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foreversillythings · 7 years

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roses are red, roses are white chapter two

chapter one

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter two to kneel before the queen

It is mid-March, 1468, when Katniss of York enters London.

Madge climbs up as many stairs in Westminster as she can, up to the tallest point she can reach and watches the triumphant procession from a window. She takes in the streets swollen with cheering men, women and children and their delight echoes up to her, her fingers clutching at the rough stone of the window ledge. Banners and streamers wave and white rose petals float through the air, tossed up by joyous hands. London’s officials wait in their state clothes and horns blare as Katniss of York rides in on her horse, a crown of white roses on her head.

The people are small and distant from Madge’s perch, but she knows that has to be Katniss, the crowds bowing as she passes. Men on horses follow after her, probably her cousins, and a sour taste fills Madge’s mouth.

Katniss of York. Haymitch of Warwick. Gale of Salisbury.

My judges, jury and executioners. What punishment have you in store for me?

London rejoices below her, finally free of King Coriolanus, and Madge watches with hostile eyes, knowing her sentence has just begun.

Madge is fifteen years old and never has her life been more uncertain than it is right now.

Everyone they’d brought from Bedford Castle joins her in their suite of rooms, much too nervous to be caught out in the hallways. The Yorkists will surely come to take possession of Westminster once they’re done with their procession in the city and though their chambers are crowded, with nowhere near enough room for everyone to be comfortable, the illusion of security they are afforded by being together makes it worth it. And it won’t be for long anyway, the Yorkists will soon have to inform Madge and her mother of what their future holds.

(and she cannot imagine it will be good)

In the meantime, they try and keep themselves busy, even as worry rages like a river in their bones. Madge focuses on mending the torn hem of someone’s dress, as there is no seamstress among them and it is too risky to venture out to try and find one. Her fingers move methodically and no one speaks, anxiety weighing down their tongues. Eyes stay stuck on the door, just waiting for it to open and even with the work; Madge cannot keep her mind from straying to her father.

You must be alright Father, you must be

Her mother is laid up in bed, trying to gather her strength and Madge is left in charge, everyone hovering around her as if expecting guidance. She has none to give, is in desperate need of some herself when the door opens without warning, not even a knock.

Everyone in the room is silent, holding their breath, all eyes on the figure before them and Madge feels a thick, syrupy hatred bubble in her veins. Standing in the doorway is a young man only as few years older than her, with dark hair and grey eyes that are almost blue. There is a white rose sewn onto his surcoat alongside a double headed eagle badge she does not recognize and finally, the time has come.

The Yorkists have sent for them.

“Thom Oakfield, Baron Lovell,” he says, bowing low and flourishing his cap. Everyone turns to her, waiting for her reaction and she knows she should be sweet and docile, attempt to curry favor with this messenger but her body trembles with rage at these victors come to claim their spoils and fear at what destiny awaits her. She straightens her shoulders and pricks her finger with her needle, uses the sharp pain to help steady herself.

“And what brings you here, Lord Lovell?” she asks, the words burning holes in her tongue. He straightens up; his eyes stuttering for a moment over the bruises Prince Cato’d left behind on her cheek.

“I bring word from her Majesty the Queen.”

There is pleasure and satisfaction in his voice as he says it and Madge feels her stomach tighten, acid climbing up her throat and filling her mouth.

“Katniss of York has been declared queen then?” she questions, even though she’s already sure of the answer. Sir Thom blinks at her, probably surprised that she is so forward, but all her good breeding seems to have evaporated.

“Yes,” he responds, uneasy under her stare, “Queen of England and Lord of Ireland.”

Madge bites her tongue and almost laughs, though not from mirth. Katniss of York is England’s first ever reigning queen and Madge should be able to join the throngs of cheering citizens, not locked up here seething with hatred.

(and she supposes ‘Lady of Ireland’ does not sound nearly imposing enough for all those stuffy men who make the rules)

She inhales and forces her tone to remain even.

“And what has she to say to us?”

“I am meant to deliver my message to the Duchess of Bedford,” he replies with a frown, squeezing the brim of his cap.

“She is ill, you will have to talk to me,” Madge tells him, voice hard like a command and he frowns deeper, entirely unsure what to do. He was most probably expecting a demure young lady who spoke softly and wouldn’t meet his eyes or question his words. Madge is too tired to be polite, feels weary in her bones. If Queen Katniss is to ruin her, Madge cannot find an interest in behaving. Sir Thom swallows.

“The Queen and her advisors request that you, your mother the duchess and your household remain within your chambers until such a time as she is ready to summon you and discuss your future.”

Madge shakes her head, a bitter flood welling inside of her.

“We are to be prisoners then.”

Sir Thom won’t meet her eyes.

“It is for your own protection, as there are those who would be glad to revenge themselves on Coriolanus’ family.”

Madge almost snorts at the lie, at the lack of ‘King’ before King Coriolanus’ name. Instead, she merely levels Sir Thom with her most unimpressed glare, wants him to know she is not fooled by the Queen’s paltry attempt to appear benevolent.

“Food and drink will be brought to you of course,” he hurries to continue, eyes focused slightly above her head.

“And a physician,” Madge states and Sir Thom does meet her eyes finally, startled she is making demands.

“My mother is ill; she will need a physician to attend her.”

“Oh, yes, ah, I shall inform her Majesty,” Sir Thom mumbles, looking off to her right. Madge nods and Sir Thom drops into a hasty bow.

“I shall return when the Queen is ready to see you,” he informs her and then turns quickly, clearly desperate to escape from her. Madge is glad to see the back of him.

“Wait! Lord Lovell, wait,” she calls suddenly, heart thudding. She was so distracted by anger she had almost forgotten the most important thing of all. Sir Thom turns back slowly with a grimace.

“Yes, my lady?”

Madge swallows, fear like ice against her skin.

“Is there any word of my father, the Duke of Bedford?”

She would curse the tremor in her voice but she is too terrified to even think and Sir Thom looks down, fiddling with his cap.

“I do not think it is my place,” he says and Madge feels the sudden urge to vomit.

“Please Lord Lovell, we have not heard from him in months, I beg you for any news you may have.”

Perhaps it is the tears in her eyes or the pleading in her voice but Sir Thom relents, an awkward empathy colouring his face.

“My apologies, my lady, but the Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton.”

The world seems to have fallen away from her, leaving her alone in a sea of black.

“You are certain?” she hears herself ask, as if from underwater. Sir Thom nods.

“There is no doubt, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, voice oddly flat. He watches her for a moment more and Madge is not sure she is breathing, not sure she is even alive. Sir Thom bows again, says something she does not hear and then he is gone and Madge is sinking, dark waves crashing over her head. Someone touches her shoulder and she is vaguely aware of wailing, of sobbing, of the sounds of heartbreak all around her but she is frozen, despair keeping her chained and far away.

“Please do not speak of this to my mother, I will tell her when she awakes.”

She does not wait for an answer but stands, her legs weak and trembling. Hands reach for her but she ignores them and stumbles to her own chamber, connected to this one by a heavy gilded door. She steps inside and shuts it firmly, closing herself off from everyone else. She rests against the door for a moment, feeling winded, Thom’s words echoing around inside her.

The Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton

She places a hand on the stone wall, her nails digging into it and her knees knock together, a pain unlike any she had ever imagined swelling inside of her.

Take care, my Madge.

And you, Father.

She clutches her stomach with her free hand and the sobs are wrenched out of her, great, heaving sobs that send her to her knees.

The Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton

She folds inwards, crumpling and she cannot breathe, is drowning in her own tears.

Papa papa papa you cannot be how can you no please please please papa no I can’t I no please no papa

Madge curls up on the floor, a puddle of suffering and heartbreak. Misery wracks her body and she clings to herself, a desperate wail building in lungs.

Papa!

Her father is dead

She will never forgive the Yorkists for this.

Madge has cried herself dry when she finally goes to her mother, her throat raw and her face red and swollen.

Her mother is sitting up in bed, her eyes sunken and ringed with purple. She has been growing worse every day and the thought that she could soon become an orphan steals the breath from Madge’s lungs. She sways and has to grab the door frame to keep from falling over, panic momentarily making her blind.

“Madge?” her mother questions, soft voice slicing through her haze of fear. She’s still here. I’m not alone, not yet.

“Katniss of York is queen,” she begins and her mother frowns, reaching out her hand. Madge takes it and allows her mother to pull her gently over to her bed. She sits down on the edge of it, words crowding up inside her.

“She sent a messenger, Thom, Baron Lovell, to tell us we are prisoners here, until the Queen sees fit to summon us.”

Her mother nods and uses her thumb to wipe at a stray tear dribbling down Madge’s cheek.

“You have had news of your father?”

Madge ducks her head, a flood building behind her eyes. She’d thought she had no tears left to cry, but they come again, enough to wash her out to sea.

“He is dead, Mama, dead. They killed him at Towton.”

Madge cannot continue, sobs strangling her voice and her mother pulls her close, hands stroking her hair.

“Oh Madge, oh my sweet Madge,” she coos and Madge sinks into her mother’s chest, soaking her bedclothes and sheets. Madge clings to her, squeezes her too tight but she cannot help herself, almost paralyzed by fear and devastation.

With her eyes closed, Madge can see her father; pale and frightened as he’d rode away that final time, the glare of his armor hurting her eyes. She can hear him saying her name; the syllables wrapped in a bitter wind and feel his fingertips on her cheek, colder than the fall air. She had wanted to stop him then and had thought it brave not to, but now she thinks it was foolish, foolish and weak and cowardly. Brave would have been to stand up to the King, courage would have been to beg her father not to go without caring what anyone would have thought of her.

Come back Father, please come back to us, she wants to wail, even though she knows he can’t. Come home!

(but they have no home, not anymore)

Madge does not sleep that night, though she pretends to.

To try and accommodate all the people now confined to their quarters, Madge gives up her bed and shares her mother’s instead. Her mother, who had not shed a tear as she held Madge, whose words had been soothing and whose hands had been steady, spends that night spiraling to pieces.

Madge lies on her side and doesn’t move while her mother bawls, the whole bed shuddering with her grief. Her mother had wanted to be strong for her, so Madge allows her as much privacy as she can while she mourns, her voice repeating Joseph Joseph Joseph until Madge feels as if the word has been carved into her skin. She cannot see her mother but can imagine her, huddled around her pillow and gasping for breath through her wracking sorrow.

They have lost the same man, though he meant very different things to both of them, but Madge doesn’t think that matters. Father or husband, he was the man they both loved best and his death has cut a ragged hole into their lives, one Madge doubts will ever be sewn entirely shut.

“Joseph, Joseph, do not leave me Joseph,” her mother begs and Madge digs her nails into her arm.

He hasn’t left us.

The Yorkists have stolen him from us.

(and they will pay for it)

In the weeks that follow, Madge starts to plan.

She needs to be ready for her meeting with the Queen, the fate of herself, her mother and their entire household riding on its outcome. She needs a strategy, needs to win over Queen Katniss. They are entirely at her mercy but Madge will not let her take anything else from them.

They have suffered enough.

Because the Duke of Bedford died a traitor, it is entirely possible that the Queen will have him attainted, and if that happens, everything that belonged to him, all his lands, wealth and titles will be forfeit to the crown. They are meant to pass on to Madge as his only child, but the Queen could take them all and leave her with nothing. Madge will have no legal right to argue for them and she cannot accept that, feels like her heart is bleeding just from the thought of his murderers rejoicing in his wealth. They could take her mother’s inheritance as well, that royal dukedom of Clarence and all its associated lands, castles and wealth. It had been passed down to Margaret from her father, Prince Henry, and though her mother had not fought against the Queen, Madge does not trust the Yorkists to let her keep what is rightfully hers.

Perhaps they will seek to argue that as her husband was acting as Duke of Clarence in her name, the dukedom should be forfeit along with his Bedford estates. Perhaps they will insist that she too is a traitor, for not renouncing her husband and uncle. Perhaps they will not justify it at all and merely seize it, desperate and greedy for all that land and money. If they do, Madge and her mother will be left destitute and starving. No home, no money, no anything at all. Worse, is that as King Coriolanus’ relatives, they have a claim to the throne, one that would be carried on with any children they had. The Yorkists can’t allow them to raise anymore Lancastrian claimants, so they might find themselves prisoners for the rest of their lives, locked away where they will never run the risk of falling with child.

They might even be executed, to ensure no one ever rises up in their names.

Madge knows her future is bleak, knows she is fighting an uphill battle, but she cannot surrender now. She will do everything within her power to keep herself afloat, to ensure the survival of the Bedford family.

Let the Yorkists have England, they will never have me.

She lays out the gowns she’d brought with her and there is little selection. She needs to look perfect, will need every advantage she can muster to go to battle with this victorious queen, but unfortunately, she has only three plus the one she arrived in, and four is rather pathetic number to choose from.

Her travelling dress is grey with faint white embroidery, rather plain and simple and Madge knows it will never do. She would look weak to come to them in something so unremarkable, so drab. She would look beaten and in need of sympathy. On the other hand, her grandest gown, purple and gold and dripping in precious jewels, would send the opposite message, would remind them of just how much a threat she could be. That is too dangerous, will make them more likely to strike out against her if she forces them to acknowledge just how much wealth she is set to inherit, just what kind of blood flows through her veins. She needs something in between, something that commands respect, as she is the daughter of a duke and descendant of kings, but still portrays her as sweet, innocent and non-threatening. She needs to walk the finest of all lines, needs them to dismiss her at the same time as they recognize her.

There is a pink gown with gold roses stitched across the fabric but it makes her look too young, too naïve. They will laugh at any demands she makes, will take everything from her without batting an eye. She turns to her final gown, her very last hope. It is emerald with gold brocade and dark green velvet cuffs and collar. It is lovely, but not overly so, looks like a fine lady’s gown but not one fit for a queen. She imagines paring it with a white girdle and plain white kirtle, to invoke purity and innocence. She will leave her hair free and unbound, to remind them of her youth, while she will wear any jewelry she has, to ensure they recall that she is the daughter of a duke and deserves more than to be pushed around.

Madge looks down at the dress and nods. It is not a perfect plan, but it is a start.

The Yorkists may have won the war, but I will win this battle

(I have to)

(She knows it is dangerous, foolish, stupid, but she does it anyway)

(she takes scrap pieces of linen, old rags, torn edges of dresses and attacks them savagely with her needle, covers them in red, red roses)

(it could cost her everything if the Yorkists found her out, might ruin her before she even gets the chance to plead her case)

(she can’t help it though, rebellion burning like an inferno in her stomach)

(stop she can imagine a hundred angry Yorkists voices demanding)

(make me she shouts back)

The Queen’s physician comes every other night to check on her mother and after three and a half weeks of waiting, Madge stops him as he goes to leave. She smiles as kindly as she can and presses several gold coins into his hand. She hadn’t brought many with her, but some things are worth paying for.

“I just wanted to thank you, for your service to my mother. I think she is much comforted.”

His fingers close around her money.

“It is my pleasure, my lady. Anything I can do to help.”

Madge nods and he turns to leave.

“I think she is much grieved by all this…not knowing. If we only we had some indication of when we would be summoned to see the Queen, I think it would greatly ease her mind,” she says to his back and he pauses, hand still warm around her money.

“I’m sure it would,” he murmurs in agreement and Madge smiles to herself as he leaves.

She won’t have the Yorkists catch her off guard, won’t have them summon her when she might not be properly dressed or prepared. They will arrive unannounced she is sure, but she will be ready for them. All she needs now is to plan out exactly what she’ll say.

Be wary Yorkists, I’m coming for you.

Madge spends a lot of time looking out windows.

Locked up as she is, with her only contact being servants with strict orders to remain tight lipped, windows are her only look into the outside world. She peers down at the Thames and the barges slowly sliding through the water, at the tiny people going about their daily lives. There is an ache in her chest, dull and throbbing when she looks at those people, happy and rejoicing in England’s new state. Madge craves their freedom and almost cries at the fact that so many would crave her life just as strongly.

She wonders if anyone down there ever looks up at Westminster and sees her face, pale and miserable, watching them from high windows. She imagines small children whispering of a ghost haunting the palace, all of them terrified and giggling. Tales of a young lady who died in some tragic circumstance, whose spirit lingers in drafty halls. She can’t help but wonder if that might be what the Yorkists want, to keep her here until she dies. Maybe, one day, she will be a ghost, still locked up in Westminster, a prisoner even in death.

Madge spends a lot of time trapped behind windows.

(nightmares come every time she closes her eyes, horrid, bloody dreams of death)

(always her father, butchered before her)

(and always, she can do nothing but watch)

Exactly eight days after she pressed her gold into his palm, the Queen’s physician whispers into Madge’s ear.

“Tomorrow.”

She smiles.

Her time has come.

That night when the servants come with supper, Madge stops them with a special request.

“I would very much enjoy a bath tomorrow morning,” she says, every ounce of her charm poured into her words. The servants exchange nervous glances.

“I am not...entirely sure if that will be possible, my lady,” one of them mumbles without meeting her eyes. Madge frowns in carefully rehearsed confusion.

“Why ever not? We are the Queen’s guests aren’t we? Does the Queen not want her guests to be comfortable? Or have I misunderstood?”

The silence crackles, the servants standing on unsteady ground and Madge knows she’s won.

“Of course, my lady,” one of the servants finally caves. “We shall have a tub and water brought for you tomorrow.”

Madge beams. “You are ever so kind. Do give the Queen my compliments.”

They nod and shuffle out, Madge’s smile falling away.

Getting a bath may have been simple, but let’s see how I do against the real test.

(Madge convinces herself she is brave, strong, unafraid)

(these Yorkists are villains, monsters and Madge will face them head on, demand what is hers and never back down)

(the truth is not quite so sterling)

(the truth is that Madge is young, scared and grasping at straws)

(Madge hides everything behind bravado and righteous anger, but she is terrified, so, so terrified)

(she is fifteen and has to fight for her life, claw her way out of a grave blood and politics have thrown her into)

(Madge is afraid, but she cannot admit it, not even to herself)

(anger is her shield, hatred her sword and she will fight, because really, what other choice does she have?)

She wakes early and lays out the clothes and jewels she will wear to see the Queen. She smoothes out every crease, shines every gem and assures herself that there are no rips or tears.

Everything must be perfect.

She is ready when the servants carry in the wooden tub, lined with a sheet to keep her safe from splinters. They pour in buckets and buckets of water and Madge climbs in, gritting her teeth from the chill.

(perhaps she should have specified wanting a warm bath)

She scrubs herself clean from toes to hair, needs to shine when she makes her appearance before the new court. She dries herself carefully, but not roughly, when she’s done and dabs rosewater on her skin. Her mother’s ladies help her dress and they comb her hair until it is smooth and soft, bright gold and gleaming. She tucks sweet smelling flowers into her bodice and thinks about trying to cover up the fading bruises on her cheek, but decides against it. Let them see that the Lancastrians have caused her suffering as well.

Dressed and ready, Madge settles herself in a chair and turns to her embroidery, cultivates the appearance of this being any other day. She engages in idle chit chat with the ladies, behaves as she does every other day and that is how Sir Thom finds her when he accompanies the servants who bring their food.

“Lord Lovell,” she greets pleasantly and he stops, blinking in confusion. She sets down her embroidery and bows her head to him while he continues to look flustered, his eyes skittering once again over the yellow remains of Prince Cato’s angry parting gift.

“Lady Madge,” he finally manages, ducking into a hasty bow, “the Queen is ready for you.”

Madge smiles and Sir Thom looks her over, surprise washing over his face.

“Wonderful, I have so been looking forward to meeting Her Majesty,” she says cheerfully and stands, placing her embroidery on a table. Sir Thom seems off put by her change of attitude since their last meeting and hesitates by the door.

“Yes…yes she is very glad to see you too, I am sure.”

Madge smiles as kindly as she can and waits. Sir Thom starts and offers her his arm.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he fumbles and Madge curtsies slightly and takes his arm. He leads her from the room and down the long halls and someone has taken the time to bring back some of Westminster’s old luster. The floors have been swept and fresh rushes set down, the windows dusted and the braziers shined. New banners hang on the walls, blazoned with white roses and elegant cats. Madge supposes they must be Katniss’ badges, replacing King Coriolanus’ wolves and red roses.

Sir Thom doesn’t speak on their way down and Madge is glad, uses the silence to gather her thoughts. I must be pleasant, polite, respectful. Demure and conciliatory and firm. Do not let them walk all over me, do not let them condemn me for sins I have not committed and steal everything I have. They have no right to my inheritance. I must fight for my life, for Mother’s, for everyone we’ve brought with us.

Sir Thom releases her and hurries to inform a herald of her approach. She waits outside the great doors to the hall and banishes memories of other royal audiences. This is a different monarch, a Yorkist monarch. The doors finally open and Madge squares her shoulders. This is it. She lifts the hem of her skirt and walks inside, as graceful as she can manage with shaking legs. Make them love me; make them see me as no threat at all. There are guards lining the hall, all dressed in green and wearing fine white rose livery badges. At the far end is a gilded wooden throne, the one King Coriolanus always sat upon as he observed whoever was unfortunate enough to find themselves in his company. His great banner is gone, the wall a slightly different shade than the rest of the room.

Madge looks first to the men standing on either side of the throne and feels her heart harden. On the Queen’s right is a man about her mother’s age, dressed in old velvet and weighed down with chains of office. His hair is nearly black and hangs down around his haggard face, the cheeks and chin rough and unshaved. He has brown skin and bloodshot eyes the colour of grey stone, his shoulders hunched. On first glance she would call him scraggly and ill kept, but she can see shrewd calculation in his eyes, a reminder that he has made a queen of his young cousin, that he is no fool, regardless of the rumors of his drunken behavior. Many would discount him on appearance alone but Madge is no simpleton. Haymitch of Warwick is her enemy, she will not forget it.

Her eyes skip over Queen Katniss to the boy on her left, tension in every muscle of his body. He’s the kind of boy many would swoon at, tall, broad shouldered and well built with a strong jaw and rich dark hair. His eyes are bright silver, make her imagine full moons at midnight and she’d guess he was somewhere around seventeen. He has all the looks of a knight errant of troubadour songs but Madge is not moved. Just like with Prince Cato, she finds herself unable to appreciate his charms, cannot find him handsome. Those pretty eyes are narrowed with accusation, his jaw clenched tight. Gale of Salisbury, that loyal champion of the Yorkist cause, despises her, could not hide it if he tried. No matter what Madge says, she knows she has no hope of swaying his opinion. His counsel to the Queen is obvious. Gale of Salisbury would deprive her of everything.

Let him hate me, for the feeling will always be mutual.

Finally, she looks to Katniss, Queen of England. She is just eighteen and has Haymitch’s grey eyes and Gale’s dark hair, twisted up in complicated plaits. There is a crown on her head, gold and bejeweled, but nowhere near as grand as Madge has seen King Coriolanus wear. Her skin sparkles with gold dust and her dress is stiff and made of beautiful silver tissue, diamonds gleaming from the fabric. She is garbed as the most magnificent of queens, but she shifts uncomfortably on her throne, as if she has sat on something sharp. Her back is a little too straight, her eyes somewhat overbright. Madge wonders if that is some ploy, carefully orchestrated to win over the masses. King Coriolanus loved being King far too much, so now his successor will appear as if she detests it.

Madge would not put anything past these Yorkists.

She curtsies low before the Queen and awaits a command to rise, smoothing out her expression as best she can. She cannot let them see how she truly feels, she must be locked up tight as a coffer of jewels.

“You may rise,” Queen Katniss tells her and her voice is lifeless, as if she too is keeping all her emotions bound tight and away. Madge stands but keeps her eyes respectfully downcast.

“It is the greatest honour to be in your presence, your Majesty,” she says and there is an angry snort from Gale’s vicinity. Madge does not favor him with a reaction.

“We apologize for keeping you waiting, Lady Madge.”

“You have no need for apologies, your Grace, for I am far below the notice of one with such great matters of state to occupy their mind.”

Gale scoffs and Madge bites down on her tongue

“We have given much thought to your situation,” the Queen begins and Madge bows her head.

“I am more than grateful, my Queen.”

There is a pause and Madge wonders if they had expected hostility from her and are left unsure when confronted with her manners. She catches the hint of a whisper, advice perhaps, from a counselor to their Queen?

“Your father died a traitor, opposing his rightful Queen,” Katniss pronounces and Madge chances a look upwards, sees them all eager for her reaction. Haymitch raises his chin with interest, cold eyes focused on her intently and Gale leans forward, clearly waiting for theatrics. The Queen is distant but even in her, Madge can see a question, a wondering of how she will react.

Curse you all

Madge can feel her heart constrict, can feel tears burn in her eyes. The mere mention of her father makes her want to weep and this slander, as if he was some common criminal makes her furious, her tongue clamped between her teeth to keep it silent. She knows what they want, knows what they are waiting for, but Madge will not cry before her conquerors.

“I am most terribly grieved that we found ourselves on opposing sides, your Majesty, but as my father he commanded my loyalties,” she says, each word sliding up her throat like jagged glass. There is another pause, more whispering and Madge feels tension tickle her spine.

“And what did you think of Coriolanus?” the Queen asks, all ears open for Madge’s answer. She almost laughs. Do they really think she would be unable to denounce him? Nothing in her life has ever been easier.

“I hated him. He was a monster, cruel and horrid.”

“You are not sorry that we sit on this throne instead?”

Madge wonders if she is imagining the hint of vulnerability she hears in Katniss’ voice, the tremor that speaks of a young woman not quite comfortable in her new role.

“Not at all, your Majesty. I can think of no greater cause for rejoicing.”

The silence that follows is much too long and makes Madge’s skin itch. She would bet it is intentional, meant to put her on edge and she forces herself to remain calm. She will not bend to their game.

“Many would say we should have your father attainted.”

Madge swallows, her greatest challenge unfolding before her.

“I am sure they would, your Grace.”

“Do you agree?”

She chances another peek and easily ignores the daggers sent her way by Gale’s star bright eyes. She focuses instead on Haymitch, clearly trying to gain her measure. Madge will not disappoint, this she promises.

“I would plead most ardently that you find mercy for a daughter whose only crime was to love her father. I cannot deny that I prayed for his victory, but it was no slight against your Majesty or your cause and I am most grateful that you have freed England from Coriolanus’ wicked grasp. I beg that in your wisdom, you will find pity for a girl whose fault was to obey her father and pray he would return to her.”

Madge allows a break in her voice and knows she has taken a gamble here. She has staked everything on the hope that Katniss did not seek to overthrow the King out of ambition, but out of love for a father struck down in his conquest for the crown. Madge has thrown the dice on this hope and now she prays the Queen will find empathy for someone who has also lost a beloved father. There is a low murmur from Haymitch, a furious hiss from Gale and Madge waits, prays she has judged right about Katniss and her father.

“I think I can find it in me to be merciful,” Queen Katniss whispers, a catch in her voice. Madge feels a flare of triumph, takes note of the lack of royal ‘we’. There is a flurry of whispering then and Madge wonders if she has changed their minds, swayed them from their previous decision. Please Lord, let me prevail in this.

The whispering turns argumentative, rising slightly in pitch and Madge can just make out Gale spitting out the word traitor. Madge keeps her back straight and someone hushes him, Haymitch’s voice a calm murmur. What are you planning? Madge thinks, wishes she could look up and study their faces. Finally, the whispering grinds to a halt, even Gale mumbling assent to whatever it is they’ve decided.

“We are prepared to allow you and your mother both to keep your inheritances,” the Queen begins and Madge would shout for joy, except she knows there must be more, a caveat to accompany so generous a sentence.

“My most gracious thanks, your Majesty.”

“Indeed, but there are conditions to this mercy.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Your mother, Lady Margaret, will marry our cousin, Lord Haymitch, Earl of Warwick.”

Madge feels shock stab through her like a lance. Her mouth drops open and she cannot help but look up, hot fury burning in her blood. Gale of Salisbury smirks, eyes bright and scalding, Haymitch of Warwick raises an eyebrow and the Queen purses her lips, uncomfortable but firm.

How dare they, Madge rages, how dare they how dare they how dare they

“You will be placed in his guardianship and he will retain full control of your inheritance until you marry,” the Queen continues and Madge wishes she could strike them all down, cut them to pieces by her own hand. They will sell her mother to Haymitch, his reward for loyal service to the crown. He will be richer than he could dream, gifted with a royal dukedom and a wife of royal blood. All that wealth and her mother’s claim will be kept safe in his hands and have they no heart? Her mother is a widow of only weeks and already they would marry her off for their own advantage. And Madge herself will also bolster Haymitch’s standing, all her wealth flowing into his coffers until she marries, if she ever marries. And if she does, it will be to some other Yorkist noble, one who can be trusted and has earned himself a great reward.

Madge could spit at them, but that she imagines, is what they want. They want her anger and though it is nearly impossible, she will not give it to them. Mark my words Yorkists, this is not over.

“A most generous offer, my Queen, but I will have to bring it before my lady mother.”

Her voice is taut with fury but she holds herself together, even as she strains to scream and shout.

“Of course. Lord Lovell will escort you back to your chambers. We will await your mother’s answer.”

Madge curtsies as low as she can and forces herself to remain composed. They will get no satisfaction from her. She takes Sir Thom’s offered arm and leaves, her dignity held together by strings.

They won’t get away with this. I won’t let them.

Madge enters their chambers in a tizzy of fury, her mind swimming with hatred.

You shall pay for this Yorkists, I swear you’ll pay

Their household watches her with nervous eyes and she knows she should try and reassure them, but her mouth is pooling with venom, kind words drowning. She strides to her mother’s door instead, slamming it behind her with far more force than necessary. Greedy, heartless scum!

“What happened?”

Madge startles and her mother is awake, propped up on pillows. Her skin is a waxy yellow, stretched over jutting bones and Madge feels her stomach sink. There is a tray of untouched food beside her and a smell of illness and rot lingering in the room. Madge walks over to the tray and picks up a spoonful of broth.

“You must eat,” she murmurs and her mother shakes her head, takes Madge’s hand with her own fragile one. Madge looks down at it and wonders what she is meant to say, how she can tell her mother of her fate.

“Tell me what happened, Madge.”

There is a strange strength in her mother’s voice, a steel rarely used and Madge knows she cannot protect her from everything.

“They will allow us to keep our inheritance, if you marry the Queen’s widower cousin, Haymitch of Warwick.”

Madge had not meant to sound so bitter, but it wells up inside her, poisons each of her words.

“I’ll do it,” her mother agrees immediately and Madge pulls away as if she’s been burned.

“What?”

“I’ll marry him.”

Madge shakes her head in disbelief. Is this a nightmare? Is she hallucinating?

“How can you-you cannot-I don’t even-why?”

Her mother looks at her with pity in her eyes and Madge bristles.

“We have no choice, my love.”

“They will take my inheritance too,” Madge hurls at her, words biting, “allow Haymitch to keep it until I marry, but I doubt he’ll allow me to! I’m sure he’ll pack me off to a convent so he can have it all himself!”

She is breathing too hard and her mother reaches for her but Madge pulls away, light headed and hysterical.

“How can you so easily agree to marry the enemy? A man who helped send your husband to his grave? Do you not care at all for the man you are prepared to abandon?”

Madge regrets it the instant it leaves her lips and her mother’s expression turns stormy and grave.

“I am doing this for you and only for you. If we do not agree to their terms, the best we can hope for is a life of imprisonment. If I had only myself to think of, I would gladly take it, would rather lose my freedom than betray your father’s memory. I am your mother Madge, and this is how I can keep you safe. If I marry Lord Haymitch, you will have your inheritance, you will not be branded a traitor’s daughter. We will be safe, protected by the Queen’s closest advisor. If we can woo him, charm him, you can live a comfortable life and perhaps even chose your own husband. This is our one chance Madge and if you care so much for your father, think about what he would want. Would he want us to honour him by throwing away our lives?”

Madge is a volatile mix of repentance and frustration, everything inside of her spinning and twirling in chaos.

“No,” she admits and her mother nods, anger draining out of her. She reaches again for Madge’s hand and this time, she allows her to take it.

“I know this isn’t ideal, sweetheart, but this is our only chance. Your father would understand. All we both want, have ever wanted, is for you to have a long, happy life.”

Madge does not say anything, isn’t sure she could.

How can I ever be happy here, trapped in this Yorkist prison?

(and she doesn’t mean Westminster)

(she means England, all of England)

When the servants bring supper, Madge looks at them coldly.

“I will need more water for the tub,” she commands and there is no gentleness in her now. They do not dare refuse.

Madge watches them leave, hands knotted tightly in her lap. She and her mother will both look their best when Sir Thom comes to fetch their answer.

She helps her mother bathe the next morning and she is so thin, so painfully, horrifically thin Madge cannot believe she is even real. She is brittle skin over frail bones and Madge is certain even a stiff wind would shatter her. They dress her in her very best gown, silver and gold and shimmery with gemstones. They bind her hair underneath a great tall hennin, delicately embroidered lace veils hanging about her face from wire frames. She wears all her jewels and Madge too puts on her grandest attire, that rich purple houppelande she’d rejected when she’d gone to meet the Queen. But now she chooses it, drapes herself in jewels and finery.

Yesterday she had wanted them to underestimate her. Today she is making a statement.

Sir Thom does not come with the servants that bring their first meal of the day and her mother forces herself to eat, brings a little colour back into her cheeks. Madge finds her own appetite somewhat lacking. She understands her mother’s reasons, knows they must focus on surviving in this new England, but still, Madge is livid as she has never been. When Sir Thom does arrive, she cannot contain her look of utter fury and he actually stumbles back a step when he looks at her.

(every time he sees her she is someone new)

(he’s starting to be concerned)

Her mother is far more composed, inclining her head in Sir Thom’s direction.

“Good day sir, have you come for my answer?’

He nods, wary eyes still on Madge.

“Yes, my lady. The Queen is eager to hear it.”

“And I will be happy to enlighten her.”

Sir Thom whirls around to look at her mother, face stricken. He fidgets uncomfortably.

“Her Majesty had hoped I would deliver it,” he says and her mother narrows her eyes.

“On a matter of such importance as this, would it not be more prudent for me to tell her myself? I would hate for anything to go awry in delivery and jeopardize the future of my daughter and I. I would feel far more secure were I to speak the words to her myself.”

Sir Thom frowns and looks around helplessly. When no aid is forthcoming, he nods, shoulders slumping. He holds out his arm.

“As you wish, my lady, Allow me to escort you.”

Her mother stands and there is one moment when she sways unsteadily, Thom and Madge both watching her with concerned eyes. Margaret recovers and takes Thom’s offered arm, Madge trailing after them as they head out into the hall. There are various people milling about and they all stare as their little group passes, wide eyes taking in the splendor of their attire. Look your fill, Madge thinks venomously, observe what remains of the once great House of Lancaster.

They are led to the Queen’s audience chamber and Madge ignores the tightening in all her limbs. Sir Thom informs a herald of their arrival and they wait to be announced, a sour taste pooling beneath Madge’s tongue. I hate you. I hate you all.

The doors swing open and they make their entrance, Madge trying and failing to school her features into an impassive mask. Unlike last time, the hall is filled up with all sorts of people. They’ve clearly interrupted some kind of gathering. The Queen looks stiff in an emerald green gown, her fingers drumming on the arm of her throne. Gale of Salisbury hovers beside her, still bent over as if he’d been in the process of whispering in her ear. He notices them and straightens with a scowl.

“Lady Margaret, Lady Madge,” a gruff voice greets them and Madge looks over to see Lord Haymitch emerging from the crowd. She and her mother drop into curtsies, the whole room hushing.

“Stand, please,” Katniss says, sounding weary. They do so, eyes still downturned. Madge knots her fingers in her gown, smoke and fire crowding in her lungs.

“Have you come to give me your answer?” the Queen continues, a barely discernible strain colouring her voice.

“Indeed I have, your Majesty. I most graciously accept your generous offer. It would be an honour to marry Lord Haymitch.”

Madge feels like a spike has been driven straight through her heart. Forgive us Father.

“A toast for this most momentous occasion!” Lord Haymitch calls, clapping his hands. Severs hurry into the hall with goblets and jugs of wine, passing them around as quickly as they can. Madge takes hers with tense fingers.

“To my betrothed, the illustrious Lady Margaret!” Lord Haymitch says, lifting his glass.

“Lady Margaret!” the room calls and everyone takes a deep gulp of wine. Madge can feel it burning all the way down her throat. The hall is filled with smiling faces but Madge barely registers any of them. Only three bear any importance and they brand themselves into her memory.

Lord Haymitch is all bland pleasantry, but his eyes are cool as he observes her and her mother over the rim of his cup. Queen Katniss does not smile, looks somewhat morose, teeth biting into her lip. Gale of Salisbury does not even bother to drink, just stands there with a frown. Madge meets each of their eyes in turn.

This is not over.

This is only just beginning.

After the toast, Lord Haymitch decides to introduce them to his family.

He leads her mother around by the arm and Madge follows behind, her mouth twisted up in her best charade of happiness.

“My son Marvel, Earl of Northumberland,” Haymitch introduces and Madge takes a look at her future step-brother. He is quite tall, his hair a muddy brown and his eyes a glittering, vibrant green. He is somewhat skinny, dressed in lavish splendor and there is a fierceness in his grin that makes her skin twitch. He bends over and kisses her mother’s hand, his eyes bright like the emeralds sewn into his doublet.

“A great honour, my lady,” he greets and releases her mother’s hand, gaze swinging over to Madge. She curtsies.

“And my new sister! It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, my lord.”

He smiles again, satisfied and glowing. Madge hopes her answering one is at least somewhat sincere. Haymitch goes to lead her mother to the next relative and Marvel extends his arm to Madge. She takes it and he wraps his fingers around her hand, guiding her somewhat forcefully, as if he doesn’t trust her to follow. His grip is slightly uncomfortable but Madge doesn’t squirm, knows appearance is everything. They stop before an imposing woman in an elaborate butterfly hennin and a black fur lined gown and she is pale with icy blue eyes, though there is something about her face that reminds Madge of Katniss.

“My lady aunt, Elizabeth, Duchess of York,” Haymitch says and of course, this is the Queen’s mother. She looks to be about Haymitch’s age, the only lines on her face in the corners of her mouth. She does not smile as they curtsy, her own head dipping just slightly in acknowledgement.

(clearly, she is no friend of theirs)

“And of course, my cousin, the Queen’s sister, Lady Primrose.”

Hovering at the Duchess’ shoulder is a girl perhaps a year younger than Madge, blue eyes bright with excitement. They exchange curtsies and Madge is so tired of this, wishes she could just go up to the front of the room and do one blanket curtsy to cover the rest of the day. Lady Primrose looks more like her mother than her sister, with pale eyes and hair. She rocks on her heels, face awash with wonder and Madge feels the anger in her soften just a bit.

“Lady Margaret, it has been far too long,” comes a voice to their left and Madge turns to see a woman a few years older than Haymitch coming towards them. He smiles.

“My aunt, Lady Hazelle, Dowager Countess of Salisbury.”

Gale’s mother.

She has a kindly face, her son’s silvery eyes and a smile that could put anyone at ease.

(well, anyone but Madge)

“Indeed it has, Lady Salisbury,” her mother returns and Hazelle gestures for the two young boys behind her to step forward.

“My younger sons, Rory and Vick,” she introduces and Vick is perhaps ten, hiding shyly behind his mother’s skirts. Rory might be twelve and bows somewhat disinterestedly in their direction. Hazelle clears her throat and Rory barely hides a grimace.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says stiffly, gingerly takes Madge’s hand and barely kisses it. He drops it quickly and Primrose giggles, Rory shooting her a scowl. Madge would normally be offended, but she gets the impression this display has less to do with her and more to do with his twelve year old feelings towards girls in general. Hazelle sends Rory a stern look he determinedly ignores and Madge feels a loosening of her knot of tension. Whatever crimes the Yorkists have committed, these children share none of the blame.

“You have a daughter as well, if I remember right,” her mother comments and Hazelle nods.

“Yes, my Posy. We thought her too young to attend today, she is but five.”

Her mother and Hazelle slide into discussion and Madge notices someone else approaching them from the corner of her eye. It is Gale, the eldest of the Salisbury children and Marvel squeezes her arm tightly.

“Be wary of my dear cousin, he has been somewhat cross ever since his father’s death,” he murmurs in her ear, a thread of almost laughter caught in his words. Madge thinks that might be an understatement.

(funny, isn’t it? that they have suffered much the same and yet he can find no sympathy for her?)

Gale stops before them, his expression one of barely concealed displeasure. She curtsies and he bows stiffly, eyes simmering with loathing.

“Lady Madge,” he greets, her name sounding like a curse. He does not try and kiss her hand.

“Lord Salisbury,” Madge returns, as sweetly as she’s able. She smiles softly, eyes demurely turned away and he frowns, teeth clamped together in his bristling hatred.

Let him, she thinks viciously, let him be rude and cruel and mean, let him make a spectacle of himself in his rage, let him look the disrespectful fool. She will be kind and charming, docile and polite. She cannot spit in his face or claw out his eyes, so she will defeat him with the manners her mother has spent years teaching her to hone.

“I saw your banner,” he reports, venom wrapping around each of his words. Madge allows her smile to grow.

“I stitched it myself,” she says and he snorts, “What did you think of it?”

His eyes blaze then and if Madge wasn’t boiling over with her own hatred, she thinks she might wilt under the potent anger so clearly visible in him.

“I had it burned.”

Madge feels a stab of pain in her heart as she imagines it, that banner she had slaved over to welcome her father home smoldering into ashes. Lady Hazelle gasps.

“Gale,” she reprimands, voice outraged. Gale turns away from his mother’s disapproval and Madge feels a spark of victory ignite in her gut. He turns back and won’t meet her eyes, muscles tense.

“I am sorry, Lady Madge, that was rude of me.”

She smiles.

“It’s alright, I forgive you.”

He meets her eyes and she wonders if he can read the triumph in her expression.

You may have deposed a king, Gale of Salisbury, but you shall never defeat me.

Her mother returns to bed but Madge lingers, hostile eyes stuck to Lord Haymitch. Marvel chatters beside her but she is only half listening, thoughts consumed by this man who will marry her mother.

“Earl of Northumberland comes from my mother’s side of the family,” he tells her and she nods absently. “My grandfather, Henry Percy, had no sons, so the title and estate would have passed to my mother, and thus my father would have held it in her name. But she died years ago, so now that my grandfather has died, it’s mine.”

“Hmm,” she comments and he nods.

“The Percys of Northumberland have long been the most powerful magnates in the north and I have inherited it all. In fact, the Queen has even named me Warden of the North. And when my father dies, I shall inherit everything from him, making me one of the richest men in all of England.”

“Oh my.”

“Yes, it is quite impressive,” he agrees and then his eyes smooth over her, making her skin prickle.

“But you too are set to be very rich, aren’t you my sweet sister?”

“I suppose,” she replies, hates that it comes out breathy instead of steady.

“All that Bedford wealth, not to mention you will receive your mother’s royal dukedom of Clarence unless she bears my father a son.”

Thankfully, there is little chance of that.

“Yes,” he says, nodding thoughtfully, “whoever is so fortunate as to marry you will eclipse all the other noblemen in England. You are easily the richest heiress in the kingdom, I suspect there will be quite a war over your hand.”

Madge doesn’t answer, feels distinctly uncomfortable. And then, by some unimaginable twist of fate, Gale of Salisbury comes to her rescue.

“Marvel! Come here a minute, will you?” he calls from his permanent position by the Queen’s side. There is a strangely unreadable expression on his face and she is thankful for whatever it is he wishes to discuss with Marvel.

“Forgive me, but duty calls,” Marvel tells her, voice flavored with self-importance. Madge manages a smile.

“Of course,” she agrees and he kisses her hand, lips lingering against her skin. She watches him go and her eyes meet Gale’s across the room, his expression still impossible to read. She lifts her skirts and dips her head like a puppet on strings and Gale turns away quickly, focusing back on Katniss. Madge turns away as well, eyes finding Haymitch making his way out of the hall. Her stomach tightens and she shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, but she follows after him anyway. Her footsteps echo in the empty hallway and he stops, turning to face her.

“Lady Madge,” he acknowledges, voice courteous

“You are going to marry my mother,” she says without preamble and he is tactful enough to ignore the accusation in her words.

“Yes. It is a good marriage,” he says, sounds as if he’s repeated it a hundred times before. “It will do us both well.”

Madge knows she shouldn’t say a word, should leave it be but she cannot, hate like a disease rooting around inside her.

“My mother cannot have children,” she tells him boldly, stepping wildly out of line.

Haymitch blinks at her in surprise but Madge does not back down, her fingers tightening in the folds of her dress.

“I have heard rumors of that,” he says eventually, shrewd eyes raking over her. Madge bristles.

“I already have a son and heir, I need no others,” he continues and Madge feels a little twinge of relief. It fades though as Haymitch does not stop observing her, narrowed gaze taking her in.

“Am I not to your liking, sir?” she asks, anger leaking into her voice. His eyebrows rise and he could beat her for her insolence, but she is beginning to think she doesn’t care.

“It is good of you, to look after your mother,” he says finally and Madge feels something hot licking her insides.

“Someone has to,” she replies coldly and he nods slowly. He looks at her again and his silence is too heavy, makes her feel like invisible hands are pushing her down. He nods again.

“Your father was a good man,” he admits and Madge feels like he’s cleaved her open and plucked her heart from her chest.

“I know,” she whispers, tears stinging her eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees, “I suppose you do.” He looks away from her then, eyes focused somewhere far away.

“I know what it’s like to lose a spouse you love,” he murmurs, voice so quiet Madge has to strain to hear it. He clears his throat.

“On my honour I swear no harm will come to you or your mother.”

Madge looks at this man, an enemy who helped steal her father away from her and cannot believe him.

How could she, when all the world has ever given her, is harm?

Promises, Madge decides that night in bed, are made to be broken.

No longer prisoners but soon to be in-laws of the Queen, they are shepherded into brand new chambers with a suite each for Madge and her mother. The rooms are sumptuous, carefully made up for luxurious comfort. Madge supposes she is meant to be grateful, but she isn’t, can’t muster anything but a steady burn of anger. The room smells of fresh paint and Madge can see where they’ve covered up the red roses, crowned wolves and portraits of King Coriolanus on the walls and ceilings. She wonders if they mean to erase him from memory, to blot him out of history forever.

She unpacks her meager belongings and bites down on the question hovering on the tip of her tongue. Gale burnt my banner, but what of Bedford Castle? Does anything remain? Have you left me anything or destroyed it all?

(if she were a gambler, she would bet on the latter)

Of course, even Yorkist generosity comes at a price. Though they have been given new lodgings and the freedom to move about Westminster, everyone they’d brought with them, from Sir Thomas, Sir George and Sir Richard to her mother’s ladies, are to be dismissed. They are to pack their things and go, to be replaced by people of Lord Haymitch’s choosing. Her mother will of course be allowed to provide them with references, but they cannot stay.

Lord Haymitch rattles off some drivel about unity and fresh starts but Madge is no fool. They are adrift in a sea of enemies and their jailers are not about to allow them any allies. They cannot be allowed any chance of rebellion, of attempting to promote Lancastrian causes. They will be surrounded by people loyal to York, every single one carefully selected to suppress any Lancastrian sympathy.

(Madge had not thought it possible to hate the Yorkists anymore than she already did)

(she was wrong)

Madge sobs with frustration into her pillow at night but every morning she is cheerful and pleasant, knows she cannot allow even a hint of weakness. She is still a prisoner, this time in a gilded cage, locked up just as tight as she was before.

Woo them, charm them her mother had said.

I will, she vows, I will make them love me until it destroys them

As it turns out, her mother’s new ladies are at least useful in that they know much of what has been going around at court and are more than happy to gossip all the details to Madge.

The Queen has apparently been busy rewarding her supporters, her two cousins chief among them. Lord Haymitch has been named Captain of Calais (the Crown’s last territory in France) as well as Lord High Admiral. He has been made Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, whose wealth used to belong to King Coriolanus, not to mention he has been gifted lands and income once belonging to noble men who have now been attainted. Gale of Salisbury has been named Lord High Constable of England, put in charge of the realm’s safety and defense from threats within and without. He too has been made rich off other men’s lands, their wealth flowing into his coffers. He has also been made a Knight of the Garter, the most prestigious order in the kingdom. Lord Haymitch had already been invested as one by King Coriolanus, otherwise, Madge is sure he too would have been promoted.

Marvel, Earl of Northumberland, has likewise been rewarded, as a Knight of the Garter and recipient of lands and castles that should not belong to him. William Herbert has been made Earl of Pembroke, the title stolen from Boggs, half brother to the deposed King. He, like the rest of the royal family, is exiled to Scotland, though the Queen’s agents are furious in negotiations with the Scottish Queen Regent to have them returned. They are not alone, plenty of loyal Lancastrians having followed them to exile, including the once Duke of Somerset, Brutus, and the no-longer-Earls John of Oxford and Finnick of Richmond.

(though she wonders if they are all truly loyal to the cause, or bound by other reasons, much like Madge herself)

(and what of Anne? With her father in exile, what has become of her?)

Plenty of others have been rewarded and punished in turn, the lines of enmity in England running deep. The country is not healing from its vicious war, instead it seems to be tearing further apart. Lancastrians in Scotland bray for blood and Yorkists grow fat off their spoils, desperate to crush any remaining resistance.

The war may have been won, but it is far from done.

The wedding won’t be happening for some time yet, as her mother and Haymitch are third cousins and will require a dispensation from the Pope. In the meantime, Madge is now free to go wherever she likes in Westminster, though she cannot leave the palace grounds. Haymitch says something about safety, but Madge doesn’t listen, is well aware that it’s all lies. She can’t go out alone either, must always be accompanied by one of her mother’s new ladies. A Yorkist spy, in other words. Madge should care, but really, she’s just thrilled to be able to move around, not kept penned inside her chambers.

She spends most of her days wandering through the halls and grounds, finally breathes in fresh air after over a month in captivity. Madge rarely encounters anyone high up in the Yorkist hierarchy during her outings, they are far too busy in constant conference with Her Majesty. This suits Madge just fine, lets her feel a bit freer even though she knows she isn’t. She tries to guess what it is they’re all discussing all day, every day and whatever it is, she probably wouldn’t like it. It could be things entirely benign, but her imagination is wild, can think only of blood and punishment.

She keeps her ears open as she walks, eager for any whisper, rumor or shred of news. Royal Palaces have always been havens of gossip and Madge listens to it all, desperate for something, though she’s not sure exactly what. A weakness she can use? Knowledge of what’s in store for England? Insight into these people she has sworn to charm? Regardless, she lets each of their words tickle her ears and sink into her brain, kept safe for when they might be useful.

She’s not sure what she’s waiting for, but when it comes, she’ll be ready.

Her soon-to-be-step-father commissions new gowns for both of them and Madge cannot help but wonder whose money is paying for them. His? Or hers, kept safe with him?

“Be gracious in your thanks,” her mother whispers and Madge smiles with all her charm as she stands for fittings.

“They’re coming along nicely,” Lord Haymitch comments and Madge beams in gratitude.

“I am ever so thankful for them,” she tells him and his eyes narrow. She does not think he believes her but he merely nods and leaves. She watches him go and it may not be as easy to woo him as mother had hoped.

It doesn’t matter. Madge will find a way.

(she has to)

Madge spends many a moment enjoying Westminster’s gardens, even if they are somewhat lacking. They’re overgrown, flowers buried beneath green vines and moss, but she understands. King Coriolanus clearly had more important things to focus on than his gardens when he’d last been in London and the Yorkists have been far too busy taking up the reins of government to focus much on weeding.

Still, it is possible to see its former beauty, pretty colours peeking out between the yellow-green of weeds, flowers that once took center stage. She bends down to try and free some violets from the choking overgrowth and looks up at the sound of voices. She freezes, still crouched down, at the sight of Gale, gesturing and pointing. He’s looking around, eyes narrowed and a clerk follows behind him taking notes. Madge squeezes a vine between her fingers and Gale and his clerk are almost out of sight, but then he stops abruptly, staring down at a wild bush of red roses. He frowns deeply, disgust in his eyes and Madge supposes red roses make him just as sick as white roses do her. Her fingers slip, a thorn drawing blood and she gasps. Gale looks over suddenly, his gaze meeting hers.

His eyes are hot, his face stern and Madge knows she should smile, attempt to look friendly, but all she can do is stare, judgment bubbling all over her face. He holds her eyes for a long moment and then marches off, the bush left undisturbed. Madge glares at his back until he is out of sight and then looks down at her stinging fingers.

The blood has stained her gown, turning the gold roses red.

How appropriate.

There is an air of festivity in London, everyone filled to the brim with excitement for Queen Katniss’ coronation.

Madge, unsurprisingly, does not share their enthusiasm. She behaves herself though, smiles and feigns interest in every plan and detail. She discusses gowns and hairstyles with various ladies but her eyes follow Gale of Salisbury as he skulks about the palace, always right in the thick of every preparation. Whispers chase after him as he goes, rumors snapping at his heels. Hushed voices say he is ambitious, cold, cruel. Others that he is the most valiant of knights, loyal and brave and true. They talk of his heroic acts in the war, how he fought with courage, commanded troops with devastating skill, risked his life to see Katniss triumph. They murmur of how he showed his enemies no mercy, how his skin drips with the blood of Lancaster. Some say he is using Katniss for advancement, others that he loves her with all his heart.

(some even go so far as to say they are already lovers)

Truth and fiction blend to create the contradictory picture of Lord Gale, Earl of Salisbury, hero and villain. Madge cannot be bothered to pick apart these stories, to discover just who Gale is under all the fanciful tales. It does not truly matter, for brutal or kind, noble or selfish, he is certainly unforgiving. He is the Queen’s most trusted man and gaining his confidence would open more doors than Madge can count, but it would be pointless to try. She will continue to be charming of course, to smile but she has little hope of winning his favor. He is young, tempestuous and anger seems to the fuel that keeps him running.

(Madge would never admit it, but maybe they aren’t so different after all)

Madge takes all her meals with her mother, the two of them alone in her bedchamber. No one, not even Haymitch, bothers to ask them to come down and join their soon to be in-laws for supper, and Madge is glad of it. She is tired of all the pretending, always smiling when all she wants to do is scream. The Yorkists do not want her there and she does not want them here, these moments without them the closest she’ll ever get to peace.

Her mother actually eats, even though she clearly has no appetite, takes each bite like she’s chewing sand. Madge squeezes her hand and picks at her own food, her stomach shriveled up and small. If she were capable of laughing, she might think it was funny that this marriage neither of them wants is what’s forcing her mother to regain her health. Instead, it just makes her angrier, eating at her with vicious teeth.

(Madge remembers Gale, angry eyes, angry mouth and curses herself)

(they are nothing alike, nothing at all)

Madge can’t help but see her life stretching out before her and she stabs at her dinner, wondering if survival is even worth it. Until the day she dies, she will be tethered unwillingly to her Yorkist masters but then, spitefully, she thinks they might prefer it if she gave up or died, could then do whatever they wanted with her inheritance without any complaints. She is young and petty and thinks maybe she’ll live forever just to make things more difficult for them.

Hate is a disease her mother had once told her before bed and Madge doesn’t quite care. She would much rather rebel with sickness than surrender with perfect health. And suddenly she does find her appetite, is determined to maintain her physical wellness. She will not die until she is grey and wrinkled, will be a thorn in the collective Yorkist side forever and ever and ever.

Love me, hate me, you will never be rid of me

As the coronation draws nearer, even the youngest members of Katniss’ family are gifted with greatness.

As is tradition, the Queen’s coronation will be complemented with new inductions into the Knights of the Bath. Rory and Vick of Salisbury are two of the chosen, just twelve and ten but still showered with honour.

The ceremony of knighthood is long and complicated, involving baths and a night spent in vigil at the chapel, but Madge is only called to witness the final portion. She wears a new blue damask gown from Haymitch and stands with her mother, Duchess Elizabeth, Lady Hazelle and the very young Posy of Salisbury, who has to be shushed repeatedly to stop her cheering excitedly for her brothers.

Both boys, as well as the three other recipients, are led before the Queen and they kneel before her. As is custom, she instructs two senior knights to buckle spurs to each of the knight-elects’ boots. Madge is not entirely sure of the symbolism behind this particular act, but she pretends to understand, lest anyone think her stupid. The Queen then fastens a belt around each of their waists and strikes them on the shoulders with her sword. Both Salisbury boys are solemn at their turn and Gale beams as he watches them, looking strangely young and human. Madge could almost call him handsome.

Five new knights, five more Yorkists graciously rewarded.

And so our divisions cut ever deeper.

The day of the great coronation, Madge is laced into one of Haymitch’s new gowns, this one of white silk. Gold roses are embroidered at the cuffs, collar and hem while pearls are sewn into the skirt and bodice. Pearls and rubies hang from her neck and decorate her hair, left free and unbound for the ceremony. She has dangling earrings of gold and spinels and a red kirtle for a bold pop of colour. She looks the perfect dutiful cousin and thanks her maids with a smile before inhaling deeply to steady herself.

She has a part to play today and she will do it magnificently.

As always, the coronation starts with a magnificent procession from the Tower of London to Westminster, people from far and wide clogging up the streets as they cheer. The noise is deafening, between screaming voices, blaring horns and the shouted performances lining the streets. Rose petals and confetti rain down from windows, banners and streamers blowing in the early May breeze.

Madge rides in a litter with her mother, Duchess Elizabeth, Lady Hazelle and Lady Primrose, who hangs out the side with overflowing excitement. Katniss, Haymitch and Gale ride before them on horses, out where all of London can see them. People wave hands, handkerchiefs and ribbons, throw flowers and blow kisses as they pass, the three royal cousins smiling down at their subjects. Haymitch looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, his smile tight in the corner but overjoyed citizens don’t seem to notice, too busy screeching in appreciation of Coriolanus’ overthrow. Gale looks mildly uncomfortable with so much attention, posture somewhat stiff and smile fluttering on his lips. Women call his name, shout others things that make him grin in shock and Duchess Elizabeth scowls, Hazelle covering a blushing Primrose’s ears. Katniss rides between them both and Madge never sees her face, but her limbs look heavy as she raises them to wave at the adoring masses, her back painfully straight.

Westminster looms before them, the ceremony crawling closer and Madge is about to witness history. No Queen has ever ruled this kingdom, no woman has ever worn the crown by her own right.

Katniss of York has certainly changed all that, has changed England.

(though it remains to be seen if it’s for better or for worse)

There are a great many tasks to be performed at a coronation and Madge has been chosen for a very special one. While Haymitch acts as Lord High Steward for the occasion, entrusted with the duty of bearing St Edward’s crown and Gale performs as Lord High Constable and bears the Sword of State and Marvel the Orb, Madge, her mother, Lady Primrose, Lady Hazelle and Duchess Elizabeth will be Katniss’ train bearers, marking them as the greatest ladies in the land. Most would see this as a unbelievable honour and would happily climb over Madge to get it, but she knows this is no gift. The most important people in all of England will witness this coronation and they will see Madge and her mother, the last scions of Lancastrian blood in England, carrying the Yorkists Queen’s train. Madge is being used as a political tool, a visual cue that Lancastrian resistance is dead.

Madge knows all this and still performs her duty admirably, will be appropriately solemn and reverent throughout. Katniss is pale, a quiver visible in her chin but she squares her shoulders when their moment comes, walks up the aisle of Westminster with perfect poise and dignity. Madge inhales one last time and follows after, holding Katniss’ train with steady hands.

Traitor! she can imagine King Coriolanus hissing in her ear. Her cheek throbs suddenly, a reminder of Prince Cato’s wrath but she ignores them both. If the King had not first betrayed all of England, she would not be here and York would merely be a dukedom with royal blood rather than a ruling house. She reminds herself of that with each step, but she cannot help but wonder what will happen if the King ever does reclaim his crown.

I am a Lancaster by blood, but would their victory doom me?

Am I to be punished by the Yorkists for my birth and then the Lancastrians for doing what I could to survive?

Is there no way for me to win? Am I always to lose?

The assembly sings a hymn, voices rising together and Madge stomps down on the bleak hopelessness she feels creeping in her heart.

I am a daughter of dukes, a child of royal Lancaster.

We’ll find a way to make it through this.

(we have to)

The ceremony is long and intricate, but finally, the most significant moment of all arrives, the whole world silent as the Archbishop places the crown on Katniss’ head, the whole abbey holding its breath. Katniss stares straight ahead without blinking, eyes a little too wide and Madge looks at her, the first queen regnant of England and feels her stomach tie itself in knots.

“God save the Queen!” the people around her cheer and Madge’s tongue feels like lead, the words too heavy to speak.

“God save the Queen!” they all call again, Gale’s voice sticking out loud and proud.

“God save the Queen!” everyone chants for the third and final time, Katniss’ eyes meeting Madge’s for one terrifying second. The world seems to freeze for that single moment and Madge sees fear in Katniss’ face, feels her own crashing around inside her. Trumpets start to blare, church bells ring out all across England and Katniss is still staring at her, face pale when Madge finally finds her voice.

“God save the Queen,” she whispers.

And us. God save us from the Queen. And the King.

God save us.

As is tradition, there is a great banquet in Westminster Palace to celebrate their new sovereign.

Madge spends most of it in a daze, heart hammering. Possibilities keep building behind her eyes, horror stories of King Coriolanus chopping off her head, or having her hung, drawn and quartered. Is that not the punishment for traitors? He would never forgive her for participating in Katniss’ coronation, would never understand that she had no choice. She remembers being nine years old, remembers watching the public executions. If the King ever returns to England, that could very well be her.

No matter who sits on the throne, I am ruined

Madge feels panic beating in her chest, feels like she might faint. What am I supposed to do? King Coriolanus does not forgive. But Katniss of York has no love for me, could turn on me at any moment. How can I charm these monsters? How do I win over people who want nothing more than to steal my inheritance? They’ll lock me away, send me to a convent, marry me off to someone who’ll break me until I learn never to resist again.

What do I do?

“Are you alright?” someone asks her and she doesn’t answer, hands pressed to her heart. The world seems to be blurring around the edges, her chest tightening painfully.

“I can’t…I can’t…” she tries to say but her throat feels swollen, breath struggling to leave her lungs. She gasps, skin feeling too hot.

The Yorkists will kill me. King Coriolanus will kill me.

“My lady?”

I don’t want to die.

Her chest hurts, she can’t breathe and the world goes bright white and then black, disappears and swallows her in darkness and Madge is almost glad of the release.

“My lady! Somebody help! Help!”

She is covered in blood, King Coriolanus is laughing and Katniss of York is chasing her with an axe, face painted red.

Someone is screaming, the sky is spinning and she feels sick, wants to vomit and collapse.

Everything is loud, she has never felt so scared, she’s about to die, she can’t breathe, can’t think-

“I’ve got her.”

A voice, a male voice, cuts through the chaos in her head and she blinks, world swimming before her. She is staring at the ceiling, skull aching.

“I’ll take her to her chambers. Someone fetch the physician.”

That voice again and she almost recognizes it, her ears ringing and head stuffed with cotton. She is still trying to get her bearings when suddenly she is flying, the change of altitude making her stomach toss. It takes her a moment, mind sluggish, but she realizes she is not flying but being carried. She still feels too hot and her face is pressed to someone’s doublet, the fabric soft and velvet.

I must have passed out, she realizes, must have been lying on the floor. Someone is holding her in their arms, cradling her against their chest. She tries to hold onto her thoughts but her head still hurts and her eyes start to flutter closed. She rubs her cheek on the smooth material of his shirt, does not register words being spoken above her.

It’s alright, she thinks, I’m safe now

Madge wakes again as she is being put down, laid gently in her bed.

Blurry people mill around her and warm hands smooth the hair from her face. She can barely keep her eyes open, cannot focus on any faces.

“Will she be alright?”

Mother…?

She never hears the answer, the world going dark around her yet again.

The sun is too bright.

Madge’s eyes open and she is nearly blinded, noonday light making her wince. Her mouth feels dry, her temples throb and hazy memories trickle back to her. I passed out. Right there, in full view of the entire court, I fainted.

“Madge! Oh, sweetheart, you’re awake!”

She blinks and her mother is there, squeezing her hand tightly.

“I’m sorry…I worried you,” Madge mumbles, tongue feeling leathery. Her mother shakes her head.

“I’m just glad you’re alright. The physician said you were overexcited.”

Or over-panicked.

Madge nods and struggles to sit up while her mother helpfully fetches her some water. I can’t let that happen again. The Yorkists cannot see me being so weak, never again. I have to get a hold of myself. Fear can’t be allowed to beat me.

(if only it were as easy as all that)

With the physician’s blessing, Madge takes some fresh air with a walk in the garden.

Someone has begun to tame it, pruning and weeding at the violent overgrowth. White roses dominate the space, but there are other flowers too, adding vibrant splashes of colour amidst the green. Madge sits on a stone bench and fiddles with some daisies, still mulling over her humiliation.

No one is likely to forget her collapsing at the Queen’s coronation banquet, certainly not any time soon. What whispers must be filling the halls, what laughter at her expense. Any strength she has managed to project has been stripped away, leaving her looking frail and pathetic in all Yorkist eyes. What a disaster.

“I see you’re feeling better, Lady Madge.”

Madge stiffens, something cold sliding down her spine. She recognizes the voice, the same one that had carried her to her room.

Gale.

She turns and he is standing behind her, face his usual rigid mask. She forces a smile.

“Yes, Lord Salisbury, I am feeling much improved.”

Madge stares at his chest, feeling somewhat sick. Not only did she expose her weakness for everyone to see, but Gale of Salisbury was the key witness, transporting her limp body up to bed. Her greatest critic saw at her lowest and she could cry.

What cruel hand spins this wheel of fortune?

“I’m glad,” he says and she does not believe a word of it. They stand there, silence tense and she does not know what to do, how she is meant to salvage this situation. If he’d thought of her poorly before, she cannot imagine what he thinks of her now.

“My sister wanted me to give this to you,” he says, half turned away from her, eyes focused on a far wall. She looks down at his hand and her eyes stretch wide in his surprise. He holds out a mismatched bouquet tied together with hair ribbons and Madge takes it tentatively, too shocked to speak.

“Posy thought these might make you feel better, since you’re always out here, with the flowers.”

Madge’s heart lurches in her chest and she squeezes the stems.

“Thank you.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he says immediately, nearly cutting her off.

“Then thank your sister for me.”

He nods jerkily and a sudden thought occurs to her.

“Was it you, you had the gardens…fixed?”

He turns fully away from her, so she is staring at his back.

“My sister likes gardens.”

He walks away without another word and Madge watches him go, fingers twining in little Posy’s hair ribbons.

What game are you playing fortune?

The news Madge has been dreading arrives a week and a half later, Marvel delivering it over supper. He leans in close, fingers stroking her elbow.

“We have finally received the Pope’s dispensation, our parents will soon be married.”

Madge feels the floor drop out beneath her and looks at Marvel, feeling none of the satisfaction she can see in his grin. Just beyond Marvel, she can see Gale watching her and she wants to scream. Do you know what he’s telling me? Do you want me to flood the room with tears, collapse in hysterics? She does neither of those things, but holds his gaze instead and he turns away, jerking his head around to Katniss beside him.

Madge almost laughs. Or maybe it is tears she can feel, the future rushing towards her and swallowing her whole.

Lord have mercy on us both and deliver us from harm. Please, do not let these Yorkists be our end.

please

Her father stands before her, bloody and dripping.

The sky is red and smudged with black clouds.

Faceless men with white roses laugh and cackle.

Madge sinks, ground wet and muddy and eating her alive.

Help me! she wants to scream but she cannot, drowns quiet and afraid.

Her mother’s wedding day dawns, a bright June day that might as well be black and cold to match Madge’s mood. She spends a long time staring at the ceiling, willing this to be a nightmare she can wake up from. The idea of her mother marrying Lord Haymitch still makes Madge sick and she cannot help but think of her father, not even cold in his grave when the Yorkists struck with their greed and cruelty. It still doesn’t feel real that he’s dead, that she will never again see him in this life. And now his wife has been sold off to one of the men who helped him to his death.

Curse the Yorkists; curse each and every one of them.

Madge dons her third and final new gown from Haymitch, the houppelande made of beautiful, shimmery silver tissue. The collar and cuffs are made of silk as is her girdle, each of them weighed down with diamonds. Her kirtle matches her gown, the material patterned with birds in a darker gray. Ladies’ maids that are still strangers to her plait her hair into intricate designs woven through with silver ribbons and topped with a headband studded with pearls, a gift from her almost-cousin the Queen. On her ears hang large diamonds surrounded by stylized silver flower petals, a great pearl dangling at the bottom of each. Her last adornment is a necklace of moonstones hanging from a delicate silver chain.

She feels a little like royalty as she sweeps from the room, eyes sticking to her as she makes her way to her mother’s chamber. The gown and jewels are magnificent, truly fit for a queen and Madge can’t help but wonder if the Yorkists are trying just as hard to woo her as she is them. It would make sense, as an heir to Lancaster, her support would be invaluable, especially as rumours circulate of a planned invasion by the King hiding in Scotland.

Madge is not so easily charmed. Her loyalty cannot be bought.

She arrives at her mother’s rooms and steps inside, finds Margaret already dressed and ready for the ceremony. Her gown is golden, her hennin shimmering with embroidered veils and her skin ashy and pale. She’s gained weight but is still too thin, the dress drowning her in luxurious fabric. Madge feels her heart squeeze and prays for a miracle, some sort of lightning strike to burn Westminster down around them and save them from this nightmare. No such providence comes and Madge enters the room with a heavy heart. Her mother turns to her and tries to smile, tired mouth not quite managing it. Madge bites her lip, hands clenched and this isn’t right, this isn’t fair.

“You look beautiful,” her mother says and Madge shakes her head, angry, frustrated tears building in her eyes.

“They can’t make you do this,” she insists and her mother tilts her head with pity.

“Yes they can. The Yorkists can make anyone do anything now, that is the privilege of kings.”

“Father’s only been dead a few months!”

“In their eyes he died a traitor, and why would we need to mourn a traitor?”

Madge closes her eyes, her father’s smile burning in her mind.

“He wasn’t, he wasn’t. He was…”

“He was the best man I’ve ever known,” her mother says softly and Madge looks up at her, tears wet on her cheeks.

“All my life, I have lived in the shadow of King Coriolanus. I have always known what kind of man he was, what a horrid, wicked king he was. So did your father. Marrying me meant tying himself to a king he despised, meant that he’d have to support Coriolanus against every enemy. People would never forgive me the sin of my blood and your father knew that. But for love of me, and for you, our perfect, perfect daughter, he was willing to support the king, willing to die for him. In another life, I am sure your father would have sided with the Yorkists, at the least, he never would have fought for the king.”

Her mother’s smile is tragic and Madge covers her face with her hands, unable to control the tears leaking from her eyes.

“We must make difficult choices if we are to survive, your father and I knew that. I know it is not easy, I know it might feel wrong, but survival is what matters most. This upheaval will not last, eventually the country will settle. When it does, all I want is for you to be standing there, safe and alive and with your inheritance intact. That is all I have ever wanted. I swore, from the moment I first held you in my arms, that I would do anything for you, and that has not changed. You are the light of my life, sweet Madge, there is nothing I would not do for you.”

Madge takes unsteady steps forward and falls against her mother, heedless of the mess she must be making on her new gown. She hugs her tight, never ever wants to let her go.

“Hush, my love, it’s alright,” her mother murmurs, tone soothing and soft.

“I love you Mama,” she forces out and her mother’s hands are warm and sure on her back.

“We’ll be alright,” Margaret whispers and Madge nods against her shoulder. We will be, I swear it. Her mother is right of course, what matters is survival. And Madge, Madge will survive. Careful neutrality will be her new strategy, patience until a final victor has emerged from the ashes.

York or Lancaster, whoever triumphs, Madge will outlast them all.

The ceremony is simple and solemn, Madge made of ice throughout. She does not listen to the vows, ignores the Priest as he drones on in Latin and closes her eyes when Haymitch places the ring on her mother’s finger.

This is wrong

This is all wrong

Though the ceremony may have been simple, the feast that follows is anything but.

Westminster has been decked out in splendor, beautifully decorated and filled with energetic minstrels. The Queen invites Madge and her mother to join her at the high table for the first time, certainly an honour even if it curdles Madge’s stomach. Katniss sits at the center, as always, Haymitch to her left and Gale to her right. Beside Gale is Duchess Elizabeth, then Lady Primrose and finally Gale’s mother, Lady Hazelle. To Haymitch’s left is his new wife and then Marvel, preening before the assembled eyes of all those seated in the great hall. Madge is beside him, seated at the edge of the table and burning under the scrutiny of everyone present. She smiles even though it aches, oohs and ahhs over every plate of food placed before them. She joins heartily in every toast offered and listens with feigned interest to Marvel’s incessant chatter.

The hall is loud with laughter and Madge wishes she could soak it all in, but her body is prickling, on edge as it always is when surrounded by Yorkists. She eats daintily, stomach roiling with snakes and giggles at Marvel’s jokes, which unfortunately encourages him to tell even more.

“Ah yes, the Duke of Suffolk, though it might be more apt to call him the Duke of Suf-fat,” he chortles and Madge smiles to hide her grimace. Marvel’s eyes glitter as he looks at her, Madge’s skin feeling hot and thankfully, servers come with the next course, interrupting whatever poor attempt at humor was about to leave his lips. Madge washes her hands and observes the platters of meat, each drenched in sweet smelling sauce. She intends to choose some quail, always a favorite of hers, when Marvel sticks out his arm.

“Allow me,” he says with a grin, indicating to a server to slice some swan for her. Madge blinks and forces down her words of protest. She digs her nails into her palms beneath the table but smiles appreciatively at Marvel, his face shining with pleasure. He leans over to whisper in her ear, his voice like melted butter.

“Only the most graceful of birds for my most graceful of sisters,” he purrs and Madge hopes he doesn’t notice how her shoulders tense. She can feel the strain in her smile and hurriedly turns to her plate, distracting herself with eating. The feast doesn’t move nearly fast enough and when desert finally arrives, Madge feels as if she’s been trapped with Marvel for days. He chooses her desert for her, marchpane and fruit paste, without asking her opinion and she forces herself to pretend to be charmed. He knocks his glass against hers, looking into her eyes for an uncomfortably long time.

“I am so pleased we are now family,” he tells her, voice warmed with mulled wine.

“As I am,” she agrees, dropping her eyes in what she hopes appears to be maiden shyness.

“Gale opposed this marriage you know, quite vehemently.”

Madge is not surprised. She pokes her marchpane half-heartedly, has never much enjoyed the taste. Marvel notices and frowns.

“Is it not to your liking?”

“Oh no, of course not. I’m just not very hungry,” she lies and Marvel nods.

“It is good for a woman to watch her figure,” he says and Madge clutches her knife tightly. His eyes slide down the table, landing on his cousins with disapproval. “Not everyone is so prudent,” he continues and Madge follows his gaze. Lady Primrose is laughing, her plate piled high with sugar and sweets. Katniss too is picking through a healthy assortment of confectionaries, a little of everything sampled on her plate. Marvel is still frowning at them and Madge feels a violent urge to eat everything in sight, simply to spite him. She settles on ignoring his comments instead, knows she cannot afford to alienate him, no matter how repugnant she finds his company. He doesn’t seem to mind and reaches forward, plucking some marchpane from her plate, his shoulder brushing hers.

“I must admit though,” he whispers, just for her, “I do have quite the hankering for sweet things.”

Madge represses the sudden desire to vomit.

Thankfully, mercifully, dinner ends and Madge almost heaves a sigh of relief. Servers hurriedly clear the tables and arrange the room for dancing, the minstrels striking up a much livelier tune. Marvel turns to beam at her and whatever relief she’d felt dies a sad death.

“May I have this dance?” he asks and she smiles.

“Of course.”

He leads her out onto the floor and Madge’s smile becomes a bit more genuine when she realizes this a group dance and not a couples’ one. Everyone assembles into a great circle and joins hands, Marvel to Madge’s left and the Earl of Pembroke to her right. She sees her mother and Haymitch across the circle, her mother’s eyes already drooping with exhaustion. Madge winces and then they begin, hopping and skipping to the music. Marvel’s grip is a bit too firm, tugging her along as if he does not trust her to be able to follow the steps. They all move inwards, joined hands raised and then back away again, separating with their partner for just a moment. Palm to palm, Madge and Marvel spin around, his hand touching her waist a little too familiarly. They return to the circle and begin again, twirling around the room. The dance is repetitive and energetic, but even still, Madge cannot help but focus on the feel of Marvel’s fingers through the material of her dress.

She is beyond relieved when the dance ends, Marvel pressing a much too long kiss to her hand, thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Haymitch and her mother arrive to swap partners and though Madge would rather spit in Haymitch’s eye than dance with him, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t prefer him to Marvel. They perform a slow, stately bassedance together and then she’s swept up by the Earl of Pembroke for a pavane. The portly Duke of Suffolk begs her hand for a group dance, this time in a line rather than a circle. She manages to escape when the dance ends, exclaiming loudly that she is in need of refreshments. She flees to a server at the edge of the room, gulping hastily at the wine he offers. Her mother has retaken her seat at the table, face pinched and colourless and go to bed, Madge wants to tell her, sleep. She knows she wouldn’t listen though, would be determined to remain and entertain her guests. Appearances are everything, aren’t they Mother? Madge sets down her goblet with a thunk.

Curse the Yorkists.

A giggling Lady Primrose drags a grimacing Rory of Salisbury into the center of the room and Madge spies Marvel trying to catch her eye, her stomach turning to stone. She hastily averts her gaze only to notice something perhaps worse. Katniss is still seated at the head table, hasn’t danced even once, and now she and Gale are in heated conference, Katniss gesturing at what has to be Madge. Her face is anxious and Gale is scowling, arguing in hushed tones. He stands abruptly and marches down from the dais, steely eyes trained on Madge. He is heading right for her and she wants to run, hide but Madge of Bedford is no coward. She watches him steadily, smile firmly in place. He stops in front of her and for a moment no one speaks, the two of them merely staring. Finally, he bows.

“Would you do me the privilege of this dance, Lady Madge?”

He is here against his will, part of Katniss’ design to show that York and Lancaster are truly united. She remembers another sovereign forcing his relative to dance with her and she feels only slightly less reluctant now than she did at nine years old.

“It would be an honour,” she replies, sweeping into a curtsy. Gale nods and takes her hand, leading her out amongst the other couples. The music indicates a gaillard, a fast paced couples dance, and Madge does all she can to appear excited. Gale stands a bit too far away from her, their arms stretching the obvious distance between them. She wonders what they must look like, obviously uncomfortable, but still she smiles, moving with all the grace she can muster. She tries to catch his eye, tries to coax out a smile but he is entirely unmoved, gaze fixed firmly above her head.

“The gardens really are looking quite lovely, you did a wonderful job,” she says brightly.

“Thank you,” he answers, tone flat and eyes still looking at everyone but her. Madge covers her frustration with a shy smile and breathy laughter as he spins her around.

“I must agree with your sister, Lady Posy. I too love a good garden.”

“Hmm,” is his only response and Madge is somehow meant to charm him, but it is difficult when he is so determined to be resistant.

Why are you so stubborn?

Even still, he proves a better partner than Prince Cato, never once stomping rudely on her foot or sneering. He surpasses Marvel too, who’d dragged her around the room as if he didn’t believe her capable of remembering the necessary steps. Gale leads, but gently, allowing them to fall into step far more naturally than Marvel ever would. His hands never touch her in places they shouldn’t, in contrast, her holds her loosely, making as little contact with her as he can. She wants to grit her teeth or throw up her hands in surrender, this dance almost painful, but still she perseveres.

No one will ever be able to say I didn’t try

Finally, most mercifully, the music stops, the dance over. Gale drops her hands quickly, jaw chewing on words.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he manages to compliment, even if he sounds entirely insincere. Madge bows her head, curtseying in gratitude.

“It is merely because I had such an exceptional partner,” she counters and he stares at her, mouth twitching in what could be an attempt at a smile. He nods, a new song begins and he doesn’t walk away, hesitates by her side for several awkward seconds. Suddenly, strangely, unexpectedly, he bends down and kisses her hand, the very first time he’s done it in all these months of knowing each other. He straightens and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, his still an unyielding silver. What will it take to win you? she wonders, smiling her most beguiling smile. Gale simply nods again and turns to walk away, back over to an anxious Katniss. Madge watches him go, the skin of her hand tingling.

You will not resist me forever, she vows, eyes stuck to him as he leans to murmur in Katniss’ ear.

One day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me.

#gadge #gale hawthorne #madge undersee #wars of the roses au #fanfiction #Hunger Games

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