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MARTYRBLED.

          Enshrouded in worn robes, they looked much akin to a Father or cleric whilst standing in the midst of the open Garden; practically unphased by the chill of the night air, their fingers extend out to brush over the petals of a slightly impaired rose. An idle gesture but they knew that within minutes the floral of choice will look happy & healthy as new. Hand lowering itself back underneath the uppermost layer of cloth, they turned their head to finally regard their company with a proper greeting, lashes halfway lowered over gilded stare — hood casting a shadow over freckled visage.

          ❛ Indeed so. They’re quite resilient, these beauties. Happy, too. ❜

          Tired & narrowed eyes watch carefully, gray flecks amid a clear blue seeming much like a deep pool whilst Richard stares. He could raise the alarm, certainly, call for some aid to escort the wanderer away            however, he finds little harm in the situation. An over - abundance of confidence, as well, solidifies his belief that he could handle any potential danger ( & he assumes too much on appearance in this matter, too, crafting assurances in the back of his mind that are but strength - giving falsities ). Richard raises a brow, tone pleasant with his eventual remarks.           ❝ Indeed. They will keep their petals open long into the frosts, especially these that are so well - cared for. ❞ York straightens, leaving the distance between them remaining. ❝ What are you called, stranger ? ❞   

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British History be like

Me: Where did you get that scar, granddad?

Granddad: The War.

Me: The Second World War?

Granddad: The Civil War.

Me: The American Civil War?

Granddad: The English Civil War.

Me: In the 1640s?

Granddad: No, the War of the Roses 1470s.

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& @martyrbled.

          ❝ Amazing, no ? ❞ His voice cuts through the afternoon with a stern nature almost too great for one his age ; the young Duke’s fair features, however, show no signs of outright hostility. If anything, he seems near amused as he looks over the sprawled, open garden with its rows of gently unfolded white & the figure standing near. ❝ Winter will be upon us soon, but they remain beautiful even still. ❞ A bandaged hand hovers by the youth’s hip, shoulder briefly leaning against the stone of the outer wall in a prepared but comfortably lax stance.

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WOMEN’S HISTORY † MARGUERITE d'ANJOU  (23 March 1430 – 25 August 1482)

Marguerite d'Anjou was the sixth child of René d'Anjou and Isabelle, duchesse de Lorraine. When she was five, her father became the king of Naples, but he lost his kingdom in 1441 to Alfonso V de Aragón. In 1445, Marguerite married Henry VI of England. Before she sat foot in England, however, she was already somewhat unpopular with English peasants and nobles alike: in order to marry her, he’d had to give up Anjou and Maine. This was not a promising start: Henry VI was already showing some signs of mental instability that he’d most likely inherited from his maternal grandfather, Charles VI de France, known as “the Mad.” After the birth of their only son, Edward of Westminister, Henry had something of a complete breakdown. Rumors quickly spread that Edward was actually fathered by Edmund Beaufort, 1st Duke of Somerset.

Shortly after, however, Marguerite clashed with Henry’s powerful cousin Richard, 3rd Duke of York. There has been considerable debate about what exactly caused the enmity between Marguerite and Richard, but the end result was a war between the Lancastrians (who favored Henry and Marguerite’s cause) and the Yorkists (who favored Richard’s). In 1460, Richard was killed during the Battle of Wakefield and his army was annihilated. Unfortunately for Marguerite, however, Richard’s oldest surviving son, Edward, regrouped with Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick and trounced the Lancastrians in three battles in a row. After the Battle of Towton in 1461, Henry, Marguerite, and their son fled.

By 1470, however, Richard Neville had fallen out with Edward for, among other things, his secret marriage to Elizabeth Wydeville. In response, Neville offered to restore Henry VI to the throne and married his daughter to young Prince Edward. Unfortunately, before Marguerite could make it back to England, Edward defeated and killed Neville in the Battle of Barnet. The Lancastrians’ last stand was at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471. Edmund Beaufort was executed shortly afterwards and Marguerite’s son also died, though in unclear circumstances. Henry VI and Marguerite were both taken prisoner and Henry died that night, most likely on the orders of Edward, his younger brother Richard, or both.

Marguerite, by all accounts, was heartbroken by the death of her son. She was ransomed by Louis XI de France in 1475 and lived the rest of her life in France. After her death, she was entombed next to her parents in Anjou.

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6 am spontaneous realization(s) : in the expanded ’ canon ’ of this blog, so to speak, Richard dies in 1484. This means that, come 1483, he will have to face the disappearance of his grandsons ( “ the princes in the tower ” ) & the likely reality that his son & namesake was heavily involved. Such a thing would likely tear him apart in that time of troubles, though he would be one to simply suffer alone & bottle his despair & frustration until the right few nerves were struck to release it all. It would be to him losing George again or even a pain as old as the loss of Edmund ; certainly, an agony compounding the death of Edward IV as well. This span of years, 83 - 84, would seem almost a new hell of a particularly cruel brand marked by the sparking of the internal feud Richard had first begun so very long ago. In this form, however, it is even more tortorous : the House of York is withering & arguably consuming itself with this string of rapid deaths & rampant deceit. It is highly possible, truthfully, that these circumstances lent a hand in Richard finally passing.

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THIRDOFYORK.

          Even the utmost neglect from his mother could not seize his heart with the same pain that seeing his brother in such a state wrought forth. Owlish eyes grew wider ( & wider yet ) once they caught sight of those tears. In the past, he may have thought his father as IMMORTAL; a father without need to shed tears — a soul without weakness. He knew different now, yes, but still the sight evoked a violent tremor throughout his small form. Hand pressed itself to cheek, opposite limb quickly then raising to do the same so that thumbs could press to warmer flesh & wipe tears should they be shed. What happened … ? Stumbling to find words, an almost wordless sort of croak doubled past his lips whilst jaw hung open.

          & yet, the STRENGTH which he so often gained from his Father was demanded to be found! He who was always the pillar for his youth deserved the same in turn! So with befuddlement choked & discarded, his hands held tight to his father’s face & how meek a sound escaped him before words were finally formed.  ❛ Father — Father, answer me! What’s wrong?! Did something happen?! ❜

          He remained lost for a few moments more, fighting the salt - laced droplets, before he trusted himself to speak. The York was roused from his swimming thoughts quite suddenly at the realization of Richard’s alarm. To see his youngest worry so awoke the father nestled firmly in the arms of the troubled dreamer ; the feel of his son’s hands upon his lined cheeks, the intensity of his words  .  .  they were REAL, weren’t they ?           It was all here, as it ought to be. His namesake was safe, neither phantom nor figment & in fact demanding an answer only a man sure he was not held in the confines of a nightmare could provide. With each weak mental reassurance, the York’s shoulders stooped until they held some semblance of having relaxed & his gaze grew clearer. Yet, those traitorous tears refused to stand down ( if anything, they only multiplied & began to hang mockingly from his lashes & blind him anew ). He was not one to cry, out of pride & awareness of his station as well as his own reservations toward it, but this felt akin to a drowning he could hardly stop.           ❝ Nothing, Richard. Not a thing has occurred. I             was  .  .  I thought otherwise. ❞ His replies seemed choked as they finished, soft & broken with a harsh intake of steadying breath. ❝ I thought you would not be here. ❞ Hardly audible, Richard can barely speak the final confession that sounds almost foolish when released from the depths of his lingering fear. Frustrated, exhausted & unable to accept the turning of the roles ( his comforts are loose, his shame mounting at the realization of the strength he now borrows ), the former Duke attempts to turn his head ever so slightly if only so that that familiar mingling of gold & gray might hide the burning of his eyes a bit.

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THIRDOFYORK.

          Richard was swallowed by the silence of the night — all too akin to the owl which he so often represented in mannerism & physique; enshrouded in dark clothing, he found brief comfort in the nothingness which surrounded him. Fatigued, worn, yet he felt not a sliver of sleep even begin to crawl down the length of his spine. Mayhaps it had chose to abandon him this night? Little was thought of it, as he was sure he’d be found by Catesby & forced to retire to his chambers soon enough. To remain here … — shoulders tense as he suddenly feels hand ‘pon a shoulder, quick to snag any fatigue from lithe form as one hand instantly draws to sheathed sword ( bloody bloody bloody — so young & yet already douced in blood ).

          Turning sharply, hand jolts from sheathed weapon to clutch to the fabric of his shirt ‘pon realization that it was his father whom stood before him — looking like a ghost, no less! Pale lips part, but words falter, owlish eyes widening as he took a step closer, his free hand raising to extend out towards curved jawline. Since when had his father looked so unhinged? ‘twas it not usually the opposite?

                                                             ❛ — Father? ❜

          A quip of some kind, perhaps, a kind jest as to why his son wasn’t asleep          Richard knew instinctively what ought to tumble from his lips but no such pleasantries came. No, his was a mind too precariously tipped into doubt & his person too lacking in its infamous confidence to issue words so light. All he seemed capable of, at first, was staring ; his hand remained upon a truly solid figure, a truth which relieved the towering elder little by little. He swallowed, shame building at how disheveled he must have looked, yet the Duke couldn’t bring himself to simply excuse the encounter & walk away.           .  .  now, he was apprehensive of letting go.           The Duke accepted the younger’s answering touch without complaint, concern & reassurance finding equal footing in his features. It was clear the noble was disturbed, carried to a great silence. A slight bloom of tears at the corners of his blue & gray eyes, however, suggested that there was a mighty peace in merely seeing his son. It was enough to soften that hard mouth, ease the nightmares flooding his vision & bring about an eerie, silent calm. Richard was too afraid to speak, rooted to where he stood no matter how he wished to turn away & hide the watering nature of his ocean - like hues.           What would this be when he released his gentle hold ? Trick ? or truth ?

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headcanon.

Whether Shakespearean or historical in nature, Richard his almost no tolerance for praise of Henry V. Little of this apparent disgust is through personal offense, rather, the York’s notions of how the king treated his father, the Earl of Cambridge & the affair known as the Southampton Plot. As the story says, Cambridge pleaded for mercy but never received it ; his execution, along with that of Scrope & Grey’s, is still a bit of a modern historical puzzle as is the trial that took place beforehand. Each side, combined with the politics of the era, made their own villains & heroes of the mess. Richard, Cambridge’s only surviving heir & a young child at the time, in turn vilified Henry V as he grew older & clung more & more to his father’s stained legacy in the hopes of making something of it for the sake of the Yorks & their ( eventual ) cause.

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                          i. With your heart gone cold you’ll turn to violence                          ii. With your inhibitions going silent                           iii. You will turn and twist and pry your eyes out                         iv. Wishing that you could just go back now                          v. You will be the criminal heartthrob                         vi. Destroying all that you could ever learn from                        vii. For no cause you’ll cause destruction

                                                     OH NO!

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& @thirdofyork​.

          He moves with the grace of a ruined ghost, gliding as he once had yet stumbled by the rhythmic tap of his support against the floor ; for a moment, his great frame passes into shadow & is briefly swallowed until he emerges again with a shudder. There is determination in him, fearful & poisoning, that fills the old Duke with dread. Richard sweeps about quickly ( ignoring any who might gesture him to the side with wondering whispers & crooked fingers ), seeking through the faces that all seem the same in his haste the one whose absence forced his heart to his throat.           Finally ! Finally.           Quietly, the York reaches out, freed & better hand seeking to every so lightly grasp at the youth’s shoulder. His mouth remained closed, fine age in his face only emphasizing how grim the father appeared            yes, how terrified he was ! in these few seconds, hoping against every demon murmuring into his ear that the other would not vanish into some wisp of fog, some foul smoke once his touch found its hold.

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My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth / A bird that will revenge upon you all.

YORK. 3 Henry VI : 1.4.36-37 ( Shakespeare )

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Christina Baker Kline, Orphan Train

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Richard [ III ] was thus hurried away to Holland. He was but eight years old when he saw his father and brother Edmund mount their horses at the gate of Baynard’s Castle; and when the sad news came that they were slain, and that he would see them no more. In after years Richard took part in the pious act of the children of the Duke of York. They re-endowed the beautiful chapel on Wakefield Bridge, which was built in the reign of Edward III, and dedicated it to the memory of their brother Edmund.

Sir Clements R. Markham Richard III : his life and character ( 1906 ). (via prxtectorarchive)

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I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can.

Jack Gilbert, “The Great Fires”  (via wordsnquotes)

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“Richard, I bestowed my name upon you. It’s the name of a King.” -Richard II of York aka Daddy Richard

The two Richard of York (Father and Son Relationship) I love the relationship of these two in the manga. Even though Richard is born with an intersex condition, Daddy Richard accept him (the only people that knows Richard’s condition is his parents and Catesby, the servant). I guess Daddy Richard choose male for Richard (the son) so that he’ll grow strong. He obviously expect so much from this son of his in spite of the fact that Richard is the youngest. Daddy Richard love him so much to the point that he thinks there might be a special connection between them. (lol favoritism) Also whenever Richard is in danger, he can feel it. He’s like “I thought my son called me” during their battle against the Lancaster. He also cried when Queen Margaret told him jokingly that she killed his youngest son. Because of that Richard also love his father dearly. For him, His father is his light and purpose in life.