The year is 1464.
The War of the Roses rages on; a great showdown between Lancaster and York.
Yet, asleep in her bed, fiery-haired Melissa Woodville dreams of splintered shields, broken swords, and the resounding screams of wounded men in the Battle...
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WHEN THE BELLS startedtolling that morning, Melissa Woodville had not yet opened her eyes. The Londoners, however, had long since roused themselves for the excitement of a royal wedding, the king's promise of a grand celebration seared into their minds. The last time this vow had been made was the queen's coronation, and all of the city had benefited from the mirth, the gaiety, and — most importantly — the abundance of gold. Everyone knew the nobility got generous with their wealth whenever they celebrated an important event, and nothing was more important than a royal wedding, after all.
Melissa Woodville, too, was someone they knew. Not because she was the queen's sister — that fact barely even registered in the Londoners' minds. No, Melissa was well-known because of her generosity toward the commons. Not long ago, she had used her own money to buy out a property in the middle of the city, turning it into a safe-house of sorts for the poor, weak, and impoverished. Free meals were dealt, alongside clean clothes and shelter, and that simple act had earned her the hearts of many.
The local merchants delighted in her as well; her visits to the markets were numerous, and recent accompaniment from the Duke of Gloucester had earned them much business and advertisement. She was good for their livelihood, and to see her elevated so gratified them.
All in all, this wedding was one many had been looking forward to.
As servants poured out of the Palace of Westminster, handing out alms and garments sewn with the white boar of Gloucester and the silver falcon of Rockingham sat atop it, the bride was slowly roused, shaken awake by her faithful ladies-in-waiting.
"My lady? My lady. 'Tis time you woke."
Blue eyes opened, sleep prevalent in them. "Is today the day?"
"Yes, my lady." Joan Neville smiled, nudging her cousin Anne to retrieve the bowl of rosewater nearby.
The younger girl did so, and Melissa made short time of wetting her face with the fragrant water, dabbing the wetness away with a clean white cloth.
