~Winter's War~

The coldness of Autumn had frozen the heat of summer away, draining the rich green of the leaves away into oranges and browns that fell to the floor in a carpet of dull colour. Water droplets that shone like jewels rained down from the heavens, clouded with grey, and soon hearths had to be lit day and night, cloaks worn and furs heaved onto beds.

Still, Haddon Hall was warm with murmurings, with news that flew through the manor as if carried on the wings of an angel who called out to each he saw!
'Come back for me' Catherine had told Edward and he had promised that he would, she had believed that he would but now.....she knew he would not.

Contrary to George's doubts, just a month after he had spoken them, the Nevilles and the eldest of the York brood had returned to England, successfully capturing the capital and receiving a royal welcome from the people! The Duke of York himself, along with his second son, had followed, arriving in London in October to the welcome worthy of a King!

George had been dancing a jig for days and so had the servants! Caskets of wine and ale had been opened to celebrate the return of the Yorkists and each drank merrily to their good health. All except Catherine.

While they were drunk on their merriness, she was drunk on her despair, keeping to her room when she heard Queen Marguerite and her Prince had fled to Scotland, leaving King Henry in York care in London! The Lancastrian faction had been divided more than the Yorkist one ever had and soon the Act of Accord was passed. It was a law Cathrine despised, for it read that once King Henry was dead, York and his brood would take the throne.

It disinherited her Prince Edward, making him little more than a bastard in the eyes of the law! Queen Marguerite would surely not allow it, she thought. England had never seen a Queen as strong willed as she and to even begin to believe that she would let her son's throne be taken away from him without a fight was impossible!

She would fight until the last breath left her body, Catherine knew, she would fight even if she was captured!

And she was right.

꧁꧂

November 1460, Haddon Hall....

"My Lady! My Lady you must wake!"

Catherine woke with a start to Agnes' bony hands shaking her to the present. The old woman held and urgency in her voice, one that made her mistress sit up in her bed, grappling for her velvet robe which Agnes quickly wrapped around her.

"What is it?" The girl hurriedly whispered, only then noticing that behind the curtains of her bedchamber it was still dark, it was still night "What is it?" She asked again when Agnes took her hand and pulled her from the warm confines of her bed. The old woman did not answer, instead leading her Lady through her solar and onto the winding staircase that took them down to the great hall.

It was then Catherine became aware of the incessant clattering that filled Haddon Hall, the shouting of men and women alike as they ran back and forth from the courtyard. The great hall burned bright with torches that made the freshly sharpened weapons lined up against the stone wall glimmer with malice, their owners (male servants and Bergavenny soldiers) rushing to snatch them up. It was the middle of the night! What on earth were they doing?

"Assemble the pikes! Fetch your armour and the horses!"

Catherine looked up at the sound of her husband's booming voice, seeing he stood on the dais, observing his men with calculated precision and narrowed eyes. He stood in his shirt and breeches, his dark hair tousled by the pillows he had slept on but he held a crumpled letter in his hands. The letter that had roused him from sleep, his wife supposed. Letting go of Agnes' hand, she rushed through the hall, small enough to weave in and out of the soldiers and servants that crowded the bustling chamber.

Some of the crowd parted for her, bowing as she passed but she payed them no heed, not even her usual smile. Her eyes were set on her husband and to her husband she went, climbing up the dais steps to his side where her chest heaved for air.
"What is is, George?" She gasped, tugging on his sleeve until he looked down at her with a worried gaze, brandishing the letter in his hand.

"Marguerite of Anjou has allied with the Scottish King and raised an army against York!" He murmured angrily before he turned on his heels, striding behind the dais where another set of stairs lay; one that led to his chambers. Catherine hurried to keep up with him, taking the stairs two at a time in an effort to not loose sight of him with his long strides of rage "She's restarted the whole bloody war!" He called down to her, scoffing incredulously before pushing his bedchamber door open with a bang "Scheming bitch"

"Don't call her that" Catherine snapped defensively as she followed him into the room but George only scoffed again, throwing the letter he held onto the pile of armour on his bed "You're to go to war?" She exclaimed when she saw it and he nodded grimly.

"The Duke of York has ordered his men to march to meet him at Wakefield in the hopes of stopping Lancaster before they can reach London!"
"But surely you are too young to fight, frère?"

George turned to look at his wife, leaning against the nearest bed post with his strong arms crossed.
"The Duke's eldest son first went into battle at thirteen, my dear!" He replied with a wry smile that made Catherine frown "Besides I have fought before! I want to fight!"
"You want to fight Lancaster?" She murmured.

"I want to fight for the man I think King"

She stepped a little more into the room, carefully closing the open door behind her before approaching her husband, one desperate question coming to mind.
"Wakefield you say?" He nodded "if you are to fight there....will my Father fight too?" A flood of sympathy entered his eyes and he nodded a second time, causing Catherine's legs to weaken, so much so she had to sink down onto his bed.

She had not seen her Father in a year and it was fast approaching the second with how the months seemed to speed by. With a small sigh, George placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly "Do not let him die" She whispered fretfully, finding her eyes suddenly full of stinging tears "Take him prisoner like your family took me!" She grasped his hand "but please Georgie, do not let my Father die in the battle to come! My brother is too young to become Earl...." A small sob broke from her lips at the thought of her elder brother and George instantly sat beside her, gathering her small body gently into his arms as he always did when she cried.

"I will try" He promised "I cannot assure his safety but I will try" Catherine clung to him harder at that, wrapping the linen of his shirt around her little fists to bind him to her.

"You have to come back" She told him "You have to live no matter who wins....if Lancaster is victorious I shall be safe anyway but if York win and you are not here" She peered up at him through tearful eyes, her cheeks flushed with despair "You are the only one who can keep me safe" George frowned sadly, placing a hand to her cheek to wipe away her tears.

"I will come back, Cat, I will not leave you. You are as dear to me as a sister would be and I will always be here to protect you, no matter what. You do not trust Nevilles, I know that" He sighed a little "but I swear to you that I will come back, bien mon cher?"

She nodded, for once deciding to trust as she had learnt to trust her husband over that past year and a half. He would come back, he would not leave her all alone in this wretched world....he wouldn't dare. Slowly tugging free from his embrace, she took up the padded jerkin that lay on his bed and opened it up, helping her husband slide his arms into the garment.

While he saw to the laces, she picked up the polished breastplate from the covers, helping it over his head and tending to the leather straps, buckling them as best she knew how. She had seen the squires at Middleham ready themselves in armour many a time, she was sure she could do the same for her husband. 
"You do not have to" He told her but she continued all the same, sliding his hands through the metal cam braces that would protect his arms "You would help a Neville ready to defeat your House?"

He spoke with amusement but Catherine merely shrugged.
"I am helping my husband to defend himself"
Tightening the vambrace straps, she nodded towards his boots, motioning for him to put them on, which he did, pulling at the laces that held the leather together.
"All I ask is that you come back" She whispered and he nodded, placing one large hand over her small ones.

"I will" He assured her "I don't intend to die, not yet"

Blue eyes found brown, once more filling with tears.
"I'm not sure anyone truly intends to die, Georgie"

꧁꧂

It was with tearful eyes that the woman of Haddon Hall bade farewell to their menfolk, many bestowing coloured handkerchiefs to their husbands or suitors. They were meant as luck charms, a way to remember their loved ones and give them favour on the battlefield.

Catherine gave George a sign of her favour, not a handkerchief or a strip of cloth but a token of her good will that he kept proudly under his armour. It was a fine emerald ring on a golden chain given to him that morning....the ring belonging to Queen Marguerite but his wife had decided he did not need to know that.

She had not given it away with no thought, she was not that simple, no, she had a plan! After lying awake the previous night, cradling the precious jewel given to her by the Queen to her chest, she had decided to bequeath it to her husband. If the Yorkists were to lose (which she was sure they were) then George would be either killed, captured or he would escape.

She knew she would pray for the latter, over and over and over until she fell asleep in the chapel but if the second option was to be then she hoped her gift would save him. If the Lancastrians saw this, if her Father or his friends saw the ring around his neck, bearing the seal of Queen Marguerite inside, surely they would be merciful?

Perhaps they would take him to her? Take him to the Queen and she would show him mercy? Send him back to Haddon before dissolving the marriage between he and Catherine so that she could marry the Prince?

It was a dream Catherine hoped for even as she slipped the golden chain around her husband's neck that morn, pressing a small kiss to his cheek when he embraced her.

"Farewell, Cat" He murmured against her hair before releasing her "And you, Aggie" Agnes smiled, pulling him into a hug that Catherine was sure used all of her strength.
"You had better return, young man!" She told him with tearful eyes "Your Mother would not see you dead before your time and nor shall I!"
"Right you are, Aggie!" He replied merrily "Right you are"

It was a strange thing for Catherine to observe, but she had noticed that ever since the news for war had lost its initial shock just hours before, the men to leave took up a merriness she had not foreseen! They joked and laughed as if they were to attend the royal court, not a battlefield! 'It's their hope' Agnes had told her when she asked why the men sang instead of prayed 'If these are to be their last days they wish to spend them in happiness, not sorrow'

The little girl supposed she understood. If she were to die she would prefer to be happy then sad and if a battle really was to take place then almost half of these men were likely to die. Watching Georgie's men mount their armoured horses, she crossed herself, hoping he would not be among the dead.

'Come back' She prayed over and over in her head when her husband began to ride away, his men in loyal tow. Squeezing the Prince's ring she held in her right hand, she could only hope that her gift would prove beneficial and, if he was victorious, he would keep his promise to her.

꧁꧂

December 31st 1460, the Battle of Wakefield....

Snow swirled in the sky, not delicate flakes that kissed skin like a cold caress but icy bullets that hammered down upon the weak soldiers below, holding them to the ground and to their death like a cruel judge.

All around the field, bodies of Yorkists and Lancastrians alike lay strewn about, their limbs contorted and their open eyes glazed over like glass, frozen in time while blood flowed from their pale lips.

The blanket of snow that lay upon the ground, once pure and clean, was now drenched with blood, captured by the captivating crimson that equalled the red in the Lancastrian rose. The more soldiers that bled, the more blood streaked across the snow, it's grasping, skeletal fingers, clawing at the icy brightness beneath until it was conquered.

Just as the Lancastrians had conquered the Yorkists that day.

It was mostly their blood that soaked the snow, their blood that had been shed and their forces destroyed while the Lancastrians emerged victorious.

It had not exactly been a fair fight. For the holy celebrations that Christmas brought, a time of peace and forgiveness, a truce had been agreed between the Yorkists at Sandal Castle and the Lancastrians at Pontefract, stating that no battles would be fought until the new year had passed. Driven by their hatred of the Duke of York and his men, the Lancastrians had broken that truce and marched to Wakefield where they arrived on the morning of New Year's Eve.

Outraged, the Duke had ordered his men (despite not all of them having arrived yet) to rally and charged out of the castle; his second son, Edmund, by his side. It had seemed a foolish decision to some and, in truth, it was.

Within hours, the Yorkists forces were overwhelmed and slaughtered, the Duke himself being struck down along with the Earl of Salisbury and his son, Thomas Neville, while young Edmund fled with a fellow soldier, hoping to find solace in the chapel over Wakefield bridge.

The Yorkist soldiers had been massacred, each and every one of them lying dead in the crimson snow that had a stench of death about it. Even the Lancastrian leaders that patrolled the field did not smile in victory, instead moving with grim faces and heavy sighs.

One knight lay in the snow, his red and white Neville livery ripped and his lip cut, leaving a stream of crimson to flow down his chin. His dark hair was tangled, not tousled as it usually was, and was wet; heavy with the snow he lay on. His sword was long gone from his grip, as was his conciseness and he lay still against the earth, just like his men, only.....he was alive and they dead.

George Neville.

However frail his breath was, his chest still slightly rose and fell, giving way to the brittle life he clung to. Heavy footsteps approached his body, though they were barely audible to him; leather boots crunching against the snow. The sound of a sword sliding from its scabbard filled the air and suddenly a blade poked at him, stirring him from his slumber. George's eyes snapped open and his weakened body suddenly jerked to action, instinct overwhelming the pain that filled each limb, each fibre of muscle.

Trying with all his strength, he attempted to get to his feet, to search for a sword that he could use to defeat the tall man above him but his actions were too slow and the hilt of the drawn sword, knocked him flat again. An agonised groan passed his cut lips and he fought to stay conscious, pushing himself upwards so he could peer into the eyes of his foe.

Eyes of deep brown met his, eyes filled with deep hate that were a stark contrast to the muddied red and yellow livery. The yellow and red of the Percys. With a snarl, the Earl of Northumberland hauled the boy he had found to his knees, resisting the urge to hit the young Lord to the snow again. 'Foolish boy' He thought and glared at him, reading his weapon to kill the lad with his expert precision when a cry suddenly stopped him.

The young Neville had raised a hand, a hand to command, a hand to halt, a hand to plead for mercy. The Earl was not inclined to listen. He had no unusual lust for blood but each time he was in grasp of a Neville, he knew he had no choice but to dispatch them if he was to keep his family safe.

Of course, he had failed in that, he thought and his heart stung beneath his armour. The time he hesitated gave the Neville boy the time he needed to reach into his armour, fishing out the golden ring that hung on its chain and holding it up to the Earl. The man's eyes widened at the sight, his breath hitching as he recognised the ring his Queen had given to his daughter.

Almost two long years ago....

The sight of such an object suddenly drained Percy of all desire to kill and cull, leaving him with only one question on his lips.
"Where did you get that?"

"Catherine" George breathed "Its from Catherine!"
"Catherine" He repeated "My Catherine? My daughter, Cathrine?"
"Catherine Percy" The boy assured him "My wife"

At those two words the Earl was suddenly seized with the urge to destroy once more, the urge to wipe every Neville from the earth, to wipe it clean of this treacherous clan that plagued his every waking hour! But he did not raise his sword, despite his will to kill the boy before him, all that happened was his eyes filled with angry tears. Tears of rage and grief that no amount of blood could quench.

"You took my little girl" He whispered, pointing his sword accusingly at the young Lord's chest "You took my little girl, my very own Catherine" A small sob threatened to sneak past his lips "My Cate"

"I didn't!" George swore "My cousin did but I did not! I have done nothing but protect and care for Catherine! I have kept her safe!"
"Why would I trust anything that you say?" Percy spat in reply "You're a Neville!"
"And the husband of your daughter! She is my wife, my Lord, and she cares for me as I do her! Why else would she have given me this token of her favour?"

The Earl's dark gaze once more darted to the precious jewel that was held up to him and his eyes narrowed.
"How do I know you did not take this from her?"
"Because I am a man of honour, Sir"
Percy almost laughed at that.
"Honour?" He echoed cynically "What honour have the Nevilles ever had? You bastards forfeited any notion of honour when you stole my six year old daughter from her bed!"

"Please, my Lord, she made me promise over and over to return to her, to keep her safe! I know you do not think me honourable but let me be so in keeping this oath to your daughter"

"Henry!" A voice called and the Earl turned to see the Duke of Somerset staring at him from across the bloody field; a sea of bodies "Henry!" He called again, more insistently this time "Will you kill that little bastard and come and celebrate with us or not? We are about to put Yorks head on a pike! Thomas Neville's and Salisbury's too!"

On his knees, George wretched, the contents of his stomach spilling out onto the snow, much to Percy's disgust, his vomit a mess of blood and breakfast. They were to stick his cousins and Uncle's heads on pikes, oh Christ what a fate, he thought. Was that to be his too? Humiliated until crows pecked out his eyes and his flesh decayed?

'Come back' Catherine's small voice suddenly called in his mind and he knew she was not to be denied. Somehow....somehow he would escape this battlefield. Somehow....

A hand suddenly grasped at him, pushing him upwards as it grasped a fistful of his livery and tore it away, carelessly throwing the red and white linen aside. With narrowed eyes the Earl of Northumberland stared down at him with an expression of animosity mixed with revulsion.

"He is of no use to us" He called over his shoulder and Somerset nodded, turning away to where his fellow Lancastrians stood. Percy looked back to his captive, narrowing his eyes again before he darted forward and ripped the golden chain from the boy's neck, making him flinch in pain "This is mine" He hissed "I am letting you go for the sake of my daughter but I will have something of hers, I swear it" He slid the ring onto one of his fingers, pulling George roughly to his feet with his free hand.

Glaring at him once more, he jerked him close, wrinkling his nose at the stench of death that encased them "One day I will have my dearest girl again" He swore "One day I will hold her safe in my arms and on that day" He paused "I will kill you, Neville"

Pushing the boy away, he turned on his heels and stomped through the snow, dragging his bloodied sword along with him while he tried to blink back the tears that had filled his eyes.

George took in a breath of air, one precious breath that his burning lungs had denied him while on the brink of death. But now, he had it, and with it, he ran.

Through winding woodland and banks of snow he ran, leaving bloody footprints behind him. Beneath his armour, his lungs clawed for breath, his chest heaved, begging for air once more but he would not stop, he could not stop. He had to make it home to Catherine. He crashed into several trees, losing his balance as his head spun, blood trickling down his forehead from the cut Percy's sword had caused when its hilt hit him.

It made his vision blur, his steps stumble and he was sure he was about to begin hallucinating when he heard his name.

"George!" The agonised voice called, one of a young man but, in its desperation, it could almost be mistaken for a young boy "George!" The voice called again "George, get over here you horse's arse!"

Blinking profusely, George slumped against another tree, trying to make sense of his surroundings while he sank into the snow. Strangely, he saw a figure across from him, also leant against a sturdy trunk, a boy with tousled blonde hair and blue eyes that stared pleadingly at him. He held one hand to his arm where blood seeped through the hole in his armour; slipped through his fingers "George " He called again and George's eyes went wide.

That was no mere soldier, this was no stranger.

"Edmund!" He cried and shoved himself away from his tree.