A Queen of Hearts

[Kynan]

In front of God and the people, the new Queen of England stood tall and regal, fair hair loose down her back as she carefully stepped down the raised platform to the throne, where she would be anointed with the oil, crowned and handed over to her husband, to be greeted by the Lancastrian court. Her eyes never moved from in front of her, and Richard of York watched his liege’s wife manage to miss every opportunity to trip, and he felt a grudging respect for the young woman and her easy grace. Light seemed to emanate from her fingertips to her toes, and close as he could be to the throne itself, the Earl of Warwick grinned smug, as his final piece of work for his King took place.

Young Henry, the King, watched from above, in a darkened balcony, watching with fascination his bride as she spoke the words perfectly, and remained upright, with no hesitation or stumbling. Her words rang clear and bell-like across the hall, and beside him, Henry’s playmate, Beauchamp, peered over the balcony with his own fascination, not with the bride, but his father, so often a mystery to him.

The King sighed his little sigh, and stepped back, so that those who had been told he was sick wouldn’t see him. It wouldn’t have mattered, but to tell a lie was sinful, and while the Cardinal Beaufort had given him permission to do so, for he was anxious for the ceremony, he wondered whether he had done ill still. It didn’t help that Beauchamp remained unrepentant, bouncing up and down the hallway up until the balcony, where he climbed to see the sites better. In the shadows, only his wife was easily visible, and Henry watched her grey eyes stare ahead, with some otherworldly strength keeping her gaze strong.

“Henry,” Beauchamp bounced to his side, “did you see the Earl? Doesn’t he look fine in his new clothes?”

Henry had to smile at his friend, “Yes he does.”

“Do you think he’ll take me with him to France?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you’d know, you’re –“ His voiced silenced with a raised finger.

“Hush,” commanded Henry, for a moment a King, “they’ll hear you.”

No one had, but the Duke of York did see the bouncing figure in red and white, and could tell the ethereal figure in plain grey would be the King. He had a knack for picking the most unusual clothes when left to his own devices, and Warwick’s son for the loudest. His smile tightened when he noticed Warwick himself was watching them as well, and he guessed the Earl would probably have his own son whipped for making a scene. But only he had noticed. The man was too hard on the children.

For the new Queen, she noticed little, so nervous was she. Her hands lay stiff by her side, her eyes unable to leave the door, thinking it an escape route. She knew her face must seem masklike to those in the audience, and she could hear some shuffling, and thought the entire ceremony must be boring those who did not want her as Queen. The crown was so heavy, the oil smelled strange, and her heart was pounding hard. For Eleanor of Armagnac, marrying the King of England had been the start to a new life.

A new history.

 

[Kellan Sullivan]

I'm guessing this Eleanor is the OTL princess of Orange? Hope the marriage will be better than the Henry-Marguerite one of OTL.

 

[Kynan]

I'm guessing this Eleanor is the OTL princess of Orange? Hope the marriage will be better than the Henry-Marguerite one of OTL.

This is going to be a spoiler, but Eleanor is going to have an easier time than Marguerite did.

 

[Kynan]

Henry wept when the news reached him that Rouen was under attack. Three days they had been there. Three days they had celebrated without fear. Three days he had known bliss. And now, standing in the manor of a man named Sir Francis, who the Duke of York assured him was a man of great repute. It wasn’t that Henry didn’t trust him, but he felt unsafe. His mentor was at war with France. He was at war with France.

“Your Majesty,” York murmured, pulling his heaving figure away from the fire, “this is no time for tears. We must retaliate. They obviously meant to take you and the Queen. We must fight, for England.”

“This is not England!”

Henry cried out, causing the men to look at him. York pulled him further away, out to a hallway.

“Your Majesty, we need to send reinforcements-“

“We need to stop the fighting.”

They were at the door.

“Henry,” York pulled his chin up, slowly but surely, “To end the war we must win the war. You are the King of France. No Valois pretender can say otherwise. You were crowned King, your father won that crown, and you would do a disservice to give it up now because you had a brush with the efforts.”

“They have Warwick.”

“They have no one. As we speak, Warwick holds the city as well as any man can, and if we send troops to aid him, those Valois soldiers will scatter. But the longer we wait, the closer they get to taking him, the city, and Normandy. Normandy is ours.”

Falling against the wall, the King slid down the bare stone, folding into his knees in a sobbing mess. Over him, York toward, and if someone were to see them together, they might assume him an older brother, or even father to Henry. If they did, they’d see him as a disappointed father. But his sympathy kept his voice soft, and his duty kept his words plain.

“Sir,” York spoke plainly, “if you don’t send those men to Rouen, you’ll kill the Earl.”

“They’ll kill him.”

“No, it shall be you. You will have not done everything you can to save him. You will have killed him.”

His breath almost at a standstill, Henry stared past the Duke, and then at him. Large, puffy eyes of the plainest brown looked up with such earnest trust that York felt uncomfortable. But he met them squarely.

“You will save him?”

“I can.”

“You will.”

It was a command. York nodded, held out his hand to help the young man up, and left at his nod. From the shadows of another doorway, Eleanor stepped out. Holding a basket of sewing, she tenderly reached out to her husband’s hand, and touched it lightly.

“Eleanor!”

“He was right, you know.”

She gripped his hand now, and he looked into those eyes, still so clear. She had no fear in them. It lay behind, impossible to detect. In them he found strength.

“Do you trust him?”

“As much as a trust you, sir”

He kissed her then.

 

[Kynan]

York stood at the head of the army, men marching behind him in an orderly fashion. Rouen was in front of him, with an army of enemies waiting. Behind the walls, stood a desperate Warwick, with the last of his men to defend the town. He had hoped reinforcements were coming, had seen York in the distance from the walls. But was it too late?

-----

Eleanor stood with her sister in the halls of the London palace, where they awaited news of battle in Rouen and if the Earl of Warwick had won, or if the New Queen’s marriage would begin on the gravest of news. Little Isabelle, scared herself of the new world of cold winds and rough men, stared in horror as soldiers and guards brushed past with all the dignity of a warzone. In the distance, a man was thrown to the ground, and the two turned to see their brother causing a commotion. They heard him scream, and Eleanor dropped the little white hand from her own and stormed across the stone floor.

“Jean!”

Her voice cut through to the guards, but her brother was ceaseless, tackling one man into the wall, pulling a tapestry over them both.

“Jean!” she screamed, pulling the tapestry useless as limbs struck each other beneath King Herod and the wise men, “will yourself a better temper, and stop this.”

The soldier was the first to escape the fabric confines, scrambling past the Queen into the crowd, while Jean of Armagnac managed not to follow him out the same way, but to rip himself out, through the heart of the Virgin Mary. Eleanor would have been horrified at this, if she was not so angry that he had gotten into a fight. But, at the core, she was embarrassed, and once her brother’s eyes had focused on her, she stared him down. Heaving and pulling at his clothes, she thought him a boar. His face was red.

“Eleanor,” he panted, “it’s wonderful to see you.”

“Come.”

She began to pull him through the crowd, dispersing as she shot an arrow straight to a terrified Isabelle, herself standing so still you’d have thought her a statue. Grabbing her hand while in motion, she pulled them both into a room off the Great Hall, and pushed her brother onto a convenient bench. Outside the noise of the general rumble restarted, and Eleanor noted the sounds of the tapestry being dragged away.

“Now if you’ll let me explain-“

“We are in London, Jean. London,” she stomped her foot, “and you can’t make it a week without a fight. You and Isabelle will be back in Armagnac soon enough. Why not wait until you’re back home?”

He leaned back and smirked at her. The young man knew something his sister didn’t.

“Well?” she demanded.

“They’ve invaded.”

Isabelle gasped, and Eleanor herself felt a start at the words.

“You mean they’ve invaded Normandy, don’t you? Because we knew that.”

“No, Eleanor, they’ve invaded our home. The news came this morning.”

He still leaned smartly, and she kicked his shin.

“Don’t you lie to me! Don’t you dare lie to me!”

“Why would I lie?” he screamed, throwing himself up.

She could think of a thousand things, but at that moment, Isabelle burst into tears, and her attention was diverted. Dropping down to her knees, she brought her sister into an embrace, while Jean continued to rant.

“They’ll take it all while we’re prancing around this godforsaken place, watching you be given everything while my inheritance is at risk. Our father sits here talking portions and dowries, but to pay with what?”

“Henry will save-“

“Your King will do nothing!” Jean roared.

He picked her up by her throat and throwing her into a wall.

“Jean!”

Realising he had gone too far, he let go, and Eleanor let her hand touch her neck to check for blood, before turning to him.

“Out.”

He shrugged, insolent in his guilt, and turned out of the room, slamming the door on his way out.

----

Warwick was dying. They’d saved Rouen, slaughtered the Burgundese Army, yet he now lay low in his chamber, with no one to comfort him but the Duke of York.

“You did well today.”

Warwick snorted, and the Duke’s solemn face cracked a grin.

“I always did well.”

“The King will remember you fondly.”

“Henry remembers everything fondly.”

Suddenly his eyes became distant, and York wondered if his time had come. But the time was not yet, and instead the Earl motioned him closer, and pulled his heavy head from the bloodstained pillow. York was not one to fret, but the situation was dire.

“Richard,” Warwick murmured, “protect him.”

“Your son? Of course.”

“No, the King.”

“Of course I will protect the King.”

His head fell back, but his voice grew stronger, as if his last words were what fuelled him.

“He needs strength to guide him. He’s a weak boy. He’s still a boy.”

Those last words repeating, the Duke knew he was done, and stepped out of the room, nodding to an attendant to look after the body. His duty done, he left a man in charge of the city, and began to his work. Evidently, his work in France was unfinished. He sent word to the King.

 

[Kynan]

Henry didn’t know how to process his mentor’s death. On one hand, he was devastated, on the other furious. The old Earl hadn’t gone out in the good night, but at the blade of the enemy. He’d sent his men, his soldiers, in for this one job and that had not saved the old man. York had taken Rouen, but lost him. The King had comforted his friend, ensured his succession as Earl of Warwick, and now stood at the fireplace, waiting for the night to end.

------

Isabella of Navarre watched the soldiers march around her home and was enraged. They plotted around those green acres as if she did not know every blade of grass by name. Her husband, the Count of Armagnac, was at this very moment preparing his own men for the inevitable attack of today, and she readied her own preparations.

Up one set of stairs, oil and fire preparations were being made to prevent the invaders from getting inside the fortress at which they remained. Down another, her possessions of value were being hidden, packed, or sent away to her daughter in England. She knew the sea was treacherous, but she’d rather her jewels sit at the bottom of the channel than the neck of the Valois Queen now. The Lord of Armagnac had made his decision, she would follow suit.

Her son Charles, the only one to remain with her rather than to play in London, stood at attention with his father. So young, so small, and yet man enough to play at war. To fight at war. To die at war.

She carried coals and tinder for the fires herself, and prayed her efforts would not be in vain. She heard the sounds of battle begin, and nodded to the kitchen woman to get the flames alight. The time had come to protect what was hers.

----

Charles, Count of Nevers didn’t want to lead the troops of Burgundy into Armagnac. He didn’t want to lead his cousin’s troops anywhere at this present time, having endured yet another successful, healthy birthday of the Count of Charolais, and thus another year to prove he’d never inherit Burgundy. Furthermore, he knew for a fact the Duke of Burgundy wasn’t interested in this whole French alliance further than simply getting recognised as the highest Duke, and since King Charles refused that desire again and again, it wouldn’t be long before this war effort proved useless.

That distracted annoyance might have explained how a 2 to 1 advantage in men fell so short when attacking the castle of Lectoure. His men were slaughtered that day, and he ran with his life.

----

Eleanor ran her hands through the hair of the King and wondered if this was what all married peoples did for each other in times of great stress, and whether these times of great stress would be the norm for the rest of their lives. Indeed, it was almost right for the two of them to lay near the fire while rain poured from the sky.

She wondered if she could be pregnant. They did not do what was needed for a child very often, but she knew that’s what her role was. One rude lady in particular regularly reminded her, pushing green apple slices at her every time she sat down because “a green apple makes a son”, something no one else could place, and which she was sure could not be true. But she ate them all the same, and hoped that a child would come before long. But they were still young, and in no hurry. It was not as if Henry would run off to war.

The Queen of England had been surprised at how light he was, not just in colouring, but in person as well. Rarely did he want to know about hardship, and when he heard, he was compelled to end it. Not fix it, nor prevent it from happening, but end it in it’s tracks. She had watched him pour hold in the hands of a servant when one had come crying of a dead wife, and knew his generosity was selfish.

There was a worry in her, however, that all this lightness was a fakery. He could be alert, when he knew the costs of otherwise. She had watched him command a room to be still, and had been taken aback. His slight voice had become resonant, and she knew her job was to draw that out. He was timid for a purpose, and that purpose had passed.

He was a King, and if he did not act like it, she would make him.

____

The new Warwick, the young Warwick, the King’s friend Warwick. Henry Beauchamp knew how he was known, and hated every second of it. He was not Warwick, he was not an Earl, that was his father. He was the imp of the castle, climbing over balconies to see the crowd. He wanted to have his father scold him for bad behaviour, but the gruff voice would never carry again.

Henry had tried to bring him up, but it was no use. The quiet sighs made him mad, the tender words stung. And thus he went to the one girl who made things better: Cecily.

Proud Cecily, is what he called her. Vain Cecily, his mother said. Tall and moody, they’d bicker and argue and scream at each other, and although he usually walked away mad, it was better than feeling the emptiness. But today, she wasn’t preening about, but crying.

“Cecily?”

He had hesitated, but when she saw him, she didn’t know for how long. Wiping away her tears, she straightened her back.

“You bumblehead! How rude of you to enter a lady’s room unannounced.”

“I did not enter a lady’s room.”

“You’ll be sorry you bothered me.”

“I’m sorry you face is such a bother.”

It escalated rather quickly into true swearing, and then he stormed out, a smile on his face. His grief wasn’t over, but it had distracted him.

 

[JonasResende]

He was a King, and if he did not act like it, she would make him.

Oh-ho, looks like Eleanor might be setting herself up for a fail there. I wonder, can Henry be made to act like a king? I'm thinking of the scene from A Royal Affair where Struensee basically tells the king that politics is just like acting, and that he should pretend that his council meetings are a stage on which to perform.

 

[Kynan]

The Count of Armagnac was dead. The Count Jean lay dead in a ditch, a fate the opposition did not know. His body retrieved in the early morning, the Countess Isabella sent word to her elder son to come home, and sobbed bitterly as the carnage of a successful defence left her beautiful home in shambles. The strength she’d held during the battle was gone. The Burgundese forces were gone. All that was left was her son at her side, and the body to bury.

His lined face looked smoother in death, but not in a relaxed way. One of her ladies said he looked peaceful, but the Countess knew his face relaxed, and this was not it. With it’s whole slackness, it could only be death, and she had his corpse dressed by others to ensure she did not have to live with the sight for long.

“Let him be dressed in white.”

That was all she had to say, and her husband was dressed and quickly buried, the rituals of death hurried for fear the Count of Nevers would return within hours.

He didn’t, and instead, the Duke of York was to arrive from his post in Normandy, with reinforcements. Too late, but the Countess knew little of what to say but thanks. At least with these men she might be safe. Her proud head high, she was dry eyed at his condolences, and waved off his offer for her to leave her position. Until the new Count arrived, she was not to leave. She wouldn’t.

-----

Her father was dead, her brother had fled London for Armagnac. Her sister lay in shambles. Her husband was still white faced from the death of the Earl of Warwick. Queen Eleanor was the last standing royal with a voice. Sitting on the throne beside a silent husband, she prayed her voice did not squeak when she spoke with the words of England.

“We must support our allies in Armagnac. My father gave his life for our shared cause, and we shall be honoured to scour the French Pretender’s line from the very soil of our France. We are England, we are France.”

The court remained unimpressed by her words, with a rigid, silent youth by her own childish side. One man, a certain Sir George, thought himself good enough to respond.

“Why must we protect your father’s lands? They are not England. They are not ours,” his voice grew resentful, “we seem to have married a war.”

“You were at war and remain at war!” she cried.

“But we were winning!”

“And what have you lost?”

The King stirred.

“Warwick,” he muttered, “we have lost Warwick.”

His eyes filled with tears, and she howled.

“You have lost one Warwick. His son remains at your court. Come forward, my young Earl, and prove you remain with us still.”

Little Warwick resentfully stepped forward, and her heart ached for his loss. But now was a time for fury, not grief.

“You are Warwick?” she asked.

He nodded.

“You are alive?”

He nodded.

“Would you see his death wasted?”

The crowd gasped, but he shook his head. Turning to her husband, she noticed Henry stared widely, as if not comprehending what he had answered. She grabbed his hand and held tight as he went to pull away.

“I see he is dead,” he said.

“But do you see why? Do you see his sacrifice?”

Young Warwick stepped back. The court stepped back. The King sat straight.

“If he died for the war, let us win it.”

She had done it. He had commanded them to win.