Forward the Red Dragon - The White Rose & the Promising Prince
It was with reverence that Elizabeth - daughter of the late Yorkist King, Edward IV - beheld her new husband, a man who was now the reigning monarch of England, Henry Tudor. He looked back upon her with his pale blue eyes and allowed a smile to grace his stern countenance; she was a beautiful young lady, eight years his junior, with flowing tresses of golden hair and stunning, brown eyes. It was in duty that he bound himself to her, though he failed to see his match being an unhappy one. Together they would engender a brood of children of blood equally Lancastrian and Yorkist.
"God has truly been kind to me“ he mused gently, “Blessing me with both victory and a beautiful, white rose.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, subservient as was taught, "I thank my lord for his equal kindness."
He rose his hand to her chin and tilted her countenance up to face him, "We are now husband and wife, and, I must concede, England could not hope to ever have a finer queen."
She continued to look at him, trying in vain not to look away, so much did his flattering affect her.
"I hope that England's fine queen will furthermore provide me with fine children, children of the red and white rose combined."
She swallowed, nodding timidly, "I hope that I can please my lord with a fine brood, too."
His face seemed to grow warm as he smiled and Elizabeth felt less afraid of him than she had. He rose his hand to her cheek and gently caressed her soft skin, "I have no doubt that you will," he whispered before he stooped to kiss her.
~
Henry was often known for being cold and unfeeling, but toward his wife he was none of that. He treated her kindly and generously, and genuinely grew to love her, a rare thing in an age of arranged marriages. This union of the Red and the White rose had soon sown its seeds, and within a year, the first child of the blood of Lancaster and York combined was born…
~
“The queen has delivered, my lord.”
Henry steadily rose to his feet, “Delivered?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“What be it?”
The man swallowed to catch his breath, “A boy, your grace - a healthy boy.”
Henry’s face shone with a rare smile, and his eyes lit up with veneration, “A son… I have a son.”
“Aye, your grace.”
Henry nodded to the man, giving him leave, “Then I will see him, my heir.”
The messenger bowed as the monarch passed, and watched him walk briskly away down the halls of his palace.
* * * * *
The ladies in waiting bowed as their king entered the room and Elizabeth, his queen, looked to see her husband enter and greeted him with a warm smile. In her arms she cradled England’s newborn prince, and Henry’s son. The king paced to her bedside and leant over to kiss her on the forehead before he set eyes on his child. The young babe had a small quiff of fair hair upon his head, very alike the hue of his mother’s, and rested peacefully in her arms, as yet completely oblivious to his royal position in the world.
“Well done, madam,” the king whispered, staring at his bonny young boy.
“Isn’t he wonderful, my lord?” she replied, completely taken with her child.
“Aye… a fine boy,” he accented, running a finger gently over his son’s brow before he planted a kiss onto his tiny head, “A fine boy.”
“Shall he be a Henry, like is father?” Elizabeth went on.
Henry perched himself by her and pondered on this for a while, unable to, in the meantime, take his eyes from his baby; “I think not…” he finally answered.
“Not, my lord?”
He turned to face Elizabeth again, smiling once more, “No…” he clarified softly, “Our son represents a unity, a peace and future prosperity, an ending to the strife of our two houses, and, for that, I feel another name would suit him more, one other than that of my own and my forebears. My mother’s thoughts were similar when she crowned me, not Edmund, my father’s name, but Henry, a title honouring the reign of King Henry VI of Lancaster, and also, I presume my destiny…”
“Then with what name would you honour our son’s destiny, my lord?” Henry’s queen queried.
The king rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Some years ago I pledged to name my first legitimate son after a great king, though this king be one whose very existence is lost in the mysteries of time… This be not after William or Stephen, nor after any kings named Edward or Richard - nay, certainly not Richard…” He placed his hand on the child’s brow, and his wife watched him with interest; “I would name him Arthur,” he said.
~
And so he was named, not Henry after his sire, but Arthur, for he was to symbolise a new age in British history - a Renaissance. Celebrations were wrought all across the country for the new born prince, and poems were put to paper and sung for the golden child:
"I love the rose both red and white"
"Is that your pure perfect appetite?"
"To hear talk of them is my delight!"
"Joyéd may we be,
Our prince to see,
And roses three!"
Finally, things were looking up for England and Wales as it recovered from the Wars of the Roses; stability was seemingly reinstated, the king was a capable man and still on the throne following his victory at Bosworth, opposed by but a few remnants of the House of York, and he had now secured himself and the future of his dynasty by getting a healthy heir. It seemed that God smiled on this triumphant new era.