his belt.

"I shall endeavor to do my best," he promises and the room feels pleasantly warm to Madge, everything bright and rosy. It's been months since they'd left London, she's ten and all grown up now, and she could almost imagine it was all a bad dream, a nightmare half-remembered.

"Alright," her father says, standing up, "I think it's time our little lady went off to bed."

Madge frowns.

"I'm not tired!" she insists and her father smiles and scoops her up into his arms.

"Perhaps not now, but you will be tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep tonight."

"But fatheeeeerrrrr," she whines and her mother frowns.

"Madge, remember your manners."

Proper ladies do not whine and they always obey their lord father, she recounts in her head and why must manners always be so bothersome?

"Indeed, what great lord will want such a whiner as a wife?" her father asks and tickles her side. Madge squirms in his arms.

"Oh Papa, stop, stop Papa!" she giggles and her mother shakes her head.

"You are both terrible," she pronounces but she smiles prettily at them all the same.

"I was merely punishing a disobedient daughter," her father insists and Madge giggles into his shoulder.

"If I believed that, I would have to have wool for brains," her mother retorts, voice bubbly with laughter. The Duke gasps.

"Is that any way to talk to your Lord Husband? All the women here are so impudent," he says in mock-disappointment and then looks down at Madge with a secret smile.

"Shall we teach this lady a lesson?" he asks and Madge nods eagerly. He reaches out and takes her mother by the hand, tugging her gently over to them. Her mother's arms go around them both and Madge likes this, being warm and safe in her parents' embrace.

"I know exactly what you are planning and you would not dare," her mother tells them and the Duke catches Madge's eye and winks. Tiny fingers attack Lady Bedford, tickling wherever they can reach.

"Madge-stop this-at once," her mother gets out between peals of laughter but Madge ignores this, her own laughter mingling with her mother's.

"Stop-stop!" her mother begs and all three of them are laughing, together and happy and untouched by all the horrors to come.

(and that's how Madge will remember this, one perfect golden moment where everything was wonderful and bright)

A knock sounds at the door and interrupts their mirth, both of her parents furrowing their brows. Her father sets her down and turns to the door with a frown.

"You may enter," he calls and Sir Thomas Cartwright, her father's Marshal, steps inside. His face is drawn and Madge feels the temperature drop. Sir Thomas is in charge of all their defenses and military matters, does this mean they are under attack?

"I apologize, my lord," Sir Thomas says as he bows, "but you have received urgent summons from the King."

All the air seems to have left the room, Madge's whole body left breathless.

"Why?' her father questions, a quaver in the back of his voice. Sir Thomas looks at Madge and her mother, clearly uncertain if he should say whatever it is in front of them.

"Go ahead," he father urges and Sir Thomas bows his head.

"There is armed rebellion in Kent. The King commands you to raise men and head there immediately to help stamp it out."

Madge feels her mouth drop open and her mother gasps, covering her mouth with trembling hands.

"I see," her father whispers, voice suddenly rough. "We will leave as soon as possible. See that everything is prepared."

Sir Thomas bows again. "Immediately, your Grace." He turns and sweeps from the room, Madge staring unseeingly after him.

"Joseph," her mother says and snags her husband's sleeve between shaking fingers. He turns to look at her with sad eyes and neither of them says a word, so much more conveyed in silence. He covers her hand with his, their eyes trained on each other and the sudden urge to cry bubbles up in Madge's gut.

Don't go Papa, please don't go

Her mother grabs her husband's face, fingers on his cheeks and kisses him with a fierceness Madge has never seen before, her skin flushing red.

"Be careful," the Duchess commands him, their foreheads touching.

"I will."

"You'll be back soon, won't you Father?" Madge asks, fear like poison in her veins. He turns to her with a smile, reaching one hand out to stroke her hair.

"As soon as I'm able," he promises and then kisses her forehead. Madge closes her eyes, tears stinging under her eyelids.

"We will come and see you off," her mother murmurs, voice faint and afraid. There is a pause, heavy with unsaid things and Madge hugs herself, dread welling up and spilling through her body.

Even here, so far away from London, the King has reached into their home and stolen away their happiness.

The entire household gathers in the courtyard to say goodbye and Madge tries her best to play the prim and proper lady, her heart weeping inside her chest. The Duke kneels before his Duchess to receive her wife's blessing and Madge tells herself everything will be okay. There is a special magic in a wife's blessing, a power that will surely keep her father safe. He stands when it's done and Madge's mother presses a delicately embroidered handkerchief into his hand, a token to carry with him through the fight to come. He holds it briefly against his heart and then kisses her hand, eyes staring deeply into hers.

Madge sees tears in her mother's eyes but they do not fall and Madge swears she will be just as strong. Her father turns to her and as much as she wants to throw herself on him in a hug, she knows she can't. That isn't how a lady is meant to behave herself.

"I will pray for your victory and speedy return," Madge vows and he smiles, eyes wet.

"I will be grateful for it," he replies and Madge knows the time has come. He shares one last look with both her and her mother and then he swings up onto his horse. A squire hands him his helmet and he looks just like a fairy tail knight. Those men always triumph and so will he. Madge believes that, she has to.

"Godspeed," her mother says in a trembling voice and then they ride off, a long line of horses pouring out of the castle grounds. They are not off to slay a dragon, but other English men and Madge is not sure she understands that, is not sure she ever will. She grabs onto her mother's skirt and already, she is praying.

Come home soon, Papa.

Come back safe.

Madge cannot sleep that night, her head filled with terrible thoughts so she creeps past her sleeping nurse and out into the hall. Everything seems sharper, harsher tonight, every item of furniture and brazier on the wall. There is unseasonal ice in the air and Madge tiptoes to her parents' bedchamber, heart hammering in her throat. She sneaks inside, past sleeping ladies and stops by her parents' huge bed and finds her mother awake, her eyes luminous in the dark.

"Come here, sunshine," she whispers and Madge clambers up into the big bed and under the covers. Her mother pulls her close and rests her chin on the top of Madge's head.

"Papa will be home soon. You must believe that."

Madge nods. "I do, Mama, I promise."

She wraps her own arms around her mother, breathes in her comforting scent.

Papa will be home soon she repeats as she drifts off to sleep.

Soon

Three weeks later, a guard posted on lookout duty hollers into the courtyard.

"Our Lord of Bedford is returning!"

Madge hears him through a window and drops the book she's meant to be reading, happiness bursting inside her.

"My lady!" her tutor tries to scold but Madge is already running from the room. She tears down corridors and up stairs and crashes through a door out onto the guard wall. She clutches the stone and peeks through the parapets, standing up on her tip toes. There, out beyond the castle walls, she can see them, a train of men and horses, waving a white banner above their heads, one blazoned with the silver Bedford Bell.

Her father is home.

The household gathers outside to welcome their victorious lord home, relief making them giddy.

Great cheers rise up as the knights and soldiers ride into the courtyard, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, and ladies wave handkerchiefs and scraps of lace at them, white ribbons tied in their hair to match their lord's banner. The men toss up their hats in joy and Madge stands with her mother, her own hair filled with ribbons and a solid silver Bedford Bell pinned to her kirtle. There are less men returning than left, but at the head of them is the Duke of Bedford, weary but whole. Madge feels her knees wobble and can barely keep her face straight, a smile dangerously close to breaking through.

Her father pulls off his helmet and hands it to a squire, his dismount slower than usual. There is a heaviness in his bones that gives Madge pause, scratching at the back of her mind. Something isn't right. He walks towards them and they curtsy, Madge's a bit clumsy with glee and apprehension. She looks up at his eyes as she stands and her excitement is stomped down by what lingers there, something foreboding and melancholy.

"Congratulations on your triumph, my lord husband. We will have a great feast to celebrate," her mother says and the tired soldiers give a hearty cheer. Her father smiles but it doesn't light up his face like it's supposed to, looks more strained than it should. Madge bites her lip, worry eating away at her happiness and her mother clearly senses something is wrong too, her eyes narrowing as she looks at her husband.

"I will have a bath drawn for you," she tells him and he nods gratefully. Madge wonders why she doesn't ask what's wrong, but perhaps proper ladies aren't meant to do that either. Her father offers his arm and her mother takes it, the two of them leading the household back inside.

Servants rush about to prepare and Madge tracks her parents with her eyes as they move farther away, up to the privacy of their bedchamber. There is something going on here. Madge knows she should head to her chamber to get ready, but instead she ducks away from her nurse and follows discreetly behind her parents. She is quiet and their posture is tense, confirming her suspicions. There is a secret her father is keeping, a terrible, awful one.

But what could it be?

(are you sure you want to know?)

They enter their bedchamber and Madge presses her ear to the door, their words slightly muffled but still understandable.

"So you suppressed the rebellion, then?"

"Yes, but something was very clear as we rode across the country. This isn't over. There will be others, many others. I fear we will soon be at war."

Madge gasps and pulls away from the door. There is a clatter from the other side, someone having dropped something but Madge barely hears it, heart tumbling over itsef in her chest.

Will they never be allowed to live in peace? Will the King's shadow haunt them forever?

(yes, yes, yes)

(Madge wonders if it is a sin to hate her king)

(but perhaps it was not God who set him on the throne, perhaps it was the Devil himself)

When Madge is eleven, she learns of her own claim to the throne.

King Coriolanus is her great uncle, they share a common ancestor in King Henry IV. She falls in the line of succession after the King's son Cato (her cousin once removed) and her own mother (the King's niece).

(this then, explains why the King knows her mother, why he showered honours on them)

(her stomach does queasy somersaults at the thought)

Madge does not have any expectations of being Queen, knows that Prince Cato will surely marry and have children, will push her farther and farther away from the throne. It will, on the other hand, improve her options of marriage, this blood tie to kings. And that is all Madge thinks she can do for her family, marry well.

(she is wrong)

(but why, Madge can't help but ask herself, why did her parents keep this monumental relation a secret for so long?)

(but then she remembers rolling heads and puddles of blood and maybe she knows the answer)

"You are growing into quite the young woman, Lady Madge," her nurse tells her as the tailor fits her for a new gown. Madge beams.

"I wager suitors will be lining up outside the castle walls any day now," her nurse continues and Madge blushes at the thought. She thinks she would like a husband, one who was brave and handsome and would love her forever and ever. They would live near her parents and have a very large family and always be happy, until the very day they died. He would wear her favor into battle and fight every tournament in her name. She swoons just at the fanciful imagining of it, like a fairytale come to life. Her nurse chuckles softly.

"It won't be for some years, dear, so don't get too excited."

"Why not? I'm almost old enough," she points out and her nurse nods.

"Indeed, but your lord father and lady mother aren't so keen to see you packed off and wedded until you're still a bit older. In fact, they told the Duke of Exeter just that."

Madge doesn't actually want to get married just yet, would much rather stay with her parents, but her nurse's tidbit of gossip puts hooks into her imagination.

"The Duke of Exeter wishes to marry me?"

Her nurse snorts.

"Goodness, no! He already has a wife. He wanted you for his son and heir, Henry, the Earl of Huntingdon."

Madge bites her lip and ponders this new information.

"And what is this Henry like?" she asks and her nurse turns thoughtful.

"I reckon he's about fourteen and quite tall from what I've heard. They say his father is rather handsome, so he might be as well."

Madge drifts off into thought. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon and future Duke of Exeter. Tall, fourteen and potentially quite handsome. In her eleven year old mind, he sounds perfect.

"Now don't go getting any ideas, the Duke and Duchess have already said you're too young to wed him," her nurse reminds her and Madge nods.

"It is no matter, he will wait for me," she decides, because of course he will. The charming boy in her mind would wait a lifetime for his lady love. Her nurse shakes her head but Madge pays her no mind.

Lady Madge Holland, Duchess of Exeter.

It sounds lovely.

Riots rise up again, just as her father predicted, but this time in Devonshire.

Madge watches her father ride away and waves her handkerchief after him, praying for his safe return. Her mother stands by her side and squeezes her shoulder, tears glittering on her cheeks in the golden sunlight.

They do not ride out with her father, but they do fight battles, against despair, waiting, the agony of not knowing.

At least her father has a sword to beat back his enemies.

Madge has only herself.

Madge takes to practising her letter writing skills, imagines beautiful love notes passed between herself and her future husband, the ever enchanting Henry Holland. It does not matter that she has never met him, because her imagination has long ago run away from her, caught up in pretty, romantic dreams.

As their parents hammer out all the boring legal details of their marriage, Henry and she will spend their courtship taking long walks in the garden, writing letters and playing cards by the fire. His lips will linger against her hand when he kisses it, his eyes will seek her out across the room and they will dance every dance together. He will whisper sweet words into her ear, promises of a lifetime of joy and love.

She blushes, skin heating up and buries her face in her pillow in embarrassment. How silly he would think her if he knew! But still, girlish hopes of love and marital bliss keep her mind from drifting to her father in battle, to his bloody body strewn out across some war torn field. She must have hope for tomorrow, it is what her father would want.

One day, all these rebellions and riots will be over.

One day, her father will give her to Henry in marriage and they will all live happily ever after.

One day.

She and her mother are breaking their fast when a messenger arrives bearing news from her father.

Madge stops eating immediately, stomach too excited for food, and eagerly looks over what he's brought. There is a crate, a small box tied with a cord and two letters sealed with her father's crest. The messenger bows to her mother and presents her with the letters, his hair swept back by the wind.

"From His Grace the Duke of Bedford, milady," he says and her mother takes the two letters with a smile.

"My thanks, good sir," she tells him and offers him a few coins as a tip. "You are welcome to stop by the kitchens for food and drink and I will have my Constable tend to your horse."

He bows again, cap clutched to his chest and their Steward shows him out. Madge leans over the table to get a better look at the letters, both addressed in her father's hand. On the first is written To My Dear Duchess and Sweet Daughter and Madge thrills at the sight. The second says For My Most Beloved Margaret and Madge imagines it must be a love note, filled with romance and she can't help but dream of the days she'll receive one from her own husband. Her mother breaks the seal on the first and pulls out the letter, Madge vibrating with anticipation.

"To my Dear Duchess Margaret and Sweet Daughter Madge,

We have stopped to sup at the Duke of Exeter's castle and we are joined as well by the Earl of Oxford (Anne's father! Madge thinks with a jolt). I think you would both like it here very much, for they have the grandest gardens I have seen outside of Windsor. Exeter says his son Henry spends most of his time exploring the grounds and climbing trees, to the eternal vexation of his lady mother.

Exeter also bid me take a crate of spirits he has been sent from France, claiming, of course, that he merely thinks we might enjoy them. I would guess his constant talk of Henry and the spirits have an ulterior motive, though it would be rude to say so, or to refuse such a generous gift (her mother interrupts her reading to laugh, shaking her head). As such, I have taken the liberty of accepting them and have sent them along with the messenger. Perhaps we may use them to toast my return (her mother laughs again and Madge can imagine her father's tone as if he were speaking the words himself and the smile that would grace his lips)?

Speaking of gifts and young Henry, he has sent something along for you, my Madge. It is in the other package and I swear I have no idea what it might be (Madge's heart does back flips, a silly, overjoyed smile breaking out over her face).

We are planning to spend the night here and ride out on the morrow, which is why I have the time to write. Oxford has spent the evening challenging me to cards, but he is nowhere near your level, Madge dear, and so I have been beating him handily. Exeter's wife, Lady Anne, is much admiring of your needlework, Margaret darling, and has made me swear a hundred times to relay her compliments to you as she has spent the night gushing over the purse and handkerchief you made me. Of course, this may also have to do with those ulterior motives mentioned earlier.

It is late and I should rest, but I confess I would much rather stay up writing. I won't though, I know how you would scold, sweetheart. I will be rested for tomorrow, as you would insist.

I wish most heartily that all this was over and I was with you both, but know that I think of you often and pray you are well.

With all my love, your most devoted husband and father,

Joseph, Duke of Bedford

written this day may eighth of the year fourteen sixty four in the Duke of Exeter's castle of Rougemont."

Madge's heart is warm from her father's words but there is also a knot of shivering excitement in her chest at the thought of what Henry Holland might have sent her. She looks to her mother for permission and the Duchess frowns but nods, clearly not pleased at boys sending Madge gifts.

Madge eagerly pulls the package towards her, barely even registering her mother's watchful gaze. She carefully unties the cord around it and lifts the lid, her heart pounding as loud as a giant's footsteps. Inside the box is a folded note and she takes it with shaking hands, romantic dreams swirling in her blood. She unfolds it and her eyes take in the the hastily scrawled message, the first tangible part of Henry she's ever encountered. She doesn't read it aloud as her mother did the letter from her father, wants this to belong just to her and Henry.

Lady Madge,

Your father has come to stay with us and I hope he will give this to you. My lord father says we might one day be married, and so I would like you to have this token of my esteem. I bought it from a traveling merchant, who promises it once adorned the hand of a foreign princess.

I liked it because it reminded me of outside, which is where I spend most of my time. If I had a choice, I think I would spend all my days and nights outdoors. Would you marry a man who lived in the woods?

I hope you like my gift and fare thee well,

Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon

It is not gushingly romantic and yet it might as well be, Madge feeling like she's skipped right over the moon. She holds it against her chest and sighs, her mother watching her with a fondly exasperated smile.

"You look feverish, love, and you have not even seen his present," she points out and Madge startles back to the moment. Again, bright hot excitement courses through her and she peers into the box, gasping aloud at what she finds. It is a ring made of gold with a silver flower on the band, the center set with a tiny pearl. Madge cradles it in her hands and is fairly certain she has never seen anything more lovely. She slips in onto her finger and swears right then that she will never take it off, not as long as she lives.

Thank you Henry, she thinks, heart on fire.

I will treasure it always

That night her dreams are filled with Henry, dashing, charming Henry who sweeps her right off her feet. But better than any dream is the thought that one day it will all be real, Henry loving her in life and not just fantasy.

She hugs the hand bearing his ring to her heart and plans out her return note in her head, cannot wait to put it all to paper.

Oh Henry, Henry, Henry, how lucky I am to have you.

Her father returns a victor, but he looks exhausted, the beginnings of an ugly red scar visible at the edge of his collar.

"Mercy, Joseph, what happened?" her mother fusses as squires help him remove all his armor. They peel back the layers and Madge hisses in shock at the twisting injury on her father's chest, long, deep and startlingly crimson. Her mother presses her fingertips to it in worry, her face awash in terrifying what-could-have-beens.

"I am alright," her husband assures her and takes hold of her hand, pressing it against his beating heart. "We were caught off guard, we were not expecting so many."

Madge clasps her hands and closes her eyes, the thought of losing her father making her head swim and her stomach roll.

"They almost got the better of us."

Her mother inhales sharply and her father's face turns dark and stormy, sorrow drawing heavy lines on his face.

"It was terrible," he murmurs, lost in some awful memory, "the Duke of Exeter's young son, Henry, snuck after us, eager to follow his father into battle. The rebels cut him down right before his father's eyes."

Madge does not hear anything else her father says, her head connecting with the stone floor as she collapses.

Madge spends a whole day laid up in bed, but it is not her head that ails her, not nearly as much as her heart does.

The physician tends to her, her parents hovering worriedly nearby but Madge barely takes note of any of them, sobbing as she mourns the boy she never met but could have loved. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon who would now never be Duke of Exeter. Her dreams all fall to shambles, victims of the cruelty of King Coriolanus' England.

There is no childhood here, no innocence.

Just death and blood and ruin.

(poor, sweet Henry)

(even in all the decades to come, Madge will never forget this boy who never grew up)

(in the wars of Kings, the innocent are often forgotten. Madge vows to keep their names alive)

The halls are filled with whispers now, of the treachery of the rebels, the unrestrained violence of these riotous citizens. Maids and cooks pass words behind their hands, say this is the Devil's work, that God will lay a curse down on their wretched souls.

Madge cannot deny they are evil, horrid people, young Henry Holland rising like a specter in the back of her mind. What kind of monster would someone have to be to cut down a young boy, still so bright and full of life?

But if the rebels are doing the Devil's work and the King is the demon haunting her nightmares, what does that mean for England?

Are all of them cursed? Has their Heavenly Father abandoned them?

(one look at the atrocities committed here and the answer is obvious)

(yes)

Madge wanders garden paths and plucks spring blossoms from their stems.

She carries them to the top of the grassy hill at the edge of the grounds, the one her nurse used to whisper belonged to fairy kings. The world still glistens from the morning's rainfall and her boots sink into the soft earth, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. She kneels down and doesn't feel the cool wetness of the ground as it seeps through her layers of skirt, her mind focused entirely on her task.

She ties sweet smelling flowers into wreaths and drapes them over a large, mossy boulder, one too large for any man to move. Her hand reaches into the pouch hanging from her girdle and pulls out the diamond she'd smuggled from her mother's coffer of jewels, running her thumb over it's smooth edges. She remembers being told diamonds are harder than stone and so she takes her stolen gem and carves into the boulder, her hand cramping from clutching the diamond so tight. It takes longer than she'd thought it would, dusk starting to kiss the clouds by the time she's done, but Madge looks at her work and though she is too raw to smile, she still feels proud. Carved in this boulder, forever and ever and ever, is just one name, shaky and squiggly but legible.

Henry.

She is sure his family has buried him with full pomp in a magnificent tomb, but Madge remembers his letter and wants him to be outside forever, just like he'd wished.

Let his spirit rest here on this fairy hill, chasing endless adventures.

Let him be young and carefree and laughing for eternity.

Madge twists his ring off her finger and holds it in the palm of her hand, a soft breeze blowing petals off the wreaths she'd left for him. They swirl through the air and down the hill, bright and colourful, just like she imagines Henry would have been.

She digs a hole with her free hand, dirt clumping under her nails and sullying her sleeve. She places his letter inside, gently covers it with earth and pats it down, safely burying it below the ground. She says a final prayer, his ring held between her hands and looks up at the sky, the sun meeting the stars against a pink and purple canvas.

"Rest well, Henry," she whispers and hopes her words float up to the heavens themselves.

(she knows it is just her imagination, but for one brief moment, she could swear she hears a voice, young and full of boyish cheer)

(i will)

The only sound in the schoolroom is the scratching of Madge's quill as she works on her Latin. Her tutor sits at the front of the room, reading quietly to himself and Madge works diligently, will broker no mistakes. Latin is the only one of her languages that she struggles with and she is determined to get this translation right, wants to surprise her parents at dinner tonight with how far she's come.

Her concentration is broken by a clatter of hooves outside and even though she knows she'll receive a scolding for it, Madge hurries over to the window. A messenger rides through the courtyard and just as she dreaded, he sports the King's badge, a crowned wolf she has learned to despise.

"Lady Madge," her tutor says sternly, demanding she return to her seat.

"It is a messenger from the King," she whispers. "It is rebellion again, isn't it?"

Her tutor doesn't answer but that's alright, he doesn't need to.

Dinner is a somber, hurried affair, the castle filled with urgent preparations for her father's ride to help crush yet another revolt against the King. He shovels down his food and Madge's eyes bounce anxiously between her parents. Her mother's skin is ashy, her face drawn and her lips pressed into a tight line. She does not touch her supper and Madge feels as if her own appetite has run off, her throat far too dry to swallow anything at all. Her father takes a last gulp of wine and sets down his goblet with a thunk.

"I need to get going, we want to rendezvous with Pembroke before tomorrow night," he tells them and pushes out his chair. Madge feels pulled tight all over, stretched so thin she might snap. Every goodbye is worse than the last and she wants to beg him not to go, would get down on her knees and clutch at his legs if she thought it would do any good.

"I cannot take this anymore," her mother moans, swaying in her seat. Her husband hurries over to her in alarm and Madge is too frightened to move, the world crumbling around her ears.

"Shall I send for the physician?" her father asks, voice distressed and Madge tries to swallow around a lump in her throat.

"What is the point? A physician cannot cure me."

The Duke looks at his wife in confusion. "Whyever not? What ails you, my love?"

"These rebellions! You, running off to keep the King on his throne!"

Madge watches her father recoil in shock and she cannot help but feel it too, has never heard her parents exchange even one harsh word in all her life.

"He is our sovereign lord, I have no choice but to obey his commands," her father says, tone still lilted through with confusion.

"You've said it yourself, these riots won't end, not until the entire country is at war! The people hate him! How long will you fight his battles, beating back his enemies while he sits safe in his palaces?"

The Duchess' face is red and flushed, her breathing heavy and she looks so winded and out of breath from so little conversation it makes Madge want to weep.

"He is my King, and your uncle!" her father snaps back, voice raised in a way Madge has never heard, a kernel of fear rooting in her stomach.

"Exactly! I have grown up haunted by his shadow! We both know what sort of man he is better than anyone! Would you die for him, leave us forever, just to keep him on his throne?"

Madge wants to close her ears from the shouting, hates the King all over again for tearing apart her family.

"What would you have me do, Margaret?" her father demands, anger turning his neck and ears bright red. "Abandon my oaths? Fall in with the rebels? Loose everything we have and have my head put on a spike on Tower Hill?"

Her mother doesn't answer, eyes narrowed into slits and chest heaving.

"That is treason, Margaret," the Duke pronounces, voice so grave Madge feels like she's climbed into a bath of ice. Her mother holds his gaze for a few moments more and then collapses in her chair like a popped soap bubble.

"You're right of course," she whispers and the anger seems to drain out of her husband, "he is God's anointed King, we owe him our loyalty."

Madge watches her father nod and return to his wife's side, taking her limp hand between both of his.

"And we are bound to him by blood, no one will ever forget that."

Her parents share a look, one steeped in hopelessness and it's what they aren't saying, the undercurrent in their words that scares Madge worse than anything they have said.

If the King loses, they shall all be condemned right alongside him.

The physician decides her mother must be conveyed straight to bed despite her protests and so her husband carries her upstairs to their bedchamber, Madge trailing after them.

"I am well enough to see you off, Joseph," Margaret insists as he lays her down gently on their great bed.

"There is no shame in being ill, darling. Rest and be well again," he murmurs, fingers stroking her hair. Her mother struggles up onto her elbows and her dress slips slightly, exposing a frightfully thin shoulder. Madge flinches in shock. How had she not noticed how thin her mother was becoming, what a toll her bouts of sickness were taking?

"I have been ailing since the day I was born, Joseph, we both know I shall never be well. But I am not an invalid, I am the mistress of this house and I will see you and the men off." She tries to fill her voice with steel but it is threaded though with weakness instead. Outside these castle walls or within them, it seems there are always threats to ravage Madge's happiness.

"Don't go, Mama," she begs, dropping to her knees at her mother's bedside with fear in her heart. She clutches her mother's hand and she can see the surrender in her eyes. The Duchess lies back against her pillows and folds into them, looks so much older and frailer than her thirty one years.

"I shall be back soon. I love you," her father says and kisses her mother's forehead. Margaret nods tiredly and Madge bites her lip to fight back tears. Her father smiles at her and lifts her chin with his hand.

"Be brave, sweet Madge. All will be well again soon."

Madge squeezes closed her eyes and nods. "I will be, Papa, I promise," she says, sobs catching in her throat.

"I know you will."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then he's gone, tears slithering out from beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks. Her mother squeezes her hand and Madge holds her father warm in her heart.

I shall be brave Papa, the very bravest

Madge's favourite story has always been that of King Arthur, the brave, good king who will rise again to save them in their darkest hour.

Whenever times get rough, she has always comforted herself with the thought that he hasn't returned yet, that whatever she thinks is so terrible, isn't truly so horrid. If it really were, King Arthur would've come to save them.

(of course, if he hasn't come yet, if this isn't bad enough to call him back, that means something even worse is in store)

(even her heroes conjure nightmares now)

Her father returns victorious, the King's forces once again triumphant.

How long, Madge wonders, how long will this continue?

(forever and ever and ever)

(Madge is twelve when she learns of the other claim to the throne, the one no one speaks of)

(at least not out loud)

(He is Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, but the word bastard haunts his name, on either side of his family tree.

His mother is a descendant of Edward III, just like Madge, just like King Coriolanus himself. John of Gaunt, son of Edward III and father to Madge's great grandfather Henry IV, had several children by his mistress Katherine Swynford, all born out of wedlock, but legitimized once John and Katherine married. From these once bastard children comes the line that leads to Lord Finnick's mother, the Lady Alma.

Lord Finnick's father, meanwhile, is the half brother of King Coriolanus, born of the same mother but different fathers. The stain of illegitimacy lies in the dispute over whether King Coriolanus' mother, the Dowager Queen, ever actually married the servant man to whom she bore so many children, including Lord Finnick's father)

(this boy, a handful of years older than Madge, is never openly acknowledged as a potential heir, even with royal blood flowing through his veins)

(it does not matter though, because he will never see the throne. Prince Cato would have to die without heir, as would Madge and her mother before Finnick Odair of Richmond could call himself King)

(and Madge is sure there is little chance of that)

Madge is safe in Bedford Castle but she is no longer ignorant of the upheaval in England.

Messengers bring evil tidings every day, a list of dead men and burned cities. The kingdom is fracturing, splintering and the King's idea of order is to continue the killing, to put down the riots with as much brutality as he can manage. He could build fortresses from the bones of his victims and rage sweeps through England, bright and hot, setting the entire country aflame.

The people of England hate their King.

(Madge cannot blame them)

There is only one way to douse this inferno and it is a crime no one would ever be brave enough to say, not even in a whisper.

(regicide)

Madge lays flowers by her makeshift memorial for Henry and no longer fools herself into believing she'd loved him. She might have, in another life, but in this one he was just a name, not even a face. She does not love him, but still she mourns him, his life snuffed out far too quickly.

Fourteen year old boys should never die, but certainly not by the sword. Was he frightened? Did he suffer? She closes her eyes and prays that his soul is at rest, that he has found peace in the hereafter.

Poor Henry, she thinks, to be remembered as nothing but a victim, a child murdered in cold blood. If history will recall his name, it will be as a footnote, just one of many tragedies blooming across England in these tempestuous years. He deserves better in death as he did in life, but he will not get it. No one will.

If life has taught her anything, it is that nothing is fair and no one receives what they deserve. Perhaps the Lord is testing them or perhaps the Devil has wrested England away from him and torments them for sport.

It matters little.

Madge cannot change it, she must merely try and survive it.

(here is another secret she learns, this time at thirteen.

The Duke of York is a distant cousin of King Coriolanus and thus of her as well. They all descend from King Edward III and there are whispers and echoes that maybe, just maybe, the Duke of York is the rightful King of England.

King Coriolanus' father, King Henry IV, usurped the throne from his cousin Richard II. His reasons, of course, were that Richard was a tyrant, a monster, unfit to rule.

True or not, he has set a precedent.

Even God's anointed King is not safe, is not untouchable.

Worse, some believe the Duke of York has a better claim to the throne than King Coriolanus, as he is descended from Edward III's second son, while the King is descended from his third son.

Madge tries to tell herself it doesn't matter, after all, no one would ever depose a king)

(then again, that's how all this started)

The world around her always feels like walking over eggshells, fragile and delicate, about to fall to pieces any moment. Everyone's nerves are rubbed raw and her mother is always ill with migraines, skin ashy and body weak. Her father loses weight, his clothes hanging off his frame and his hair starts to thin, dark circles blooming under his eyes. No one sleeps right, pressure and worry building on their shoulders, ready to explode.

Madge feels like rats have taken residence in her stomach, clawed feet scrabbling along her insides. She prays for respite, for her parents' health but still the days seem to grow darker, the menace of rebellion stalking every man, woman and child in England.

They cannot go on this way, something must be done.

(and here it comes)

Madge wears the loveliest gown of violet silk, dripping in gold and amethysts, pearls and diamonds. Fragile lace veils cascade down from her hennin and all eyes are on her in the middle of the dancefloor, the handsomest man in all of England bent over and kissing her hand. His lips are warm and soft, butterflies fluttering deliciously in her stomach.

He stands and Madge looks down at her hand, a smear of blood left behind from his mouth. She frowns, something cold and horrible settling inside of her. She raises her head and screams.

Screams and screams and screams.

Henry Holland stands before her, throat slit and body broken, head and limbs bent at odd angles.

She stumbles away in horror and arms catch her, her back landing against someone's chest. She twists around and cannot even scream, terror clogging her throat.

It is her father, his eyes plucked out and the skin of his face pecked away by crows. He smells fetid and rotting, glistening bones visible and Madge scrambles away from him, heart stampeding as she tries to escape.

She sprints down the hall but her feet trip over her skirts and she falls, the ground catching her and swallowing her up. She starts to sink into it and when she looks up, desperate for help, she finds only the King, dripping with blood and cackling wildly.

The Duke of York comes up behind him, swinging a heavy ax and Madge closes her eyes, feels something hot splash across her cheeks. She opens her eyes and looks right into her King's, open and lifeless.

Madge screams, no sound leaving her throat and no one comes to save her.

No one at all.

Madge is fourteen when war erupts across England.

It's a mild morning in September of 1467 and she is working on her embroidery, is determined to successfully capture a bird in thread. Her mother reads beside her, the other household ladies gossiping quietly. Their peaceful scene is interrupted by one of her father's squires barging into the room, the same one who used to dance with Madge so long ago.

The door crashes against the stone wall, the ladies gasp in scandalized shock and Madge pricks herself with her needle, scarlet blood dripping onto the pale lavender of her dress. She hisses in pain and looks up at Bristel in reproach but the frenzied look in his eyes makes her rebuke dry up in her throat.

"My lady," he pants, red faced and Madge's mother looks at him with feverish eyes.

"What is it?" she whispers, colour sliding out of her face.

"War, your grace, England is at war."

England has erupted, split down the middle by two powerful men.

The Duke of York has declared the King a tyrant, has deemed him oppressive, cruel, unfit to lead England and her people. Nobles flock to his rebellion, including his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury and his nephew the Earl of Warwick. They seek to remove King Coriolanus from power and place the Duke of York there instead, backed by his own claim to the throne, Edward III's royal blood pumping through his veins.

King Coriolanus retaliates, his own army rising to meet this would-be-usurper.

The clash, when it comes, will be devastating.

For so many, for so long.

(for Madge)

The Duke of Bedford is called to arms, summoned to prove his loyalty to his King.

Madge and her family are Lancastrians, as the King's supporters are called, not by choice but by blood, and Madge's father gathers as many men as he can to ride out and meet his king. Madge watches him as he prepares to leave, looking small in his gleaming silver armor and hates the Duke of York. She does not know him, has barely met him but he has brought war to England, has dragged her loved ones into bloody conflict.

(there is a small voice though, one that whispers of the fear in London, the chill in Westminster)

(perhaps the Duke of York is on to something)

Her mother is too ill to see the men off, so Madge stands in the courtyard as lady of the house, keeps her back as straight as she can. She wants to grab hold of her father's reins, refuse to let go until he agrees to stay behind but she doesn't, has been raised with Bedford bravery in her heart, will make her father proud.

His eyes are wet as she ties her mother's handkerchief to his gauntlet, a wife's token to keep him safe. He kisses her cheek as the wind picks up, the cold cutting through her skin.

"Take care, my Madge," he whispers.

"And you father," she replies, voice shaking.

He mounts his horse and he looks so pale in the watery sunlight. The ground shivers as the men take off, a thunder of hooves and Madge stays in the courtyard long after they've gone, holds herself tight as tears stain her cheeks.

Come back father, please come back.

Life continues in Bedford Castle, news few and far between.

Madge stares out the windows as the weather grows colder, tries to catch a glimpse of a rider bearing some sort of message, some update on the state of England, but always, there is no one.

Madge's fingers are clumsy at her needlework, her eyes blurry as she tries to read her books, her hands limp as she attempts to play her instruments. She cannot concentrate, lives in a state of frigid fear. The world outside is a mystery, one she is desperate to unravel.

How goes the war? Who is winning? Losing? And what of my father?

Madge needs to know, just as she dreads finding out.

"There must be something we can do," Madge says for the thousandth time and her mother sighs, setting down her embroidery.

"I have told you darling, there is nothing we can do but pray. Pray for your father and the King, that they will be safe and victorious. We must trust in the Lord."

It is the same speech she has given every time Madge has asked and just like always, it does little to soothe Madge's nerves. Her mother's ladies-in-waiting share looks of pity and Madge bristles, determines right then that she will find something useful to do.

"May I be excused?" she asks and her mother blinks before sighing again.

"Yes, Madge, you may."

Madge curtsies and turns in a whirl of skirts, desperate to be out of this stifling room, desperate to be doing something. She slips from her mother's solar and leans back against the closed door, at a loss for what that something might be. Think, she tells herself, there must be something...

She pushes off from the door and moves across the hall to the window. She leans against it and looks out at the castle grounds, but it is the same view as always, empty and without a rider bearing news. The wind picks up and Madge's eyes catch on a pennant at the top of one of the turrets as it whips in the breeze. It is a fraying white with her father's badge, the silver Bedford Bell, upon it and Madge feels inspiration burn into her fingertips.

She gathers up her skirts and runs down the hall, dodging scandalized chamber maids and shocked page boys as she goes. Her satin slippers nearly flap off but Madge doesn't slow, feels excitement thrusting her forward. She careens through an oak door and arrives in a store room piled high with silks and velvets, brocade and cloth of gold. Reams and reams of fabric, yards and yards of material and Madge falls upon them like a starving man on a fresh pile of vegetables. She picks through crates and boxes, desperate to find the perfect piece.

Yes!

She drags out a roll of white silk, cool and soft to the touch. Perfect! She will need thread, red for Lancaster Roses and silver for a Bedford Bell. She will make a banner, with a border of red roses and a great big bell in the middle. She will proclaim her loyalties to the world, show them all the proof of her faith. She will hang it up on the castle walls so everyone will know who they are, who she prays for, who she sends her every ounce of courage to.

This will be a banner to welcome her victorious father home, one to hold all her hopes. Madge hugs the roll of fabric to her chest.

No more idle hands, I'll be useful.

You will have the very best homecoming Father, I swear.

Madge is diligent in her work, measuring and cutting and designing.

There is still no word from the front but she no longer yearns for it with the same intensity, her mind focused and her hands busy. Her banner comes along and she plans out the celebration they will have when her father returns home. What food they'll eat, what decorations they'll hang and what needs to be cleaned, polished and refurbished.

The Yorkists can fight and even win as many battles as they want. They cannot take Madge's hope and it will never falter or fade. The Duke of Bedford will return.

Madge will never let go of that.

In December, news finally arrives.

It is the worst winter Madge can remember, bitterly cold and heavily coated in snow. The courier who brings word is nearly blue and half dead when he collapses on their doorstep, the words quivering as they leave his bleeding lips.

The Duke of York is dead.

He and his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury have been slain at the Battle of Wakefield, the snow stained red with the blood of countless dead. The routed army has fled, the King is victorious.

Madge sighs in relief. It is over.

(if only)

But then a whisper.

A whisper goes out that the war is not over, that the Yorkists still intend to fight.

The Earl of Warwick is still standing, a new Earl of Salisbury, Gale, only sixteen, has risen to take his father's place and most shocking of all, the Duke of York's eldest child has taken up his claim.

Not a son, for he had none, but a daughter, Lady Katniss of York.

People shake their heads, scoff, for that cannot be true. These whispers must be wrong.

(they aren't)

Madge embroiders with vehemence, her needle like a sword and this banner her war. She cannot fight by her father's side, has no idea how to use a sword. She is not Lady Katniss of York (if she even exists), but Madge is still brave, will fight in the only way she knows how.

Every day and night, she and the entire household get down on their knees and pray, for the safety of their lord and victory for their cause. Madge stitches and stitches, will boldly show her colours to the world. She is a Bedford, they are Lancastrians and she will not hide, will pour every ounce of love and courage she has into this banner. Let this be a testament to her belief, to her faith in God and her father. Let any strength she possesses carry to him and make him mighty. Madge cannot fight with spear and shield, cannot ride out into battle for those she loves, but that does not mean she is helpless.

She will keep the home fires burning, she will pray, she will believe.

Let the Yorkists come, she thinks, let them come. I will not yield or bend or break. I may have no sword or shield, so I shall become them myself.

Come Yorkists, and have a taste of Bedford steel.

1467 becomes 1468 and in February fortune turns over, shattering Madge's fragile hope that this war is over, that her father will soon return to them.

Lady Katniss of York, real and bent on vengeance, and her cousin the Earl of Salisbury lead their armies in the Battle of Mortimer's Cross and win a decisive victory, prove themselves deadly and capable. The Lancastrian army is devastated and the King's half-brother, Lord Boggs, Earl of Pembroke, is forced to flee for his life.

The tides have turned.

(but Madge's hope is not shattered for long)

(she picks up every shard and piece and puts it back together again)

(she cannot command an army)

(instead, she shall destroy the Yorkists with the force of her convictions)

(the good shall triumph, her father will return)

(that is a promise)

Madge lies awake at night and thinks of Katniss of York.

This girl, only a few years older than Madge, has done the impossible. She rides to war in full armor, rallies troops behind her. She keeps the cause of York alive, no, she does more, she turns York into an unstoppable force, takes them to victory and victory and victory.

It is unnatural, some of her mother's ladies say but Madge wonders if that is really quite as true as everyone believes. There is a fire in her chest, one that burns hotter than any hearth and if Madge knew how, she would charge to war, vanquish enemies, bring her father home safe.

She and Katniss of York are both warriors, just of a different kind.

(even still, they are enemies too)

February continues, dreary and darker with every passing day.

There is a somber air in Bedford Castle and joy flees from their long faces and terror of defeat. Katniss of York is a chilling specter, far more effective than her father ever was, bolstered by the Earl of Warwick and the new, young Earl of Salisbury.

Isolated and trapped in this castle as they are, the Bedford household knows only that Katniss of York inspires loyalty wherever she goes, crushes Lancastrian forces like they might an ant. Hope is a delicate thing and Madge can tell by the faces around her that most here have had theirs broken, shattered and destroyed. It is only a matter of time they think but don't say. Soon, the Yorkists will kills us all.

Madge won't surrender so easily.

She puts the finishing touches on her banner, ties off the last silver thread. She instructs some men to hang it above the castle gate and dares the Yorkists to try and take this keep.

Let them come, she thinks, we will not fall.

We are Bedfords and proud.

We are Lancastrians.

We are ready.

It is not the Yorkists who come, but Bristel the squire.

Madge has some grooms carry her mother outside, hopes the fresh air with do her well. They set up in the garden, the Duchess wrapped snugly in layers and layers of blankets and furs. They won't stay long, the winter cold, but being cooped all day cannot be helping her mother strengthen. Madge reads aloud to her mother from Chaucer while the other ladies take to their needlework, each one pretending everything is fine and fear does not haunt their every hour.

(but oh, it does)

They have only been out for a handful of minutes when loud shouts come from the direction of the gate, the clamor soon drowning out Madge's voice. She closes the book and rests it in her lap, nails digging into the soft leather cover. Is it news? Or the Yorkists come to burn us to the ground? The ladies stop their stitching, faces turning white and Madge knows they are thinking as she is, wondering if death has come to find them.

They do not have to wonder for long.

Bristel comes galloping into the garden, grooms and guards streaming after him. His horse leaps over a low hedge to crash into their midst, hooves trampling all over the Duchess' flowerbeds. The ladies shriek in terror and Madge jumps up and knocks her chair back, the book clutched tight against her chest. Her mother lifts her head to look at him as he tumbles off his horse, haste evident in every move of his muscles and he hurries into a bow.

"Are you mad?" bellows Sir Thomas as he and a contingent of guards come running towards them, his cheeks puffed up and red. Bristel ignores him and addresses her mother instead.

"My Lady, I come bearing urgent news from the Duke."

Madge almost swoons with relief. News from the Duke means her father is still alive.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Thomas thunders. "Have you lost your mind? You cannot-"

"It is fine, Sir Thomas," her mother interrupts gently. "Tell us your news."

Sir Thomas clamps his mouth shut and Bristel nods, his armor spattered with mud.

"The Yorkist army is moving this way, they shall reach the castle in a matter of days."

The ladies around her whimper, Sir Thomas blanches and Madge feels a fire kindle in her belly. Let them come.

"I rode as fast as I could, but Lady Katniss moves them at a punishing rate. The Duke bid me tell you that you must all leave, as quickly as you can."

"No," Madge finds herself saying without thinking, the word torn from her throat. Everyone turns to look at her, their eyes poking at her like daggers. "We will hold the castle against any Yorkist siege," she continues, a hysterical conviction mounting in her bones. Bedford Castle must stand, must be ready to welcome her father home when he wins, just as he has done every time before.

"We cannot, Lady Madge. His Grace the Duke of Beford wishes every man not needed to guard you on your way to join him at the front. Times are desperate and we cannot spare enough men to withstand a siege, and certainly not one from Lady Katniss' entire army. We must run."

Bristel's eyes are hard and Madge feels like the ground is sinking beneath her feet. She cannot leave, will not.

"Sir Thomas, ready the men to join the Duke," her mother orders and Madge is sure she might vomit. We cannot do this, cannot leave. The Yorkists cannot chase us from our home. Sir Thomas bows in assent and hurries off, the Duchess turning to Bristel.

"Fetch the Lord Steward, have him ready the household for departure. We will leave for Berkhampstead immediately."

Madge shakes her head, cannot allow this. Her father has many castles, more than anyone but the King, and Madge has been to most of them. But unlike most nobles, Madge and her family have always preferred a more settled life, have always called Bedford Castle their home. She cannot abandon it now. Bristel frowns.

"My apologies, my lady, but the Duke insisted you go to Westminster and join the King."

The temperature seems to plummet, horror settling over them like a cloak.

please no

"My husband is both the Duke of Bedford and of Clarence, he has more castles and palaces than anyone in England save the King. Any one of them will be suitable to wait out this war," her mother retorts, voice steely even as her skin turns a frightening grey.

"The Duke was adamant, your Grace. Westminster will be the most heavily guarded place in England, there will be nowhere safer. The men that will escort you there will not be enough to defend a castle, no matter which you choose. You are the King's niece and the Duke is one of the King's staunchest allies, the Yorkists will make a point of burning down your castle and seizing you and the Lady Madge," Bristel says and he is being so very bold for a squire. The Duchess shakes her head and Madge knows she will refuse, would never countenance them going back to that devil's den.

They have to stay here.

"Very well, inform the Steward."

Madge gapes at her mother, disbelief tingling in every part of her body.

"Mother, no! We cannot go back there! We cann-"

"Enough, Madge. Your lord father is correct, we will be safest there. He would not suggest it unless it was the only option."

Madge shakes her head, furious tears building in her eyes.

"This is not right! I will not go, I will wait here fo-"

"Madge, stop this. We have no choice. We are going to Westminster as your father wishes. Be brave," her mother says, voice softening, "we must have courage and see this through."

Be brave, her father had always told her as he left, be brave.

Oh father, I'm not sure I can

They pack up everything they cannot bear to part with, know full well that the Yorkists will plunder anything that remains. Madge ransacks her chambers, her favourite gowns, jewels, books and trinkets stuffed hurriedly into chests to be packed up in litters. She forces herself not to cry as she bundles it all together, will be strong and resolute.

This is not forever. When this all over, we will be back.

Madge orders them to leave her banner hanging, will not be ashamed of her colours. Even if the Yorkists win, Madge will not renounce her family.

We are Bedfords and proud. We are Lancastrians born and raised.

"Your Grace, the Lord Steward would like to know who is to remain here and who shall travel to Westminster with you," a harried clerk tells them as Madge helps her mother pack up her things.

"No one is to remain here," her mother says immediately and the clerk steps back in surprise.

"No one?"

"No. Abandon the castle. I will not leave men and women behind to be slaughtered or imprisoned by the Yorkists. Tell them to return to their families and give an address to the Steward so I may send them excellent recommendations when I reach London. Take this," she says gesturing to one of her chests full of gold, silver and jewels, "and have the Steward divide it amongst them so they may pay their way until they have found new employment. Tell them also that they are welcome to anything we do not take with us. It is not enough, but it is all I can offer in repayment for their years of loyal service."

The clerk gapes and Madge feels a pang in her heart. Abandon the castle. Who knew three words could ache so much?

"As to those who will accompany us...only those who wish to. I will not yoke anyone to a ship that may soon sink. Everyone has my blessing to leave and seek their own safety, I will not hold them to us."

The clerk is speechless and Madge clutches tight to the rosary beads she'd wrapped around her wrist before leaving her room, praying that God can hear her.

Deliver us from harm

Keep us safe

Please

Madge carries a coffer of her mother's things out into the courtyard and stops in surprise at what she finds.

A full complement of guards stands at attention, Sir Thomas at their head; Bristel and several grooms ready the carriages and horses under the direction of their Constable, Sir Richard Keene; maids pack up the last of the things, guided by the Steward, Sir George Costmary and all her mother's ladies are waiting and dressed for travel.

So many have stayed when they could have fled, have chosen to stand with them, even faced with the coming storm. Madge feels like they have reached into her chest and touched her heart, tears building in her eyes. Sir George notices her and comes over.

"I made the Duchess' offer, but none would take it. Those you do not see here, I had to force to leave. We cannot afford to take everyone if we are to make any haste."

"Thank you," Madge chokes out and Sir George's face turns fierce.

"You needn't thank us, my lady. Each one of us is proud to wear the Bedford Badge."

Madge looks at those silver bells embroidered on their clothes and cannot hold back her tears. They drip down onto the coffer in her arms and see Father? They all love you, you must come home. No matter what the Yorkists do, we are with you.

Always.

Madge, her mother and all of her ladies squeeze into the carriage, sacks and chests piled beneath their feet and under their skirts. It is a tight fit but they have no room to spare, every litter they own filled to the brim. Those maids, cooks, clerks, grooms and other household staff they cannot bring with them cluster in the courtyard to see them off, even Madge's elderly tutor, his stern face melted into tears. Sir George has chosen who will come with them and who cannot, ordering those remaining behind to flee immediately. There is no telling when the Yorkists will arrive. They stand beneath Madge's great banner, waving scraps of fabric bearing the Bedford Bell and Madge fears her heart might burst.

"If there were but room, we would ride anywhere with you!" calls a groom, only a year or two older than Madge.

"God keep you, Lady Margaret!" shouts a ruddy faced cook.

"We shall pray for you, Lady Madge!" promises a teary maid.

"You will be in our hearts!" "May the Lord bless the House of Bedford!" "Keep safe and ride swiftly!" "It has been an honour!"

Madge covers her mouth to stifle her sobs and does not take her eyes off of them as their carriage pulls away, will imprint this scene onto her heart. There are no words she could say that will express her gratitude for such devotion and loyalty, no actions she could take that would ever be enough. Her mother has left them that chest of jewels and coins and given them leave to take anything that remains, but even all those gold plates and silver goblets, those gem encrusted gowns, the carefully carved furniture and store rooms full of food, drink, fabric and wood are not enough, could never repay the kindness they have shown.

"God keep and bless you all!" she shouts out the window and she will pray for just that each and every night. The silver thread of her banner catches in the sunlight and Madge vows that the house of Bedford will survive, for her parents' sake and for all those who have shown them such limitless loyalty.

This is not the end.

The ride to London is torturous, a fear of ambush staying all their tongues.

Will the Yorkists catch them?

Will they make it to London unharmed?

Will it even matter if they do?

Madge keeps her eyes fixed on the window and when she sees London looming before them, she cannot say she is relieved.

Which is the greater of two evils, she wonders.

Rebels who would burn me for my blood?

Or my King?

They stop before the city's gates, Sir Thomas riding out ahead of them.

"Who goes there?" a guard calls from the gatehouse, his shout tinged with fear.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Bedford and Clarence, niece to his Majesty, King Coriolanus of England! We request entrance!" Sir Thomas answers and there is a pause, one Madge cannot understand. Why do they not open the gates?

"Prove it!" one of the guards yells down at them. Madge can see Sir Thomas bristle.

"How dare you refuse to open your gates to the King's blood kin! Our lord the Duke of Bedford fights for his King and you would deny his wife and daughter safe passage?"

Madge is distracted from the guard's reply by her mother moving beside her. The dismal weather and long ride have only worsened her condition and she looks too weak even to stand.

"I must go out," her mother says feebly and Madge shakes her head.

"Mother, you can't!"

"They want proof, I shall give it to them."

Madge wants to argue but it is clear her mother will not listen. She struggles out of the carriage, her ladies helping to support her and Madge prays she will not collapse right there in the street.

"My lady!" Sir George squawks when he notices her mother leaning against the side of the carriage, her breathing laboured. He scrambles down from his horse and takes hold of her arm to keep her steady. She leans into him and looks up at the guard wall, her face dangerously pale, all the veins visible beneath her skin.

"I am Lady Margaret, daughter of Prince Henry, Duke of Clarence, granddaughter of King Henry IV of England, wife of Lord Joseph, Duke of Bedford and niece to your King, Coriolanus of England. I demand you open these gates and allow us to pass so I may see my uncle."

There is strength in her mother's voice, an authority and iron Madge would never have guessed her frail mother capable of.

It takes only moments for the guards to order the gates opened. Sir George helps her mother back inside and she collapses in her seat, chest rattling as she tries to breathe. Madge takes her hand and squeezes it tight.

"We shall be there soon, Mother. We shall be safe."

(Madge wishes she could believe that)

There is a servant of the King's waiting for them when they reach Westminster, the badge on his uniform curdling Madge's stomach. He bows as she dismounts the carriage.

"The King bids you welcome, my Lady, and wishes you and the Duchess to follow me to his Majesty's audience chamber."

Madge expected such a request, but even still, it leaves her cold all over.

"My mother is too ill to see anyone, she must be conveyed straight to bed. I will see his Majesty," she offers, gathering courage around herself like armor. The man looks unconvinced and Madge hardens her voice.

"The King will not take kindly to the Duchess being so poorly treated. She needs rest, please show her to her rooms."

The threat of the King's displeasure is enough to make up his mind.

"Of course, my lady, right away. But will you not need someone to show you to the King's audience chamber?"

Madge shakes her head and turns to look down the hall, feeling like she's about to walk to her own execution.

"I know the way."

Madge waits outside the doors as she is announced and tries to fortify her heart. Better me than mother. She cannot take this torment, sick as she is. The doors swing open and Madge squares her shoulder, marching in with all her dignity. I am a Bedford. I have royal blood in my veins. I am not afraid.

The King sits in his throne but he looks older by decades since last Madge has seen him. He is dressed in dark maroon, lines carved deep in his skin. The Queen beside him is not the bejeweled woman of ice Madge remembers, but hunched and suspicious in her throne, with hostile eyes and a dress of somber blue. Prince Cato has a savage look on his face, his hand clamped firmly on the hilt of his dagger. He must be at least sixteen now and Madge can see the itch to be out fighting painted clearly across his face.

(is it wrong that she wishes he were out there, rather than here?)

Pale, dying sunlight flitters through the windows and the luster of Westminster has clearly faded. She curtsies low and waits for the King to order her to rise.

"Lady Madge," he begins, rolling her name around on his tongue, "wherever is your mother?"

"The Duchess has regretfully fallen ill, your Majesty. She has been brought to bed."

Madge waits, eyes staring at the dusty floor and wonders if he will ever allow her to stand.

"Why have you come?" he demands, a cruel edge to his voice. Madge swallows, throat dry.

"We had received word from my lord father that the Yorkists were coming. We hoped-"

"You hoped to hide here," he interrupts, cutting across her like a knife. "Five years you have not deigned to visit and now you wish to hide behind our walls," he accuses and Madge clenches her hands in the fabric of her dress.

"My most sincere apologies if we have offended you, your Majesty, but we have not come to court because of the danger of the roads and the instability plaguing the kingdom."

A scoff comes from Prince Cato and Madge continues, feels the weight of her and her mother's lives pressing down on her shoulders.

"My lady mother and I have prayed for your victory every day and night while my lord father fights even now to defend your crown. I have hung a banner on our castle walls to show the world that the Bedfords stand side by side with their king. We are your Majesty's most loyal and humble servants."

She closes her eyes and waits for his judgement, their fates resting in his hands.

"Many have renounced their allegiance to us," he murmurs and Madge breathes in deeply.

"We have never your forsaken you, your Majesty," she replies, "you are our King and our blood, placed upon the throne by God himself."

"Indeed. You may rise."

She does, the entire royal family scrutinizing her closely.

"One of the Queen's ladies was not so loyal," the King tells her almost casually, a glint in his dark eyes. "She has since lost her head."

He smirks and Madge bites down hard on her tongue, forces her expression to remain neutral.

"As such, there is a vacancy in the Queen's household. Seeing as you are a noble daughter of loyal stock and possessing of royal blood, we think you would make a good replacement."

He narrows his eyes, watching closely for her reaction. She curtsies again, bowing her head.

"I would be most honoured, your Majesty."

"Good, you shall begin tomorrow. Tonight, see to your mother. We will send the royal physician to tend to her."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are too kind."

He smirks again, tongue darting out to lick the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.

"We do hope she will be well enough to break her fast with us tomorrow," he says and even though the words are innocent enough, Madge recognizes the command behind them.

"I am sure she will be."

"Good. You may go now, the physician will soon join you."

Madge holds in her sigh of relief at being dismissed and curtsies again. She leaves the room as quickly as she can without running and clutches her rosary to her heart.

Let this war be over soon

Let us leave this place

Let this not be our tomb

Her mother does not recover but soldiers on valiantly anyway, attending on the King whenever he wishes.

"It has been too long, Margaret," he croons and leads her to the seat beside him, seems not to care that the life in her eyes is flickering and fading with every passing day.

"Indeed it has been," her mother always agrees, voice the faintest breath of sound.

She is wasting away here, but she is not the only one, the entire court wilted and lifeless. These once splendid halls are drab and dingy, no longer echoing with music and laughter. The dark cloud that has lingered for so long over England has finally reached the palace that conjured it, the King suffering as his people have done for decades.

Madge waits on the Queen and it is clear that the royal family are terrified, can feel Lady Katniss' net tightening around them. Their eyes dart about at every sound, every scrap of news devoured. They jump at shadows, punish any who even look at them crosswise and they are irritable and snappish, suspicious of everyone and everything. They cannot survive like this for much longer, no one can.

(they won't have to)

As February begins to die, Madge spends her nights on her knees in prayer, hands clasped and head bowed.

I beg you Lord, please keep my father safe.

Please, bring him home to us

(but does the Lord answer prayers that come from a house of evil?)

(Madge is afraid to find out)

March rises over London in a blanket of fog and with it comes Madge's fifthteenth birthday, but she does not tell anyone and is glad of the lack of celebration.

She does not think she and the King share the same taste in entertainment.

(her mother presses a gift into her palm and when Madge opens it, she almost sobs.

It is a set of miniatures, one of each of her parents, held together with hinges.

"To remember us by," her mother whispers and Madge almost chokes on her tone of defeat)

(Madge does not want to remember them)

(remembering them means all she has left are memories)

A handful of days later, Madge is helping the Queen dress when a knock sounds at the door.

"Answer it!" Queen Enobaria orders, voice cracking like a whip and Madge curtsies, an angry spring coiled in her chest. She hurries over to the door and opens it to find a frightened looking page waiting on the other side. His face softens in relief when he sees it is her and not the Queen.

"I bring summons from the his Majesty the King. He wishes the Queen to join him in the hall immediately."

Madge nods, thanks him and watches him sprint away while she has to turn back to her mistress, the Queen's expression poisoned and sour.

"What did he want?" she demands and Madge reigns in her frustration. Everyday is a constant stream of belligerent bullying and she is beginning to think she might be better off losing her head as the Queen's previous lady did.

"The King requests your presence, your Grace."

"Then hurry up and get back to work, we mustn't keep him waiting," she snaps as if Madge had been slacking off. Madge bites her tongue and does as she is bidden, lacing the Queen into her gown as quickly as she can. The other ladies fuss about with her hair and hennin and Madge wonders what news of the King's could be so urgent.

Victory perhaps?

Or is it defeat?

The King does not waste time with plesantries.

"We are riding out," he announces and people around her gasp in shock. Madge furrows her brow.

"My ministers think it will do the men good to see their King, so we will go and meet them on the battlefield. With God's grace, this will put a swift end to this cursed war and see our kingdom righted once again," he continues and Madge feels like a ray of sunshine is beaming down directly on her head. The King will be gone, they will be free of him, at least for a time. She sends a silent thanks to God for His mercy.

"Let me come with you, Father," Prince Cato begs, bloodlust thick in his voice.

"That will do more harm than good," the King says, brushing him off. "It would be foolish to risk both King and heir on one battlefield."

Cato stiffens, eyes burning.

"I am old enough to fight! I should not be left cooped up here with the women!" he growls and the King turns sharply to look at him, eyes colder than ice.

"You will do as we tell you or you shall suffer as all others that disobey us. Is that clear?"

Prince Cato stares in shock a moment before wilting and Madge frowns.

What kind of man threatens his own son?

(a wicked, wicked, wicked one)

"Yes, Father."

"Good. We must now be off. We shall expect you all to pray for us and keep Westminster ready for our return."

Madge curtsies as he passes and cannot wait to tell her mother of this blessing.

She finds her mother lying in bed, her food barely touched. Madge sits by her side and takes her hand.

"The King is going off to battle, to inspire his men."

"So we have lost then," her mother breathes and Madge cocks her head in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"In all the years, with all the battles, when has the King ever gone out to see his men?"

Madge opens her mouth to reply and realizes the answer is never.

"If he is leaving now, it is because he is running away."

"He wouldn't abandon his son, or the Queen, would he?" Madge asks, cannot believe she actually wishes he were still here. Her mother looks at her with pitying eyes.

"Wouldn't he?"

Yes, she admits, yes he would.

The King's departure has left a ragged wound in Westminster, his unflinching arrogance no longer present to stem the flow of desolation flooding London. It is obvious now, without his overpowering menace, to see just how dire their situation is.

The House of Lancaster is losing.

Katniss of York, her followers emblazoned with her badge of a white rose, so vividly contrasting with the King's bloody red, marches through England like a storm, churning Lancastrian armies into corpses and convincing others to turn their coats. Her ranks swell everyday and there is nothing the King's flagging support can do to stop her. Sooner or later they will all be caught up in her current, swept away by the House of York and it's vengeful lady.

The only question is when.

Madge relishes the moments she can be alone, away from the Queen and her brittle temper and caustic words. She sneaks away to wander Westminster's long halls and could almost believe there was no war, if only her heart didn't ache so for her father. The palace is so quiet now, entirely unlike the one she remembers from childhood and there's peace in that, however fragile. The only sound is the echo of her boots and Madge wishes she knew what happened beyond these walls, but news has been sluggish since the King left, trickling slowly like water from a tiny crack in the wall.

They heard, over a week after the fact, of the Earl of Warwick and William Herbert smashing the King's reinforcements from Wales, leaving them unable to meet up with the main body of the King's army, gearing up for one great, last battle. This will be the one that determines the outcome of the war, the victor claiming the throne of England.

(Madge tries not to think about what will be left to the loser)

Agonizingly slow reports come in that young Gale of Salisbury inspires many to flock to the Yorkist banner, his words stirring loyalty into their hearts. Madge stops by a window with slightly warped glass and tries to guess at what he might be saying, what spurs them on to treason. The grass outside is sodden with late season snow and Madge hopes her father keeps warm, hopes he crushes Gale of Salisbury to dust, hopes he routs Haymitch of Warwick and leaves Katniss of York destitute and friendless.

Madge may not bear the King any love, but the curse of her blood means she is a Lancaster, her life depending on a Yorkist defeat. More importantly, she knows what tragedies will await her parents if the Yorkists prove triumphant and Madge cannot bear to see them suffer. They have only done what they had no choice to, for had not every great noble man sworn an oath to serve his King? Was he not anointed by the Lord himself?

(in a different world, Madge may have chosen to be a Yorkist, would have seen the injustices committed by King Coriolanus and wanted him condemned to Hell for it)

(but this is not a different world and Madge has no luxury to choose)

(and even if she did, she would always choose her family, over anything, over everything)

Her musings are interrupted by a throaty giggle, followed soon after by enthusiastic grunts. Madge frowns in confusion but it soon vanishes when heavy panting drifts towards her from down the hall. Her face stains red and she may still be a virginal maid, but she is no idiot. Servants talk and Madge has heard enough to guess what is happening nearby, a low, ecstatic moan making it all the clearer.

(as horrified as she is, this is almost a blessing, her mind entirely distracted from the terror that awaits her loved ones)

(all she can think about now is how utterly, utterly mortified she is)

Madge, perhaps childishly, covers her ears and means to rush past the not-entirely-closed door a few feet down the hall, but just as she is passing the doorway, her eyes catch on silver thread shining in watery sunlight. She pauses and the scene comes into focus before her, worse than she would have guessed.

She is facing Prince Cato's black and silver clad back, his fair head almost glowing in March sunbeams, as he grunts and thrusts up under the skirts of one of the Queen's ladies, one Madge never has the interest to remember the name of. Her legs are tied around his waist and her head thrown back, her long black hair flowing freely.

Madge takes a step back and then a few more, determined to be as quiet as possible. She cannot imagine the prince would be pleased at her witnessing this event and would rather not take any chances. She whirls then and hitches up her skirts, flying down the hall at an unladylike pace, and plans to purge this moment from her memories. Even still, she cannot stop her mind from wandering just a bit, curiosity slinking up her spine. How long have they been doing this? she wonders, and are there others, or is Prince Cato dallying with only her (the lady Madge cannot for the life of her put a name to)? Is this lust? Or is Prince Cato actually capable of something as human as love?

In any other circumstance, Madge might ask, but Prince Cato would probably slit her throat if she tried. And if that lady is his sweetheart, she'd probably be just as likely to as well.

Madge shudders.

Less than a week later, her mother's grave pronouncement is proven true.

Madge sits beside the Queen, embroidering a gift for her father and surreptitiously attempting to puzzle out Prince Cato's lover, Lady Clove (Madge has finally remembered her name), when a messenger arrives, his expression grim. Madge inhales sharply and sets down her needlework, heart nearly racing out of her chest.

Please be alright Father, please please be alright

"What is it?" the Queen asks, the tremor in her voice making it clear she has already guessed.

"I have just come from Towton," the messenger begins and there are nightmares playing over in his eyes. Madge squeezes her hands together and wishes her mother was beside her, rather than laid up in bed.

"It was the bloodiest battle I have ever seen. I would wager there were more dead there than in any other battle on English soil," he continues, voice haunted.

"Enough of that, what news?" the Queen huffs impatiently but Madge is not sure she wants to know, would rather have a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. The messenger swallows.

"The King's forces were utterly destroyed. Lady Katniss of York and her cousins, Haymitch of Warwick and Gale of Salisbury, slaughtered them all...it was a massacre. Only a handful escaped, including his Majesty, who has fled to Scotland. They are marching here now, to take London and declare a new sovereign."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Father, you must be alright, you must have escaped.

You must.

"We will bar the gates and push back the Yorkist scum!" Prince Cato declares, voice hot and angry. The messenger shakes his head.

"The mayor has already said he will not," he informs them and the women around the Queen start weeping, their embroidery tumbling to the floor. Madge feels like the world around her has gone dark, every candle snuffed out. We are doomed.

"They would abandon their King?" Cato spits, knuckles white on his dagger and Madge wants to laugh and sob all at the same time. He has already abandoned them! she wants to scream but instead she picks up her needle and thread with numb fingers.

"We must get to sanctuary," she whispers and Cato whirls on her, face burnt red with his fury.

"I will not hide like some coward!" he bellows in her face, spittle showering her cheeks but Madge does not flinch, feels almost like she has been hollowed out, all her emotions scraped clean.

"Then you will die, struck down by the Yorkists."

"You filthy whore, shut up!" he screeches and his knuckles are violent as they collide with her face, knocking her to the floor. Her knees shriek as they collide with the stone and the ladies near her scream in shock. The skin is scraped from her hands and Madge feels dazed, her cheekbone aching. Cato grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her head back, his nostrils flaring and tears spring to her eyes with the pain, a gasp spilling from her lips.

"How dare you speak to me like that, how dare you! I will be your King!"

"Enough," the Queen states, voice slicing through his fog of rage.

"You heard what she said?" Cato demands and Madge feels lightheaded, the world blinking white and bright.

"It is of no consequence, we must prepare. Come now," she orders and Cato throws Madge to the floor, her chin slamming down painfully. She bites her tongue and tastes her own hot blood, the world swimming in her eyes. The Queen and Cato rush off, followed by all their attendants and Madge is left alone in a sticky, red puddle, pain sparking across her body.

So this is how it ends, then.

The House of Lancaster has fallen.

Now rises the House of York.

Madge eventually finds the strength to heave herself up and back to her chambers, every part of her throbbing.

What now? she thinks, spitting blood into a bowl.

What now?

She awakes the next morning to find the Queen and Prince Cato have disappeared in the night, have abandoned them to the mercies of the approaching Yorkists.

Madge wanders the deserted halls of Westminster with a chill in her heart, her footsteps echoing in ancient halls as she hugs herself. Her King, her Queen, her Prince, they've all forsaken her and she knows she has no choice but to stay and await her conquerors, cannot run or hide. Lady Bedford cannot be moved and Madge cannot leave her, will not, so she does the only thing she can.

She clutches her rosary and kneels in the chapel, stays on cold, hard floors all day and night. No one is coming to rescue her, no ally or white knight, so Madge prays, for her father, for her mother, for Lady Katniss' mercy. It may not be enough, but Madge has no sword, no shield, no quiver full of arrows.

At fifteen, Madge of Bedford learns she has only herself.

#gadge #madge undersee #gale hawthorne #fanfiction #wars of the roses au #roses are red #roses are white

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