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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HE WAS NOT strong. Isabel knew it from the moment her mother laid him in her arms; he was delicate, as all babies were, but he had a fragility to him, a dangerous slightness that frightened her. Compared to his sister, who had been born a year earlier, this babe seemed like he would blow away in an instant, with the slightest whisper of wind. She was afraid she would mishandle him, for he seemed mere skin and bones, whereas Nan had been healthy, chubby, and full of life.
"My god, do not let me lose him," she begged inwardly, cradling her son's head as carefully as possible.
His birth had been traumatic enough. For it all to have been for nothing, for her to lose her child in this manner ... she did not believe she could take it. Even as her mother took her boy from her, cleaning him with a cloth while repressing a smile, Isabel could not find any joy in herself, though she delved deep to look. She loved her son as she loved Nan, but in a way, she also felt detached. He was so frail, so breakable...
He could die...
But then Anne almost toppled a chest over, trying to get to the washbasin to cleanse her hands, and that train of thought swiftly left the elder sister's mind. It did not help any of them for her to think like this. Her son was alive right now, and that was all that mattered. She sat up as best as she could, propping her back against the multitude of pillows scattered on the bed.
"Give him to me," she demanded, voice scratchy.
Her mother glanced up.
"I will take him to his father first--"
"No, I will have Arthur in my arms." Isabel shook her head. "Now, mother. You will give him to me, for it was I who labored to get him here. George will come to us, not the other way around."
