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Even in her youth, Cecily had dared to see her son on the throne of England. She had dared, and she had, then, saw him on the throne. First her Edward, and after him, her Richard. As of now it ought to be her grandson, Edward, son of her Edward, on the throne, but he had perished in the Tower, at the hands of that woman whose son almost killed hers. Her last boy. But Richard lived, he lived and won, yet instead of returning to court at once, he had made a stop at Grafton. Because of course he had.
“Why the snort, lady grandmother?” the eldest of all her grandchildren —the legitimate ones, of course, the worthy ones— asked while she stared at her with bright blue eyes, who had once been young and bright, but were now weary, as if they had seen too much. She wondered what, exactly, had Princess Elizabeth seen so far “You have always told us it is unbefitting of a lady so high of birth to snort?”
“And have you not snorted many a time, despite my words, Elizabeth?”
Her granddaughter blushed, and averted her older gaze.
“Never in such public places, lady grandmother”
In her years in sanctuary, she surely had, in front of her sisters and mother. The Rivers woman was not one who would correct her daughters in such behaviour, she was still too much of a commoner.
Too much of witch
The warm breeze of that August midday moved the golden locks of her eldest granddaughter, as well as a strand of her own hair that had, somehow, escaped her tight trapping. Cecily clenched her fist around her cane, making her old bones crack in an unpleasant way.
The gardens were not too crowded, that midday, the ladies that attended to them both stayed away. Not too far, but most certainly not too close either.
“You do not fool me, Elizabeth, you never have” she told her firmly.
Cecily loved that girl, she did, she was her blood, her Edward's first-born, and soon her Richard’s wife, mother to more of her grandchildren. If the Pope granted them the dispensation. Which, he would, if Cecily knew anything about Elizabeth Woodville, was that she would put her daughter on the throne. And Richard would let her.
Her sons were fools, it seemed.
First her Edward fell for the Rivers woman, in the roadside, and wed her, heed her advice over everything, and even kill her George for her. And now, her Richard fell for Princess Elizabeth, after months of manipulating her, and planned to wed her.
It was witchcraft. It had to be.
But, whatever it was, Cecily knew she would have her blood on the throne. A son, as she had dared to dream even before the wars, and a granddaughter. That, she had not dreamt of.