~When Death Comes on Swift Wings~

11th of September 1484, Sutton Bank....

A city of tents sprouted from the few that had been atop the bank, spreading across the flat land. For the first few days, morn and night sawing and the thud of fallen trees could be heard. They cleared the ridge and much of the encampment of their wooden inhabitants, filling the spaces with pointed linen, horses and heavy canon.

As the camp rose, a routine began to form for the army and for Constance too. She would rise with the sun and her ladies would help her dress. She would then go and see her son, kiss him good morning, ensure he'd eaten (she'd realised he had a habit of being sidetracked from food those days) then eat herself. By the time she was finished the camp would be alive with soldiers, their laughter and chatter, their shouts and scrapes of wet-stones against their swords.

She would return to her tent for a while, listen to Margaret read or embroider with Elizabeth and sometimes Edward or Richard would come to fetch her, particularly if anyone has joined them. So far the Earl of Kildare and his force of four hindered had made a most welcome arrival as long with Thomas St Leger - Anne of York's widower and fifty men. She'd embraced him fiercely.

The most notable man to join them was William Stanley, brother of Thomas who they all knew stood firmly on the enemy side. She knew what this was - one brother on each side as always but he brought to her son two thousand men and who was she to deny that? All the same she told Richard to tell every commander to keep an eye on him.

Edward welcomed him no differently than he did any other man, smiling when knelt before him and swore his allegiance to the true king, embracing him when he rose and walking with an arm about Stanley's shoulders into his tent where he offered him wine. Still, she knew he had his reservations, he wasn't stupid.

When her son or lover did not fetch her she would walk about parts of the camp with her ladies, often finding herself drawn to the edge of the bank to stare out at the view. Thrice the sound of arrows flying into the air had joined her.

Rob told her they were testing how far they reached to see if they could fire them from the bank during battle instead of having the men below. The third time there were temporary walls constructed from the felled trees put up from the edge and the men were in the fields firing upwards to see if the enemy arrows could reach them. Only two managed it. That was a relief.

Once she'd had her fill of the view, she'd return to her tent again (or Edward's) and listen to Margaret and Elizabeth's prayers, eat again, then write to her daughters. She'd written every day since they left. When that was seen to she'd visit her brothers, sometimes Peter, sometimes Charles, sometimes they were together.

She found herself getting to know them far better than she ever had in childhood and grew to properly recognise the traits they all shared, the way both her brothers lips quirked up in the same way when they were amused or the fact Charles' favourite fruit was oranges just like hers. Peter liked plums. They shared memories of James (though she had far more than they) and of their home - their father.

While Charles was the eldest of the three - and eleven years Constance's senior - he'd been sent to the service of god at and young age and it was Peter who proved to remember him best, being eighteen when he died. He remembered the man who liked to walk in the gardens with a book in his hand, who smiled at his lady wife every time she appeared and kissed her hand with reverence, who winked at his sons across the dinner table when their mother reprimanded them and doted on young Constance.

"We were rather jealous at times" He'd said, twirling his knife around his fingers "though we did not resent you. Our dear mother's lack of affection never helped." He spoke the title with mockery "I was rather surprised at first that she went to you before she died but then of course she did. You were the most powerful of us all it was only natural she would be clinging to glory even in her last days."

"She was hurting, Peter." She'd replied "More than any of us could have known and for longer." Peter considered her words for only a moment before scoffing a laugh.

"It wouldn't have hurt her to try." He muttered and she jumped when the tip of his dagger drove deep into the table, his fingers a strained white around the hilt "Particularly after father died. We all needed some warmth and she was as cold as his grave. I know she was mourning but so were we."

"And then she clung to John like a leech and sold you off one by one with him." She looked to Charles at his remark. He nodded towards her "You were the first."
"Well, she's gone. Did you know John has six bastards?"

Six? Her mind cried. By God - and she'd been angry at Edward for having three! Well, those were ones he knew of and acknowledged, she supposed, who knew how many bastards Ned had scampering about the country! And she'd never been truly angry with him for having Grace (she knew he'd never be faithful), it was only the Woodville woman and her traitor sons she hated.

"And not one legitimate child." Added Charles "Well, not born legitimate. He legitimised his daughter, Marguerite, many years ago in sixty four! He's fifty eight now and has just wed his second wife - Catherine. Little mouse of a thing I hear, just like the first."

"Good god, when will John die?"
"Peter!" Charles exclaimed, sitting straight in his chair "That's an awful thing to say!"
Peter arched an eyebrow.
"Is it?"
"No. Not really."

Constance couldn't hide a smile at that, however horrible the thought was.

It was in moments like that they reminded her of James.

After visiting them, she would do some more wandering and then often seek out her son, finding him bent over one map or another, Richard and John more often than not at his side. He'd offer her a drink, she'd accept and they'd sip their wine slowly, attending to business or talking between themselves of happier things.

Each day he asked more about his father and every time she told him more. She tried to keep out his faults, to fill her boys head with nothing but a golden warrior king to follow into battle. After all, it was no lie, that was what his father had been and she'd worshipped him for it in her youth. As had many.

Richard would often interject, adding his own memories of Edward's strength and courage and was tactful enough to be able to slip in small stories of defeat without unsettling his nephew's mind. Instead he made them sound glorious, the tales of Ned fleeing into exile only to return from Burgundy and reclaim his throne in a storm of strength and majesty "Just as you do now" He'd said.

"Do you think people will tell such stories of me?" Edward asked, refilling his cup. Richard had smiled.
"They already do, lad." And that set Edward grinning from ear to ear!

They would then take dinner, sometimes together, sometimes in their own tents and when that was done, they'd go about their own business before bidding one another a good night and retiring. Or at least, she did, well, tried to. She often paced until the small hours. Francis told her Edward had a habit of going to his Uncle's tent (or George Neville's, having grown quite attached to the young man) and keeping him up until past martins!

She couldn't blame him, nor did she interrupt their talks to tell him to sleep. Richard would do that for her and who could blame Edward for restless nights when death was looming over him? He likely wanted to claim all the hours he could.

༻᯽༺

That night....

Pushing the leather flaps of his uncle's tent aside, Edward stepped into the candle-lit chamber, the floor covered with wooden planks and rugs atop them. At the left end was a great bed, made up for the night and at the right was his uncle's desk at which he was sat, a pen in one hand, the other pressed at the top of the parchment set before him, arm bent and resting on the surface.

"Uncle."

Looking up Richard smiled only to find his nephew staring at the floor and unmoving from the tent's entrance, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot as if the ground were made of hot coals.

"Are you well, lad? You're unusually quiet today." He'd been monosyllabic since the sun rose, keeping his gaze to his rings or the distance; lips set in a small, serious frown. Thoroughly unlike himself.

"What....what is it like to kill a man?"

Ah, so there were the worrisome contents of his mind. Richard laid down his quill.

"In battle?" Edward nodded and he pushed his chair away from the desk, quickly standing and fetching another he put next to his "Come." He patted its carved back. It had a lion's head in the centre "Sit."

Without looking up, Edward obeyed and slipped into the chair, appearing smaller than usual as Richard sat down again. He twisted ring on his left little finger back and forth, its ruby glistening in the candlelight. Of course he'd want to know what it felt like, Richard thought, he'd have to slay countless men by the time the battle was done and it was only natural he'd be nervous - scared. He remembered well enough his feelings before Barnet.

"It is difficult....and yet it is easy. When you are on the field, surrounded by the dead and the dying, by men who look to you for leadership and those who seek to cull you, the training you endured truly becomes child's play. It is not as if you were to run through a man in the courtyard, instinct overrules thought. You know if you do not kill you shall be killed; that you are fighting in the name of your cause and of God. When you kill that first man, whether it be by the sword or the fist, you will remember him" He said and Edward finally looked up "Until the end of your days you will remember him. But the others?" He shrugged, offering a small smile.

"You slaughter so many if becomes a blur. You forget their faces, their banners, their cries, but if you dwell on their souls, upon the lives you took, you will live in darkness and you cannot afford to do that." Sitting forward, he rested his arms on his legs, clasping his hands together "A King cannot afford to do that. Focus your thoughts upon the lives you shall keep, those you protect in killing whom you do. You kill for your people, for your kingdom, for your kin; your Father. List them in your head whenever you feel doubt. That's what I did! Come on." He said "Say their names. Aloud. With me."

Edward still refused to look up but Richard didn't mind. "Mother, Father, Marie Isabella, Cecily, Aliénor, Richard, Charles, Grandmother, James, Dickon, England. Say it my lad."

Edward swallowed and for a moment he thought there'd be no reply but then his young lips parted and his fingers stilled their fiddling.

"Mother, Father, Marie Isabella, Cecily, Aliénor, Richard, Charles, Grandmother, Jamie, Dickon, England."
"There you go. Remember that."
"I think I will add Anna's name" He murmured quietly "She's fond of me." He gave himself a sharp nod, biting his lower lip so hard Richard thought it would draw blood.

"And what of revenge?" Edward then asked, casting his eyes into the gloom of the tent. Richard sighed. They all yearned for it but like for most things in life, they would have to wait. Or rather, wait a little longer.

"There is a place for it but you must let it fuel you, not blind you or you will fall."
"Do....do you think this will be the only battle? Or will we have to fight again." He hoped not.

"We cannot say anything for certes but we will try to ensure the bastards are put down in one swift move. Once we know what flank the pretender is to be in, the commanders of our counterpart will do all they can to get to him and put him down like the dog he is." He looked up, tilting his head a little in question "You do not wish to execute him after the battle, do you? Make him an example?"

Edward inhaled sharply, fingers flexing on the arms of the chair - jaw clenched. His head rested against the lion.

"No. I hope to have captured men enough for that. I want the bastard to die on the field," He said through gritted teeth "a brutal death that is worth no more remark than any other. If possible. I want to do it myself."

"No." Was his Uncle's sharp reply and a calloused finger pointed at him "Not unless you have to. I will not have your mind clouded by that aim. You must have your wits about you and be sure to stay with your men. With me." He would protect his nephew with his life and god help the men that tried to take him from the earth. Edward blinked and the scowl on his face lifted for a moment.

"You will be at my side?"
"Where else would I be, Ned? When your father fought for his throne in the year after you were born, there were two forces that came for him. The bastard only has one. We will do our best to break their ranks and rout them: kill all we can. There is a slight possibility of pockets of rebels remaining but you are so beloved by the land they will soon be put down and won't have to do it yourself. Your men will. I will"

Edward nodded then the serious scowl returned and his eyes returned to his lap.
"I can't imagine it, running my sword through a man I've never met, bashing his skull in with my fist."

Richard wished he'd never had reason to imagine it, to have the thought prompted but this was where they were, there was nothing much to do now.

"Don't." Was all he could say "You just have to do it. Do what you must to survive. It's what men do. What kings do. And you are the king, beloved and crowned. You must show courage and strength to your men. When this is over and you have won, you can be at peace, lad. Your mother and I will train you to rule and rule in your stead until you come of age and while we do, you can let your heart beat a little slower, enjoy what every over young man enjoys - hunting, dancing, pretty girls!" Watching his nephew, a smirk settled over his lips and he sat back in his chair. Why not surround him with more agreeable thoughts? "John and I thought for a moment we'd have to interviene at Helmsley! You seemed quite taken with the woman on your arm during the feast."

Edward looked at him and couldn't resist a smirk himself, quickly joined by a heavy blush that turned his sun-kissed face red.
"She was beautiful and witty. I liked her." He replied.
"What was her name?"
"Jane."
"Ah. Jane." 'I hope her surname isn't anything close to Shore' He thought wryly.

"Her father is now one of my knights." The serious boy had vanished like smoke and Edward was now enthused, a youthful gleam in his eye and excitement in his voice. Richard could almost see him bouncing up and down in his chair, thrilled to be part of such manly talk.

"And he will fight well for you, as we all will. Think of Jane these next few days, her pretty face and witty remarks, it will calm you and you never know, one day you may meet her again."

Edward's deep chuckle reverberated around them as he tossed back his head, hitting it lightly on the wooden lion before he glanced at his Uncle and arched an eyebrow.

"But I shouldn't bed her?"

Richard grinned.
"You'll have whores for that!" He told him with an indulgent shake of the head "But I daresay you won't be able to resist a higher rank of woman from time to time, even I couldn't in my youth." Edward's smirk grew at that, as if he had just become privy to the greatest secret in all the world "Just wait until the land is settled, none of us will be in the mood for fighting off perturbed knights after this!"

This time his laughter filled the tent. He carded a hand through his hair.
"Yes, Uncle!"

With a sharp pang to his chest, Richard realised he'd expected to hear 'brother' instead.