Chapter Text
Anne’s eyes are big and mournful as she looks down at Isabel from one of the higher branches of the oak tree. “I cannot get down,” she calls down.
“I should leave you there,” Isabel mutters darkly, already rolling up the hemline of her skirt and looking around to see if their Lady Mother is lurking around a corner to scold them. They’re having a rest-day, but that does not mean she would approve of her daughters climbing trees.
They are not the only two having a rest-day, Isabel discovers when she winds her way up to sit on the heavy branch that already bears her sister’s weight.
From the branch Anne has settled herself into – there is a bag of apples tucked into the trunk, just how long has her little sister been sat here? – there is a perfect view of the castle lake. And two of their father’s pages, enjoying the late summer heat less than fully dressed.
“Anne Neville!” she hisses, far less scandalised than she pretends to be, for her sister’s sake. Anne is still young and impressionable, after all.
(Although already considerably impressioned if she’s been watching Richard and Francis horse around in the lake for the duration of two apples.)
“I was merely seeking shade,” Anne widens her eyes again – she has the large, expressive eyes of the Neville dynasty – as there is a laughing shout from the lake and Richard tackles Francis into the water.
“You are shameless,” she reaches out to poke her sister’s shoulder. “What would Dickon think if he knew?”
Isabel regrets her words instantly when Anne’s face falls. Richard is nothing if not proper. He would not have to fake being scandalised at the idea of the girls – she supposes she’s complicit now, enjoying the breeze and slowly eating an apple from Anne’s bag – watching them bathe. He would probably tell their Lord Father and they would both be whipped for the impropriety.
“Francis would find it funny,” her younger sister mutters, jutting at her jaw as she does when she is particularly frustrated. “And I – I was not – I was only –”
“Only?” Isabel prompts with a raise of her eyebrow. “And that would be Lord Lovell to you, you goblin.”
Anne plays with the hem of her skirt and purposefully avoids Isabel’s eyes, “I was watching him smile.”
“You were…?”
“I saw Dickon and Francis in the kitchens this morning and they were talking about – going out, and –” she raises her eyes to glare defiantly at Isabel. “You know, Issy, he smiles better when he is with Francis and no one else and I wasn’t watching them bathe, I wasn’t!”
So Isabel is a sentimental fool. She drops the subject.
(She had assumed that her little sister’s fondness for Dickon had dissipated as she grew older and stopped following him around the castle like a kicked puppy lisping his name, but apparently it has not. Annie is still young, it may turn carnal, but –)
In a most unladylike manner, Isabel knocks her sister on the back of the head. “You goose,” she says as Anne squawks in outrage. “Next you’ll be telling me that you are hoping our father proposes a match.”
Anne colours a deep red and hides her face, leaning past her sister to get another apple. “Issy!”
“Would you want that?” And Isabel is teasing, yes, but she is also genuinely curious. “You could wear a wedding gown of, oh… maybe light blue? He could carry you to your bed – well, actually, maybe not, you are much of the same height – and he could ravish you and –”
“Issy, stop it!” Isabel wasn’t even sure it was possible for Anne to go a darker red, but she has. “Dickon prefers purple, anyway.”
“Purple’s for queens, not princesses,” she presses her finger to the tip of Anne’s nose. “I’m only teasing, Annie.”
In the lake, almost forgotten about, Richard resurfaces from underwater, water spouting out of his mouth like a fountain. He pushes back his mess of dark curls and says something to the golden boy next to him. Isabel cannot see far enough to verify, but she is certain that Francis is smiling.
Dickon is slightly closer – or perhaps she just knows her cousin better than her father’s ward – and he turns his head to the side as he gets out of the lake, and she suddenly understands what Anne means.
“I don’t think I would like a large amount of children,” Anne muses. The colouring on her cheeks has faded somewhat, remaining only in a pretty blush across her cheeks. “Not as many as she appears to be having.”
“Dickon has many brothers and sisters,” Isabel points out, taking a final bite of her apple and dropping the core to the ground. “Perhaps he will want many children. It would be your duty as a wife to give him them.”
Her little sister shakes her head vehemently, “Dickon wants a small amount of children. He told Francis –" she closes her mouth with a small click.
"And just how many times have you spied on them?"
"Not – you would do the same, Issy, if George was here!"
"I –" Isabel is saved from having to defend herself by Anne's shriek and she reaches out to stabilise her little sister and prevent her falling out of the tree.
"Funny looking birds m'Lord Warwick has in his trees," Francis calls across to Richard, both still soaked, but now fully dressed. "Have you ever seen one of these before, Dickon?"
"Rare birds indeed," from Richard's mouth, it's practically a jest. "What are you doing up there, Anne?"
"Eating," Anne says crisply, before throwing her half eaten apple at Francis' head. "That's for splashing me."
"Fair enough," Francis turns the apple around and bites into the other side. "Would the funny looking birds like an escort back to the castle?" He holds out a hand. "'Else our princely highness will go up in flames. He's all red already, see?"
Richard, who's already going faintly pink from the sun, promptly turns two shades darker. "I will put a frog in your bed," he growls.
"Looking forward to it. Now, m'Lady Isabel, if I may escort you...?" Isabel takes the proffered hand and jumps from the tree. She can practically feel Anne blushing behind her as Richard helps her down.
Francis links his arm through hers. "Now, Miss Isabel," he says in a lower voice, a grin spreading on his face. "What exactly were you two doing up that tree?"