Beyond Death

Tonight, I couldn’t sleep (a strange occurrence, really, since I can usually sleep anytime, anywhere!). As my mind wandered between one thought and the next, it inevitably returned to one of my obsessions: the “What ifs” of history.

If you’re not familiar with the term, let me explain briefly: “What ifs” are hypothetical scenarios that explore what might have happened if historical events or decisions had taken a different turn. They are exercises in alternate history, where we imagine the possible outcomes of a different past, analyzing the consequences of even the smallest changes.

This has always been one of my fixations. For years, I’ve imagined worlds where history unfolded differently from what we know. This passion became the heart of my trilogy, Beyond Dead, a journey through time, space, and the “what ifs” of history.

Without dragging this on too long, with this post, I want to inaugurate a new section dedicated entirely to “what ifs.” To begin, I’ve chosen one of the stories I wrote years ago, inspired by Richard III.

The question I posed to myself was simple: What if Richard had truly wanted to marry his niece Elizabeth? And what if he had won at Bosworth? How would history have changed?

Starting with these two variables, a Richard determined to marry Elizabeth of York and victorious at Bosworth, I let my imagination run wild and wrote spontaneously. What you’ll find below is a simple story born quickly, written without edits or the intention to continue it. It’s just words that flowed freely onto the page.

DISCLAIMER: “What ifs” are called that for a reason, they’re not meant to be plausible. If you’re looking for historical accuracy or aren’t ready to embrace pure imagination, then perhaps these lines aren’t for you.

This story, like the others that will follow, is pure fantasy. It’s not historically reliable, but the fruit of a restless mind wandering among the most impossible possibilities. And in doing so, it smiled and even shed a few tears.

NEVER FORGET

Flashback

Wars, great and small, raged both outside and within me. I waited, hands clenched in my lap, terror gripping my heart. I prayed, bartering my soul for his life. In those hours, I felt vulnerable, teetering between a fervent devotion to God and moments of pure defiance, as if I could pledge myself to the devil instead. Tearful pleas gave way to bitter vows, my teeth clenched against uncertainty. I heard the clash of steel, the screams, the horses’ desperate cries as they fell, until silence.

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what was happening beyond the tent, outside, under the August sun. I saw boots caked in mud and blood, bodies strewn across the ground, the groans of the unlucky survivors. I knew I should rise, but terror paralyzed me. The throne would be mine, no matter the battle’s outcome; the only uncertainty was who would stand beside me. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, despising the thought of sharing the throne with a traitor.

“Recover the bodies and bury them… Gather the horses and water them. We must return to London.” The voice was distant and weary, yet it felt close. In hindsight, I wish I had recognized it. When the tent flap opened, all I saw was a bloodied hand and a sword sheathed at its side. But that’s a story for another time…

FLASHFORWARD

“Push, Your Grace, push with all your might!”

“I see the head, Majesty… so much hair!”

“Courage, Elizabeth, you can do this!”

“I can’t… I’m too tired… I need air, please, open the windows…”

“They’re open, Majesty…”

“Fetch her some cool water, quickly!”

It felt as though I was being torn apart, as if a demon that had slumbered within me for nine months now wanted to claw its way into the light. My mother held my hand, wiping the sweat from my brow, while the midwives peeked between my legs, urging me to push. “Your Grace… the head is out. One more push and we’ll see the shoulders…”

“No… I can’t go on…” I was delirious, the pain so excruciating that in that moment, I would have preferred death to enduring more. Another contraction woke me from my haze, and I summoned enough strength for one final push. I felt emptied, suddenly light. Then, the weak cry of the baby pulled me back to reality.

“His Majesty the King must see him first…”

“No! I am his mother. Bring me my son! I command you!”

“Elizabeth… no. Protocol dictates that the heir be presented immediately, to prove his legitimacy,” my mother said sternly. I had given birth to a healthy child, yet I hadn’t even seen his face. A white bundle passed from hand to hand toward the grand door. My son whimpered in the arms of a midwife who had seen him before I had, while I hadn’t even had the chance to hold him.

“It’s a boy! A beautiful, strong, healthy boy!” The midwife’s enthusiastic voice echoed down the corridor, reaching my husband’s ears. “I present my son, Arthur, your prince and rightful heir to the throne… I thank my wife, Queen Elizabeth, for giving me one of the greatest joys of my life.” His words resounded in my heart; silently, I wept. The king finally entered with our son. He laid him on my chest, and in that moment, I feared seeing my child’s face. My hands trembled. But then I looked. “My Arthur…” I murmured, seeing his plump, rosy face. His large blue eyes and sweet smile melted my heart. I swore silently that I would always stand by his side.

FLASHBACK

When the tent opened halfway, and Richard’s bloodied hand heralded his victory, my knees buckled as terror turned to joy. I saw Richard step toward me, sweaty, wounded, but alive. He lifted me in his arms and kissed me with such force that it stole my breath. “You’re alive!” I sobbed.

“Yes, I’m alive.” He laid me on the bed and took me with the strength and passion of a man reclaiming his life. He told me of his victory, of the blood spilled, and how he had killed Henry Tudor but granted his mother the dignity of a proper burial.

With every thrust, he whispered his tale of triumph, and I lost myself in the whirlwind of his scent and passion. I gave myself to him, not as a lover, but as a woman who had begged for his life. Richard had claimed victory at Bosworth, defied Parliament’s laws, and chosen to marry me. From our love, a son was born, a firstborn destined to inherit all that was his. The banners continued to wave the white rose, while the red one faded into oblivion.

I am Elizabeth of York, and this is a story that will never be told.

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