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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FIVE YEAR OLD Prince William, Earl of Malton, and eldest son to Prince Richard and Princess Melissa of Gloucester was a firecracker of a boy, it had been decided. From his nonstop chatter, to the energy with which he bounded down the hallways of Westminster, it was clear he had spirit and determination to spare — an active child, preferring to be on his feet than to being stuck in a chair.
In recent days, William's mother and father had jointly decided that an outlet was needed for the boy to somehow exhaust himself, and so a practice sword had been sent for, and placed in his hands only a few days ago. Much to the prince and princess' pleasure, their son took to the wooden object almost immediately, and now spent every waking moment in the palace's barracks, being trained by the swords master that his uncle, the king had assigned him. Today, in particular, he was sharing his lesson with his same-aged cousin, Thomas Plantagenet — a bastard son of Edward's.
"Firmly, Prince William!" Master Dupont barked. "Put your strength behind it!"
Panting, the redheaded boy obeyed and lunged himself at his blond cousin, his wooden weapon hitting Thomas' with a sharp thwack!
"Oof!" The latter let out, the impact knocking him straight to the ground. Indignant blue eyes met blue. "Will!"
"Sorry!" William cried, about to drop his sword so he could help Thomas up.
Master Dupont stopped him with a raised hand. "No, my prince." Looking at the other boy, he raised an eyebrow. "Pick yourself up, my lord."
"But--!" Thomas bit his lip, and — seeing the expression on the swords master's face — decided against complaining. "That hurt." He mumbled, rubbing his backside as he stood up on his own.
"As it should," Dupont nodded. "The prince got the better of you, my lord. Best you feel the pain of it now, and remember it the next time you spar — perhaps then, you shall be the one to beat him." After Thomas had stood up, the man sighed and said, "Tomorrow, we will begin practicing a disarming movement. You may put your swords away and leave."
