~The Castle of Cares~

The jaggedly rough edges of bark pressed painfully into her back, though she did not feel it, so numb was her translucent skin; icy to the touch. The thick roped wrapped around her small body burned her, turning her wrists a raw red that would normally have her flinch, but she did not feel it.

She did not feel.
She did not hear.
She did not see.

Her mind and body alike were trapped in a land of forced sleep where no dreams or nightmares dared to venture. Reality was nightmare enough for the girl. While the Nevilles and their men laughed and feasted by a fire, Catherine lay strapped to a sturdy tree trunk, helpless against the invisible ropes of unconsciousness that bound her.

A living death had claimed her.

Golden locks of hair tangled wildly around her face, damp with the mud and raindrops from trees that had grasped cruelly at the flaxen curls when the Nevilles had made their escape.

What a fall for a girl so high.
On the edge of a golden world.

She was a pitiful sight, John thought, as he watched her from the fire, a weak, small little thing that could no more win a fight against a bird, let alone a group of grown soldiers. Even in sleep she shivered in her thin nightgown, once clean with not one stitch out of place.

Now the hem was frayed and dirty, the fine cuffs ripped and John felt his stomach twist with sympathy. 'We will not hurt her' Richard had said yet cuts and bruises that were sure to sting her painfully marked her cheeks and jaw. The men had not inflicted them upon her but John had to admit, his brother had been rather careless, drunk on victory, when he had ridden away from Alnwick, their prize slung over the back of his horse.

"Feeling sorry for the little Lancastrian, brother?"

He turned at the sound of Richard's amused voice, not surprised to see the little smirk on his lips that accompanied such a tone. Now he was not just drunk on victory, he was drunk on ale, so much so he swayed slightly upon the stump he sat on. John quirked an eyebrow.

"Are you not?"

Richard shrugged a little, draining the contents of his cup once again before he tugged of his cloak and rose to his feet. His steps were neither sure nor steady but he managed to get to the tree where his captive was bound, draping the heavy woollen clock over the small girl before he returned to the fire.

"She reminds me a little of Anne" He muttered dully almost as if his act of kindness caused him pain while he refilled his cup "I would not like to see her cold"
"Now who's feeling sorry for the little Lancastrian?" Thomas quipped from across the fire, earning yet another glare that night from his elder brother.

At that moment a small rustle caught their attention and the brothers turned to see their captive was beginning to stir, her weak limbs stretching as they tried to grasp at some remanence of life.

Catherine groaned, even though her mind was only slightly conscious she could feel her head pounding with pain and a foul stench swimming in her nose. It wrinkled. Each of her limbs ached, a pain digging into her joints that was unyielding.

How her mind played tricks on her. She could hear the crackle of a fire and at least a dozen male voices but that could not be so, she was in bed, safe at Alnwick Castle where none could harm her. A harsh wood dug into her back, forcing her to shift uncomfortably, what on earth was that? Surely Henry had not slipped one of his wooden daggers into her bed had he? It had not been there before.

And never was her bed so cold....

Never was there not a soft pillow beneath her head....

Never had she ever been bound and now she could feel a thick rope around her body, rubbing her skin raw through her tattered nightgown....

Her eyes snapped open.

The dull surroundings of woodland drenched in nighttime darkness met her gaze, the amber glow of a hot fire and the smell of smoke intoxicating her senses so her mind spun again.

She had been take, captured....kidnapped and with one glance at the red and white banner beside her she knew exactly who by. No, it was not possible....it was not possible...Nevilles could never capture her....Nevilles could never take her.

But they had she realised with a pang of terror so strong it made her entire body tremble. The Warwick bear and ragged staff flashed before her tired eyes.

A shrill scream tore from her throat, one that was not planned nor sensible, it was a natural reaction, one that emerged at the sight of the dark shadows hunched over the fire a few feet away. Three of these ghouls looked directly at her, their eyes of green and blue piercing her terrified soul. One flinched at her scream.

Catherine began to struggle, writhing against her bonds while her eyes filled with tears and she shouted for help. A pair of heavy boots approached her but still she did not stop her struggle, not until a rough hand suddenly struck her hard aacross the face, the force of the blow cutting her skin. She gasped with shock and with pain.

She had never been struck before....never.

Dizzy, her head fell back to see a soldier looking down at her, breath reeking of ale and hatred in his eyes.

"Squeal again and I'll cut your throat, bitch" Raising his hand once more, Catherine whimpered and closed her eyes, trying to shield herself from a second blow she knew was just moments away.

But it never came. The man was abruptly hauled upright and one of the dark shadows that had been watching her thrust its dagger into his neck, twisting it while the soldier choked. Catherine gasped as a warm, red liquid spurted out of his flesh and onto her, covering her face, her hair, her nightgown.

It stuck to her skin like a curse that she could not rub away for her hands were bound, but she found she could not weep. Her body would not allow it. All she could do was watch in silence as the man choked on his death, blood spewing from his mouth before he fell to the floor; lay still.

He lived no longer.

Catherine stared at the lifeless body before she dared to look up, seeing the figure of a Neville staring down at her with light blue eyes that were unreadable to her. Involuntarily, she flinched when he knelt before her, placing one hand to her cut cheek.

"Take me home"

He looked up at her whisper, shaking his head before he tried to tend to her cut once more. The girl turned her head away, flinching a second time when a stinging tear of salt entered the wound.

"Youre never going to go home, child" He replied, fetching a rag from his belt and dousing it in water from the leather bottle at his pouch. Catherine's lip trembled, shoulders beginning to heave with sobs as his words echoed in her ears. 'You are never going to go home'

No matter how gently the words had been spoken they still pained her more than a dagger to the stomach. How could she never go home? She could hardly comprehend the thought....it could not be true, it would not be true....how could she live without her family? How could she live without her brother, her most trusted companion?

Catherine shook her head.

"I want my Mother" She wept, her words skewed with confusion and disbelief "I want my Mother" She repeated a little louder trying to will herself back to Alnwick, her home. Another of the figures rose from the fire, green eyes like those of serpents approaching her.

Like those of serpents...

Warwick.

He took the same arrogant steps she had seem him take at Westminster when addressing the Queen but, unlike then, she did not feel rage at the sight of him. She only felt fear. "You stole me from my bed" She spat a sudden ferocity in her voice that was meant to intimidate but only made Warwick laugh as he twiddled his dagger in his hands.

"We did" He admitted "And now you are ours" He gave a nonchalant shrug, showing truly how much he cared for his actions. The man seemed void of conscious, the devil the Queen had branded him. Catherine was sure in that moment that she had never felt so weak or small. She was well and truly helpless, more so than a babe yowling in its crib. It was not just the ropes that bound her, it was the power of these Neville men, of Warwick and his brothers.

Just hours ago she had been an innocent, sleeping peacefully in her bed and now, now she lay injured at the hands of her greatest enemies, a dead man at her feet who's blood she wore.

Even if she were to make it home, she would never be that same innocent child again.

And continued to weep because of it.

꧁꧂

As she was forced to ride across the vast expanse of the cold North, Catherine was silent in her greif. Though no one had died, she mourned. She mourned her parents, her brother, her home, herself. All of the things she felt had been torn from her soul leaving a wound that would never heal, only fester like an infection would.

Despite mourning, she did not cry, she no longer had the ability too. All the tears she possessed had been shed and now all she had was swollen eyes that were proof of her distress.

Even though winter sun hailed the valleys they rode through, her world was void of light. It was an empty abyss of darkness, so large she did not even attempt to climb out.

A week had passed since she had been cruelly snatched from her home and not once had men been sent to rescue her (that she knew of), not once did she see the Percy blue and yellow. 'They must be looking for me' She told herself firmly, her faith in her family the one thing she did not give up on 'They must be trying to find me!'

Surely they would not abandon her? Even if they did not look for love surely they would look for the power that she could wield? She was the Queen's favourite, a friend of the Prince he had singled out. Even if they did not seek her rescue Marguerite surely would!

One hand crept up to her neck where the ring the Queen had given her hung on a delicate chain, the metal cold against her skin. Catherine was thankful it had not been taken from her, at first thinking that the Nevilles would seek to sell it for their own profit but they had not. It was the one reminder of her home, of her station.

She was the daughter of an Earl, a future Duchess or Queen in the making though after a seven days and six nights of travel she did not look it. Her hair was tangled, turned a muddy blonde from all of the dirt and twigs that were driven into her scalp like small knives. Her nightgown was torn, covered in grime and frayed beyond repair.

Dark purple crescents, like bruises, lay under her eyes, she had not slept more than one hour a night and the cuts on her face refused to heal. Each day they seemed to bleed anew, coating her chin and fingers when she tried to wipe the pain away. Sometimes she did not know which was her blood and which was the blood of the solider that still haunted her each time she closed her eyes.

Catherine was forced to ride with John, the youngest of the Neville brothers that had taken her and while she could admit he was the one she hated the least, not a word passed between them. She kept Warwick's cloak around her, despite how the garment repulsed her. Had she not had it, she would have frozen to death and was almost grateful for the wool around her.

Almost.

John would sometimes speak to her, tell her how far to go and so on, but she never replied. From time to time he would try to coax her to speak, even one word, and so did his brothers though they took that taunting rout rather than the gentle one. Catherine responded to none. She was a ghost.

He tried once more that evening when they approached a castle that dominated the landscape, towering high above the small village that was situated below, dwarfed by the large stones that loomed over them. The only things taller were the vast mountains and hills that reached to the skies behind it, painted in a mesmerising shade of gold by the setting sun; a scene so picturesque it could have only been created by God himself.

"This is Middleham" John told her gently, watching as she tilted her chin up a little, grimacing at the sight of the walls and towers that would soon hold her in an iron grip. Would she ever be free once she had passed under the guarded barbican or was she to take her last breaths of fresh air in those moments?

"My prison" She murmured under her breath and John gently squeezed her shoulder, trying to reassure her but he could not deny her words. Middleham was to be her prison. His brother had a plan, he knew that, she was to be sold into their family through marriage, the one institution she could not escape.

They would lock her away with the gold band that would be slid onto her finger and she would never escape. And through that they would gain control of the North.

But first, there were two who had to die.

'What a fate for one so young', he thought, glancing down at his Percy companion who became a mere shadow under the darkness the portcullis cast. Catherine was becoming weaker, he could feel it in the way her body trembled and her eyes fluttered shut, wanting to trap her in sleep.

He smiled as the party entered the courtyard, the smell of roast chicken and meat pies assailing his senses and he happily surrendered to it. Catherine's stomach growled at the smell and she groaned in pain, pressing one hand against her belly. She craved food more than she craved her return home in that moment, wanting nothing more than to fill her stomach with hot food  that would at least allow her some peace.

The courtyard was alive with chatter, servants calling out to one another as they went about their tasks, dressed in white and red linen, aprons around their waists. Hens crossed the cobblestones, digging and pecking at the dirt beneath their feet; flapping out of the way of passers by with surprised clucks.

Boys trained at the tilt yard, attentive to the weapons they held, swords, pikes, maces. Weapons that would be used against the Lancastrians they met in battle. Catherine grimaced. It was something she had expected but still, the confused mutterings that arose from the gathering crowd scared her and she curled into John out of pure instinct for protection.

"They shan't harm you" He told her but she didn't believe him, not even as the horses came to a halt and he lifted her down into his arms, cradling her almost like a baby. Warwick jumped up the steps, a proud smile on his face as he stood above his servants, dagger drawn and pointing at the little girl in his brother's arms.

"We have captured a Percy!" He declared, naming her almost as an oddity to be stared at "The daughter of the Earl of Northumberland!" The crowd erupted into applause, cheering with all their might at the capture of a child. A child who, of course, was their enemy by blood, Catherine supposed. Still, it unnerved her to think so many hated her and her family that they would cheer at her capture "She is ours now and with her we shall take the power that has always been rightfully ours!"

Another round of cheers, stronger ones this time echoed around the vast courtyard, bouncing off the walls so that they resounded in Catherine's ears. She shook her head, over and over and over, silently begging to be taken inside. Any cell was better than this humiliation "Take her to the far Tower!"

Warwick called and while the crowd yelled their approval, Catherine sighed her relief as John began to move, his boots hard and heavy against the cobble while he marched her to where she was to be kept. Like a noble pet only one that was despised by its owners.

As the roar of the Neville servants died away, Catherine looked up a little to see John was carrying her to a tower away from the main castle, its strong walls built into the barbican of the formidable fortress. Two guards stood at either side of the great door which possessed an iron lock she was sure was bigger than both her hands and when she was carried inside she realised that this was to be her new home.

A prison if ever there was one.

There were two narrow floors to this 'far tower' and both were sparsely furnished, the lower containing only a small table where she assumed she would eat, and the second was not much different. This floor held but one bed, a narrow one with a straw mattress that Catherine thought fit for a servant and would have turned up her little nose at in normal circumstances.

But these were not normal circumstances and she was grateful even for this small sense of comfort as John lowered her down onto it, the wooden sheets scratchy on her skin. There were no tapestries to cover the walls, no other adornments that might possibly make it more pleasant for the little six year old, only a small shelf in the far corner that was bare.

Perhaps she would ask for books? After all, she was an apt reader! She had been the one to teach her older brother to read, in truth. He said his Tutor had never taught him right, beating him for his 'stupidity' when he could not write nor read the words properly. Henry complained that it was not his fault, that the words seemed to dance before his eyes, almost taunting him until he could not tell one word from the other!

Of course, that only got him laughed at by the other squires who named him an idiot.

Catherine had seen this and her little heart had twisted with sympathy, ever one to help a person in need, and quickly dedicated herself to her brother's study. It was difficult for him, and sometimes he would cry with anger but little by little he began to read a little more, than a little more until he was reciting full passages from the bible!

She smiled a little at the memory, wrapping Warwick's cloak around her as she tried to grasp for what little warmth she could. Aware that John still was there, she closed her eyes, suddenly willing him to go, this Neville who had taken her from her home! She wanted him out of her sight and was glad when he took his leave, promising he would send a bath for her.

The door shut with a thud and Catherine flinched at the sound of a key in its lock, trapping her in the little room at the top of the far tower. Now she only had herself and the soft whistle of the wind to keep her company; the ring around her neck. With a sense of desperation she grasped it, kissing the emerald and praying for rescue over and over.

But it was no use and soon her desperate prayers were overcome with desolate tears.

So she could still cry after all.