~The Blood of Barnet~

Catherine's ears pounded with the boom and crash of cannon, each shot, each heavy land of lead grinding the earth beneath it into a muddied mess, stained with the warm blood of men. It sent a tremor through her body. She had been on battlefields before but they had been battlefields of her mind, made bloody by memories as sharp as daggers, driven deep into her soul.

This battlefield was different. The screams filling the air were not her own and the conflict was not one of thoughts, but of blades. Bloodied, menacing blades flashing with a crimson glow in the sunlight; the bringers of death.

When the first cries of battle arose and the first screams of the dying pierced her mind with dread, it had been all she could do to refrain from rushing onto the field to find her husband. Only her sense of duty to her own revenge kept her in the confines of their tent but even then she was not still.

Pulling the ribbons from her hair, she let it loose, brushing out the flaxen curls until she could fashion them into a braid she pinned firmly to her head. A dagger was found and sheathed, a helmet too, tossed to one side as she turned to her husband's belongings.

Her hands rummaged through Richard's coffers, searching in earnest for a pair of breeches that would successfully accompany the rumpled shirt of linen and iron mail lying on the bed behind. Her gown and kirtle were beside it, the material long since cooled of the warmth of her body for it had been stripped from her as soon as she knew Richard was away!

Now, she shivered in her shift and stockings as the cannons called out in their deadly boom again, pulling a pair of black, leather breeches from the coffer and shaking them out for inspection. The legs were certainly too long, the waist too wide, but she had little choice. If she were to make it across a battlefield she could not very well do it in a skirt and headdress! She wouldn't get five paces from her tent, let alone onto the field.

'Stay here' Richard had told her and she was sure if he caught sight of her he'd be drag her back to their tent by her legs! That would put them both in danger and she wished for nothing but to keep his life secure!

No, if she was to achieve her own ends and escape the notice of the fighting Yorks she would have to appear something she was not: a man.

Only she had never wielded a blade.
She had never set foot on a battlefield.
And she most certainly was not built like the grim-faced warriors fighting a mere two hundred yards away! 

Clothes and the hope everyone would be too busy trying to preserve their own lives were all she had! With a sigh, she shook out the breeches and slowly tugged them on, wiggling her legs through the dark leather until her feet appeared at the bottom. Pulling them up with a small tug, her eyes widened at the heavy creases of material left loose by her small frame.

'By God' She thought, trying to tug the laces tighter before exclaiming in relief when she spied a nearby belt and wrapped it tightly around her waist, keeping her husband's breeches in place. It was strange to have material wrapped around her legs when all she had ever known were the flowing heaviness of skirts and their inconvenience when she wanted to do anything in the least practical.

Turning to the bed, she discarded her thin shift and tugged Richard's shirt over her head, relishing the scent of earth and lavender that assailed her senses; the familiar softness. It comforted her and she thought of her husband as she pulled his chainmail over her head, the weighty metal sitting uncomfortably on her shoulders.

How men could wear such a thing for hours on end, she would never know, but if a dagger was to come her way, she was more than willing to take discomfort over death.

Tucking it into her breeches, she then retrieved one of his padded jerkins, tying the laces with a quick deftness that only stumbled when the cannons fired again. The cries of men and clatter of armour on earth followed and her gaze flicked towards the fluttering tent flaps.

For little over an hour the men had been fighting and she must hurry. Hurry or be damned. Snatching up the dagger, she tucked it firmly into her belt and took up the polished helmet, placing it firmly over her head and snapping the visor shut.

Behind the protective veil of metal, she squinted, trying to see clearly through the thin slit that was her only source of vision. Inside her chest, her heart pounded against her ribs, louder than the war drums that only an hour ago had echoed in her ears, announcing the beginning of battle. A battle she would soon see to an end.

Taking a breath, she steeled herself for the moments to come, closing her eyes and snatching a moment to send a silent prayer to God before she forced herself into the day. Immediately she was met with a world of swirling mist, thick and blinding, gathering in a blossoming cloud all around her. It wound around the abandoned Yorkist tents, capturing them in its pure, white grip like fingers of smoke.

It would all but blind the soldiers on the battlefield, she was sure and one look at the distant fray told her her thoughts were true. The soldiers were distorted shadows, the linen standards held aloft made pale ghosts in the air. It was at that moment Catherine realised this was no normal mist. This was a witch's mist. Conjured by the Queen.

A small chuckle left her lips and she shook her head. By God she should've known Elizabeth would play one of her many cards that day! She only hoped it would prove more of a help than a hindrance.

The whinny of a horse stole her attention from the eerie world before her eyes and she turned to see a chestnut stallion just a few feet away, readily saddled and staring at her as if to coax her onto his back. His hooves ground against the earth, eager, determined, drawing her closer until she could reach up a hand to brush against his soft, ebony mane.

"Take me to victory" She whispered, gazing into soft brown eyes that stared clearly back at her before she hoisted herself ably onto his back, shifting in the hard saddle while she gathered the reins into her hands. Reaching to the side, she pulled free the knot of rope keeping him tied to his master's tent and immediately, she was away, galloping towards the battlefield with a spinning mind and pounding heart.

What on earth was she doing?
Only the devil himself knew.

꧁꧂

Behind her visor, Catherine wretched again, the foul taste of bile rising in her mouth that she had to force back. All around her lay the dead and the dying, the scent of blood assailing her senses; turning her stomach.

While she was on the field where the main body of fighting had taken place it was mostly deserted, leaving pockets of men brutally hacking at one another through the mist. The majority of soldiers were gone or dead and that only meant one thing. The enemy was being routed, their leaders hunted down like foxes.

From the sight of many discarded Lancastrian banners and bodies clad in black and crimson, that enemy was not the Yorks.

They had won. Her husband had won.
But she felt little relief.

With a determined heart, she wound her way through the sea of bodies covering the floor like a gruesome carpet, drenched with blood and entrails. Her hands clutched her reins tightly, guiding the stallion with as steady hand as she could muster. Her ears echoed with desperate screams, her vision flashed with images of men torn apart, limbs akimbo on the mangled earth.

The dirt was soaked red and blood dripped from the leaves of bushes, painted crimson by fingers trying to cling desperately to life. How many souls had ascended that day, she wondered, how many were dead? How many were still to die?

She knew of at least one.

"Here! He's over here!"

The gruff call of a man filled the air and Catherine's head darted upwards, spurring her horse onwards into a canter that led her closer to where an uproar had emerged. York banners flashed amongst the trees and feet pounded on the earth, rushing towards the source of the cry.

Blue and murrey linen swirled before her eyes and men suddenly swarmed all sides of her, their armour smeared with blood and their hands clasping ready blades. They ran towards the call like dogs who'd captured a scent, more than willing to draw blood with the heat of battle still coursing through their veins, pushing them onwards.

Just like it pushed her.

"Here!" Another voice cried and she nudged her horse into a gallop, racing through the thicket of trees made hazy in the mist, trying to avoid the bodies strewn about. Her ears rushed with adrenaline that pumped through her body, heating her blood until she felt it was near boiling point. Her shoulders ached with the weight of the chainmail, her head ached with the pressure of the helmet on her skull.

Her body was not used to such weight and she yearned for it to be gone. Even though she knew it was the only thing keeping her safe.

Peering through the slit in her visor, she saw a ring of men through the mist, garbed in full armour and clutching blades that dripped warm blood. They were gathered around something, someone, slowly closing in like hyenas ready to take the kill.

"Neville dog" She heard one sneer and her heart leapt with triumph. Warwick. She had found him.

Pulling her horse to a stop, she jumped from the saddle, landing on the earth with a heavy thump. Racing towards the men, she pushed through the misty air, taking in a sharp breath when an agonised yell filled her ears. One of the men had advanced, she realised and struck the beast they all surrounded.

If there was any voice on earth she would recognise sooner than Richard's, it was Warwick's for his was the voice that filled her nightmares.

And she recognised it then.
Only now it did not torment, it was tormented.

Her heart relished it.

This was her time, her moment, the moment the girl he'd locked in the far tower had yearned for. She'd told Elizabeth she would ensure Warwick never saw another dawn and had intended only to see his life taken. But now, as she came closer towards the ring of men ready to do the same she realised, she would be the one to do the taking.

She would take as much from him as he had from her.

With blind abandon, she pushed her way through the circle of men, shoving them aside, assisted by a strength she didn't know she possessed. They snarled, tried to shove her back and she stumbled but would not be stopped. Raising her hands, she shoved as hard as she could and broke through, forcing herself into the sight of the man she despised above all others.

A shaking breath escaped her lips.

How the great fell so far, so quickly.

This man, this Earl had once stood tall amongst men, in stature as well as power, the centre of Neville might that ruled England from North to South. Now, he was on his knees before her, armour battered, dark hair tangled and blood flowing in a crimson river from a deep gash above his left eyebrow.

One hand clutched at his right shoulder and blood flowed from where a dagger protruded from his flesh, forced there mere moments ago by a man who now watched on with grim satisfaction.

Georgie.

Catherine had never seen Warwick look so weak but when he looked up, she knew he was still the same man that had fled English shores a year prior. His eyes, those snakelike eyes of glistening emerald still glinted with defiance, with a thirst for life and for victory. Though he knew not who she was, he glared at her with a hatred only she could match and she found one hand reaching for the dagger at her belt.

He could not move, he'd lost too much blood, and when his lips parted, the same crimson liquid trickled down his chin, making him less a man than a corpse, waiting to be buried. The slide of metal against leather filled the air as she drew her blade into the open and took her first steps forward, advancing with a raging hatred in her heart.

She would take his life.
She would be the maker of his death.

Stepping forward again, she looked down at him and he stared up at her, that last lingering defiance still burning in his eyes. All around them the world fell silent, or that was how it seemed, trapping them in their own cage of deadly revenge. She had waited long, she had waited so long for this.

"I have fought too long and too hard to die on this field" He suddenly rasped, his once strong voice that stirred fear in her heart reduced to a grating whisper. Her fingers tightened around her dagger's silver hilt and he tilted up his pointed chin, narrowing his eyes "No man will kill me this day"

Reaching upwards, Catherine felt her free hand grasp at her helmet, pulling it roughly from her head before she cast it to the ground. She took in a breath of air, swallowing the bile in her throat as Warwick's eyes widened, only then displaying a doubt she had never before seen; a disbelief that shoved his defiance aside like a feather.

Replaced with a form of fear, a fear only the deepest shock could bring.

He was scared. Scared of her.

A grim smile, laced with malicious satisfaction tugged at the corners of her lips and she raised her blade, seeing it glint in the sunlight out of the corner of her eye.

"I am no man"

Lunging forward, she brought her dagger down with all the strength she possessed, driving it through his throat. A river of crimson spilled onto her hand, warm with life that was ripped from the man who owned it as she twisted her blade. A strangled choke tore from his throat and she gasped as hot blood sprayed over her face.

Warwick slumped, falling onto his back and dragging her dagger from his throat, leaving an open would that gushed. Within moments the ground beneath his neck was soaked in blood, flowing from his wound and lips as he choked; body jerking almost wildly.

Catherine watched, her gaze fixated, her feet rooted to the ground as she watched the man before her die. His eyes stared up at the sky above as he struggled for breath, the light in their green depths slowly dimming, little by little, shard by glistening shard.

Until he was still and the light of life was gone.

The Kingmaker was dead.

The demon that tormented her life had been cast into hell at her own hands.

Raising a hand, she wiped the drops of drying blood from her face, staring blankly at her fingers as they came away streaked with dark red. Glancing up, she found the men gathered around Warwick watching her with expressions of pure disbelief on their weary faces and jaws hanging agape.

There was one man that caught her eye, just one amongst the ever-growing crowd of warriors. He stood taller than the others and his golden hair was flecked with blood and mud like his battered armour. King Edward watched in stony silence, blue eyes piercing hers deeply in a gaze that was almost secret yet seen by all.

Letting her dagger lie limp by her side, she nodded.
And he nodded back.

The die had been cast.

꧁꧂

King Edward had disappeared into the thicket of forest surrounding them within moments, vanishing like the mist that seemed to sink into the earth as soon as the devil was dead. The day left was clear of clouds, the sky above a light blue, streaked with golden rays, but all the sun in the world could nod dispel the stench of death lingering in the air.

Bodies of the dead and the dying littered the ground, as frequent as fallen leaves in Autumn, drying blood trapping them in a sheen of murky crimson to the torn up grass. Their limbs were mangled, their faces unrecognisable, like they'd been forced onto hot coals, making their skin melt away until only a gruesome mass remained.

Bone protruded from flesh, splintered into jagged shards, smeared with the entrails of others.

If there ever was a hell on earth, this would be it, Catherine thought as she retrieved her horse, and yet, within its torturous confines she had found heaven. She had found peace. 

Even so, her mind was tormented with the images that flashed before her eyes, images of death, of so many lives wasted within hours upon Barnet Heath. She rode back to the York camp with Georgie in silence, noticing the looks of disbelief or even fear that he would cast in her direction every so often.

He'd always viewed her as a child, even though he had watched her grow into a woman. To him (although he acknowledged her strength) she'd always been the frightened little girl he'd married at Middleham Castle eleven years prior. Now....now she did not know what she was in his eyes, perhaps not a woman but a warrior.

She could not tell and the unfamiliar silence continued to stretch between them until the din of the York camp finally filled their ears. It was only when they slowed their steeds, looking upon the hundreds of wounded men before them that Catherine dared speak, forcing her lips to form a question she needed answered.

"Are you proud of me Georgie?"

This time when he looked at her, their eyes met and a wry smile tugged at the corners of his split lips.

"I always was"

꧁꧂

Thrusting her hands into a barrel of icy water, Catherine washed the dried blood of Warwick from her skin, rubbing away the dark tint far from gently. Inside, she felt numb, colder than ice as if her very heart were made of stone. The world did not seem real and nor did the events of that past hour. A dream she had dreamt for many years had come true at her own hand and yet a part of her still refused to believe it.

All around her, men cried out in pain, in agony, as wounds were sealed with hot brands and broken limbs removed with seemingly blunt tools but she did not hear them.

Not when a flash of golden hair caught her eye and she saw Edward striding into one of the tents where high-born wounded would lie. She had to speak to him, had to know how....what he thought of her and, drying her hands on the front of her jerkin, her feet moved forward, almost running across the field.

When Catherine walked into the tent, she partly expected to be met with sadness, anger even, but no sooner had she stepped across the threshold then she was captured in a embrace that threatened to crush her with its firm tenderness. Edward's hair tickled her face and she breathed a sigh of slight relief, allowing her arms to wrap around his neck while he clung to her, almost like a child despite his superior height.

"You are a true York, Catherine Plantagenet" He murmured, his words not honeyed with warmth yet more sincere then they would've been if they were. They were stark cold with truth "You did what my brothers and I could not and that shows true courage. You have my love, sister"

At that moment he drew away and two strong hands came to rest on her shoulders while a pair of blue eyes stared down at her, peering into her soul "But what is more, you have my respect" He nodded once, inclining his head the same way he'd done on the battlefield and Catherine did the same, feeling her chest swell with pride.

She'd won the respect of the King of England and realised in that moment as she looked at him, covered in the aftermath of battle, without a crown on his head, that he was her King. And from that moment on always would be.

"And you mine, brother" She replied sincerely before a shout from behind made them both look to the front of the tent in sudden alarm.

"Ned!" George's hoarse voice called, followed by the clatter of armour and the sound of dragging feet "Ned goddamn it!" He called again and the linen entrance was pulled aside, revealing the second York brother with his arm slung around the third's shoulders; holding him upright.

Richard looked as if he had been to hell and back again and Catherine gasped at the sight, though her world went suddenly silent. His lip was split, letting a stream of blood trickle down his chin and spatter his breastplate that was already covered with the blood of others. His hair lay tangled about his face, the black curls made almost brown mud and his pale skin was marred with cuts and bruises she could only see worsening over the next hours.

That was not all though, the young Duke appeared barely conscious, barely able to take a step on his own which was why George was practically carrying his little brother. Eyes wandering across her husband's battered armour, Catherine felt her heart break free of its stone confines and twist with pain. Richard's left arm hung limp at his side, the iron vambrace protecting it reduced to little more than a piece of mangled mettle.

Blood dripped from the fingertips of his gauntlet in heavy, crimson drops that ceased to flow. He was injured, by God he was injured! And this wound certainly wasn't a simple matter....she wasn't even sure if he knew she was there.

"Fucking Christ" Edward murmured through gritted teeth, darting forward and taking Richard from George's support into his own "Fetch a physician!" He barked and George ran, vanishing from sight within moments. Carrying his brother the few feet to the long, wooden table that lay in the centre of the tent, clear of all objects, he lifted him onto it, eliciting an agonised groan from the younger man's lips.

"Oh my love!" Catherine cried, rushing over and peering down into his tired face, longing to kiss his wounds away "what happened?" Dark blue eyes, slightly dazed, stared up at her but lying down seemed to help his consciousness somewhat and his lips moved.

"A pike, Cate" He replied, not questioning her presence "it decided to slip under my vambrace and...." He suddenly hissed, jerking on the table as Edward began to remove his armour, even the slightest touch causing searing pain to course through his arm "Ah! Careful for fuck's sake!" His brother mumbled an apology but continued all the same, removing Richard's vambrace and gauntlet before taking up the sleeve of his blood-soaked shirt and tearing it into two so there was access to what lay beneath.

One hand flew to Catherine's mouth and tears pricked her eyes. Blood seeped from torn open flesh, a jagged line of angry red running from wrist to elbow.
"Your arm...." She breathed, not noticing that George re-entered the tent, followed by an old man in black robes armed with potions and blades "Oh Dickon"

"Do not fret" He returned with a groan, trying to smile before his eyes widened as he finally noticed what she was wearing. A bewildered gaze trailed over breeches and a leather jerkin; the dagger tucked into her belt "Cate...why are you dressed like a man?" She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head "Jesus it doesn't matter, are you well?" Lifting his good arm, he gently cradled the side of her face "Are you hurt?"

Catherine's heart swelled with love for his tender concern when he was the one injured while she bore not a scratch, and pressed her hand to his.

"Not at all" She replied gently as the physician laid his tools onto a smaller table in the corner, laying out his instruments. The sight of sharpened blades and needles made Catherine want to throw him from the tent but she knew Richard needed tending to. If his wound remained open it could fester and force him to lose life and limb! That was the last thing she wanted.

Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to his, immersing herself in those soft pools of dark blue "My heart only hurts to see you in such pain...."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better" Edward told him, eyeing the physician with the same suspicion as Catherine as the old man threaded a thin length of silk through the eye of a needle.
"I've had worse"

"You liar!" He returned with a grin, drawing the dagger at his waist and flipping it easily around his fingers "this is your first battle! Though you did well, I was right to put you in command of the vanguard!" Now it was Richard's turn to grin but it appeared more of a grimace when the old physician hobbled over.

"It was an honour...." A cold hand landed on his arm and he hissed in pain again, making tears spring to Catherine's eyes.

"Careful man!" Edward ordered "We don't want him to lose his arm! And you, Dickon, save your flattery for later. I should be the one to flatter you!" George rolled his eyes but Richard merely smirked, all the pain in the world not enough to dispel the joy he felt at his brother's words.

"Then by all means go ahead!"

"I will" Edward said, motioning for George to take hold of Richard's good arm and keep it firmly to the table beneath. He obeyed "after we've stopped you bleeding onto this table like a wounded deer!" Plucking the dagger from his hand, he gently pushed Catherine out of the way and placed the hilt between Richard's teeth "Now for heaven's sake bite down on this"