November 26, 1418
Kenilworth Castle
Never in my life have I experienced
such sadness. Margaret and I aimlessly wander the halls of the castle. She
grasps my hand, afraid that she will lose me as she did her brother. Henry was
nearly seventeen when he met his demise, today is the day after his death and
his seventeenth birthday. I cannot fathom the thought of my eldest brother
facing death in the unknown land of France on the battle field. We do not know
how he has past, only that he was brave enough to face enemies at such a young
age. Lost in my own thoughts, I hardly feel Margaret squeezing my hand or hear
her quiet sobs.
“Margaret, dear,” I say, my voice
catching. I kneel down in front of her and gently hold her small form against
myself. Although she is nearly ten years old, Margaret’s soul has always felt
younger than the rest of us. Perhaps it is because she has never experienced
real tragedy. That is, until this very day.
“Henry is not coming back from
Rouen. Joan, he promised he would return,” Margaret snuffled, as her angelic
blue eyes seemed to stare into my own soul.
“I am afraid that he is not
returning, sweet Margaret. He will be in your heart.”
She turned away from me, wiping her
tears and holding her emerald necklace against her heart. My face fell as I
realized that Henry had gifted her with the very same necklace, as he had given
myself a ruby shaped heart.
“Come, dear, let us find mother and
father,” I swiped her hair back from her face, and took her hand gently once
again. We walked down the halls, hand in hand, past the looking eyes of
servants and visiting nobles. It seemed that every human residing in Kenilworth
was looking for answers from us. Although I am afraid we did not hold the
answers to their questions. We were just as lost as each individual.
“Joan, Margaret, mother is looking
to speak with you,” My youngest brother Edmund spoke from behind us.
“Thank you, Ed. We are going there
now,” I nodded at him, but I do not think that he even heard me. Perhaps he was
lost in his own thoughts as I was. As we walked past him, I put my hand on the
young boy’s shoulder. He was trying to act brave, and I knew it. He considered
himself nearly a man now that he was twelve years old, but I knew that he was
still a boy. He shook me off and walked in the other direction.
“Come, Margaret,” I smiled sadly at
her as we walked into our family drawing room.
“Mother,” I curtsied, as did
Margaret.
“Joan, Margaret, my dear girls,”
Mother held out her hands as a gesture for us to sit beside her, “We have
arranged a small ceremony to honor your brother’s bravery in France. Your
father and I have decided to invite the guests to Kenilworth, as this is where
Henry grew up for the majority of his young life.”
“We feel that Henry would feel most honored
to have his royal family in his own home,” Father’s voice surprised me from his
desk at the far corner. I had not seen him upon arriving.
“Father, you are aware as I am that
this is not where Henry was raised. This is your home, not ours,” I spoke
gently to the man I now called my father. In reality, he was the man my mother
had married only four months after my father had met his demise. I was only six
at the time, but I remembered more than anyone that Thomas was only my
stepfather, not my father. The older boys did not call Thomas father, only
myself, Margaret, and Edmund referred to him as our father. Margaret was only
one year old at the time of our father’s death. Whereas, Henry had been almost
ten years old. For these years, we had lived in Beaufort house in England.
Henry had only lived in Kenilworth for six years.
A small bout of anger lit Thomas’s
gaze as he replied “I raised that boy from the time that he was nine years old.
He was my heir, my eldest son, as you are my eldest daughter. I have taken you
into my home, when you and your mother were in need of one. I expect you to
think of me as your father. This was Henry’s home.”
I knew that arguing with Thomas was
useless, it would only anger my mother. “Yes, Father,” was all I could stomach
to reply. I could not help but remember the man that was my real father. I knew
that talk of Thomas not being our father made Margaret uncomfortable, as he was
all she ever knew, so I tried to cease talking of it.
“The King and his court will be
attending our dear boy’s memorial, so I strongly advise the both of you to look
your best,” Mother nodded, always thinking of whom we should marry when we come
of age. In her mind, I was already of marriageable age with Margaret not far
behind. I could not fathom how our mother could think of how we might look at
the memorial of her dead son. Her mind worked in mysterious ways.
“Yes, Mother,” Margaret and I
replied to her.
“May we take our leave?” I asked,
nodding my head in submission.
“Yes, dear. Please wear your best
and ask Governess Cecily to arrange your hair in a womanly manner. Margaret’s
hair may be done in the usual way. You may leave.”
The only problem with starting like this is that your reader has no context. I don't know where I am or who these people are or why I should care about them. 
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