The White Rose and The Red

The chapel's stone flags freeze silken slippers through.

Do I have to marry him today? As soon as I see him? Today?

As arranged.

My blood is purest. I am the white rose and his blood - bastard red.

The fire splutters, dying. The wind screams and chills.

Tapestries along the walls billow. So many crevices to penetrate.

I hear chain mail. He comes.

The cat has caught a mouse and is noisily devouring it.

Get out!

The dogs swing their heads towards me.

Dukes and Lords, Ladies stare as

He kneels before me. Doffs velvet hat.

The candlelight catches red gold

In his hair.

He must bind himself to me.

I am the true heir to this, my kingdom.

He needs me to be wife, be mother, be his queen.

So he can say, This is mine.

Where are my sweet brothers, princes never seen again, long locked in the Tower?

Is he their murderer? This victor of the Battle of Bosworth Field.

Not him! My mother, the witch, says. Another!

Is she lying?

He raises my hand to his lips, looks up.

His ice blue eyes melt as they meet mine. A tear swims down his face.

My cheeks are burning in this iron cold chapel.

Our hands tremble.

Will you, Elizabeth of York.......? Soft entreaty.

Was I always waiting for a flame to set me afire?

For in truth, now I burn.

Red and White Rose.

He is the king. And I, willingly, his queen.