~The Far Tower~

When Catherine awoke from her fretful hours of sleep, she found that John had sent a bath, just as he had promised. Her eager eyes drank in the wooden tub and the water within it, watching the crystal clear liquid that her body would soon be submerged in.

Soon she could wash away the grime that covered her and regain a remanence of who she used to be. 'Who I am' She told herself firmly. She was still Lady Catherine Percy, she was still the daughter of an Earl and ruler of the North....only she felt as if that life now belonged to another soul, another girl now left behind.

Pushing the woollen cloak that covered her aside, she stood with trembling legs, trying to find her balance. She felt so weak, so frail as her vision swim before her and she stumbled forward, collapsing with a hiss next to the bath when her knees struck the stone floor, cutting them mercilessly. Her small hands clutched at the wooden side of the tub and her young face grimaced while she tried to push herself up, failing miserably so that she was forced to slump to the floor once more.

Tears sprung to her eyes, angry tears that displayed her frustration. 'Why could I not be stronger?' She cried in her mind 'Why can I not be like the Queen?' The dirt on her skin felt like it stained her soul, tearing away who she was and Catherine suddenly felt the urge to wipe it away, to submerge herself in the water and wash away the grime.

With deft, but shaking, hands she stripped her nightgown from her, tossing the ruined garment into a corner and shivering in the cold. She looked at her hands, at the dirt pushed beneath her nails and the scratches on her palms. The young girl wept to see them, squeezing her eyes shut as she forced herself upright and climbed into the bath.

She gasped at the icy water that covered her skin, almost freezing her where she sat. It was no warmer than water kept out on a deep winter's night....but it was water all the same and soon she found herself cupping the cold liquid, splashing her face her neck, trying to stem the blood that oozed from her knees.

Snatching up the sponge that had been left beside the tub, she soaked it in the water and pressed it to her wounded face, flinching at the sting it caused before relaxing into its icy relief. 'Perhaps they will begin to heal now', she thought before tending to the cuts on her knees, finding a smile on her chapped lips as her skin began to clear of dirt. She was returning to herself.

Slightly.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine forced her head under the water, whimpering slightly at the bitter cold though it washed the dirt from her hair, retuning it to its natural hue. She ran her pale fingers through the flaxen locks, untangling them as best she could before she scrubbed herself once again with the sponge, almost rubbing her skin raw in her efforts.

Her teeth chattered, her legs shook in the water and her fingers trembled, finally forcing her from the tub before she froze entirely. Standing bare in the tower, water dripped down her body and onto the stone beneath her feet, there was no towel to dry her, no robe to keep her warm and she shivered uncontrollably, desperately searching for a covering.

With no other choice she took up Warwick's cloak once more, wrapping it around her frail body so that the material soaked up the water that covered her. It smelt of dirt and the earth, the ground when it had been raining in spring but she found she did not care.

Sitting on her narrow bed Catherine curled into herself, trying to preserve the heat she could grasp. Just like she had done over and over during the night, she looked around the room, searching for a comfort that was not there....or was it?

Laid on the windowsill, a garment of grey caught her eye and she frowned, forcing herself to stand again. Hesitant footsteps marked her approach to the window, gaze never swaying from the bundle of material that she supposed was for her. The closer she came to the window, the colder it became, the diamond panes of glass thin and cracked. But she still reached out, one hand brushing the cloth that she realised with a surprised pang was silk!

Pushing the Earl's cloak from her shoulders her hands grasped the soft material eagerly, the silk smooth, almost slipping through her fingers. Raising it high, she shook it out, watching a clean shift fall from the gown's folds and grasped, throwing it over her head.

Even though her hair was still wet, the grey gown quickly followed as Catherine forced her arms through the sleeves. Inexperienced with her own care, she wrestled with the laces, her fingers slipping until she managed, tying the sash in a neat bow. She sighed slightly out of relief, letting her clean hands smooth out the skirt of her dress.

It was too big for her, by two sizes at least, the sleeves slipping down over her hands and the skirt almost causing her to trip. Catherine assumed it belonged to one of Warwick's daughters but she found she did not care. Where previously she would have refused any gown with any fault, she was grateful for this one, the silk against her skin a reminder of her home. Her fingers brushed across the dipping neckline that was the height of fashion, the cuffs that were a deeper grey than the main gown.

It was almost pretty, in a way.
It did, at least, distinguish her from the servants.

How many gowns there were at Alnwick! Packed away in great coffers waiting to be chosen by her! Silks, satins, velvets of every hue with accompanying jewels. Now the only jewels she had was the one that hung around her neck and took care to hide in the front of the dress.

Clambering up onto the windowsill, she pressed her hands against the cold glass, observing the strange land where she was to be held captive until she was rescued. There was only one window so she could not see the fortress where she was imprisoned but she could hear the chatter of servants milling about the courtyard and the clash of metal against metal as boys on the cusp of manhood trained for battle.

They all despised her, she knew, and with a sigh lifted the latch, pushing the lone window open so that she may look upon the land. Never ending fields stretched out before her, the grass a lush green and bright against the trees which bore bare limbs. Soon they would bare new buds ready to blossom into leaves, carrying new life while Catherine lost hers.

Hills boasted a fine dusting of snow atop them and skirts of thick forest that would soon be used for hunting. Her Father had taken her hunting the day she was taken, the day her life had ended.....would she ever know the beauty of riding through the trees on her own steed again? Would she ever again hold her own bow? Catherine was sure that if she did, she would use it to kill the Nevilles and all who helped them.

She would be doing Queen Marguerite a favour! And she promised herself she would....no matter how long it took, no matter how long she had to wait, one day she would kill them. She would kill the Nevilles.

꧁꧂

May 1459, Middleham Castle....

The breathtakingly beautiful landscape was an enemy to her, a poisoned flower that was glorious to look upon but sucked the very life from her soul with its sweet poison; tugging at her heart like the wrack would her limbs.

It reminded her forever of her capture, of her lack of freedom and, worst of all, how alone she was in this vast world of mortal men who knew only the language of the sword. She no longer knew how to live in this world of four walls she was trapped in, how could she?

The month of May brought a new warmth to England and Wensleydale as well as a new enthusiasm that made the castle buzz with life. Hunting had begun and that meant that hoards of Lords and squires now flooded into the woodland each day, racing in the fields behind the castle where Catherine could see. She watched them from her window, Neville banners fluttering above their heads while they laughed and joked with one another.

Sometimes, she wished she could be so merry but she knew that was impossible and the sight of their smiling faces only made her anger worse.

Her day had turned into one of monotonous routines that would see the hours until night fell through. For four months she had stayed in the far tower, not once leaving the room that she was locked in. She would arise at dawn with beams of sunlight, smoothing out her shift (which she slept in having no nightgown) before putting on her grey gown. During her months in confinement she had mastered the laces that tied the back and now they took her mere moments before she could begin her day.

Brushing out her hair with a comb John had brought her, she would braid her golden hair into a neat plait, tying it with a piece of ribbon that had once flown through her window. A piece of red silk.

A maid would then bring her breakfast on a metal plate, consisting of a slice of buttered bread, a slice of cheese (or ham if she was lucky) and a cup of water. Whichever girl came to her, they would always be silent, avoiding her eyes as if she would curse them if their gazes met! 'What folly!' She would think as the servant girl would lay down her meal before scurrying away, always remembering to lock the door behind her.

The girl would then return at midday and at sunset to deliver her luncheon and dinner, mostly soup or stew served with another slice of buttered bread.

Catherine ate her meals with her usual grace, always clinging to the manners and protocol she had been raised upon. The young girl was determined never to forget the airs and graces that her Mother had taught her nor would she forget her station, no matter her current one.

She spent her afternoons in quiet prayer, reciting her words of Latin, despite her lack of rosary, or reading, selecting a book from the four which now stood proud upon the once bare shelf. John had given them to her, saying that they were from his childhood, apologising for the frayed edges and faded leather.

In fact, the youngest Neville brother was a frequent visitor to her little tower! While Thomas had come once or twice to joke with her, appearing rather guilty about the lack of company Catherine had, he had now returned to his home in the Midlands and John was now her companion. He visited in the evenings, sitting next to her on her bed while he tried to coax her to speak.

For the first two months his efforts proved futile, all that he was met with being silence and cast down eyes that often shed tears. Catherine had been stubborn in her belief that she would be rescued, that one day she would wake to see an army outside of her window, fighting to bring her home.

But no such army had come and eventually her need to talk to a living soul overwhelmed her Percy pride.

It was only a few words at first; comments on the passages from the books he read to her but those words soon developed into fully fledged conversations that spanned deep into the dark until the stable clock chimed eight! He was kind to her, telling her tales of the North before he would tuck her into her narrow bed, blowing out the candle beside it.

Despite feeling that much of her six year old self had melted away and been forced to early maturity, Catherine was still grateful for this small show of affection. Weather it was genuine, she didn't know but nor did she care, it was a balm to her broken heart that stitched it ever so slightly.

He was a friend, of sorts, though she would never admit it.

One May morning, as she watched the hunters ride out, she saw John and Warwick with their squires but a new figure rode between them.

Seated on a chestnut stallion was a small boy with dark curls that glinted in the sun and dressed in garments of silk that told of his high rank. Catherine tilted her head, leaning on her windowsill while she tried to decipher this young newcomer. There was no doubt that he was new for she had not seen him before and after watching weeks of hunts she now knew each squire by sight, if not by name.

He rode with a certain nobility, a certain confidence as he rode off into the hills with the Nevilles, one hand placed on his thigh. She had never seen him and yet there was something oddly familiar about his appearance. The boy was slight of build for his estimated age (which she took to be about her own), unlike the two men that rode beside him and yet, he appeared one of them.

A cousin or nephew, she concluded when the hunters faded into the cover of the forest, now thick with deep green leaves. Catherine retreated back into her room, no longer wishing to torture herself with landscape of such beauty now any diversion was gone. Wandering to her little shelf, she picked up John's worn volume of The Canterbury Tales, smiling slightly at the folded edges where he had marked out his favourite passages as a child.

She settled herself on the thin covers and pillow of her bed, opening the book and beginning to read, hoping that without her, her brother was still able to read too!  Popping the last of her breakfast bread into her mouth, she thought of him, of her family, wondering if they missed their little Queen's favourite. They loved her, she knew they loved her!

And yet, she had heard not a whisper of rescue, not one word that her kin were coming to her aid. She was in Neville power and no matter who she truly was, she was now their pawn to play in the ever changing game of politics she knew they were so ruthless in.

It was often a thought on her mind on how they would use her. What card would she become for them to play? Who would she be dealt to? Would she be dealt to any or would she be simply kept here, a prised ornament shut away and simply there for their own smugness?

Something made her doubt the latter. The Nevilles would not have taken her if they hadn't had a use. They always had a plan, always. It was what made them so dangerous.

꧁꧂

The hunt returned at sundown, as expected, just as the May sun began to dip beneath the valley hills, encasing it in an amber glow even Catherine could not help but stare at from her window. Once again, the dark-haired Lord rode between Warwick and John and, staring out of her window, the girl could see his face clearer now.

His skin was pale, like hers almost, and he had a determined chin that gave him a look almost of regality. He was a stubborn boy, she could sense and once again he rode to the castle with his hand on his thigh, just as John did. If he visited her that evening, she would ask him about the little Lord and he would provide answers!

That would give her a diversion that would lull her into sleep that night. Most nights she was forced into sleep sobbing.

But as she lingered on that unhappy though, something caught her eye. A page, riding on an ebony palfrey  across the fields behind the castle to meet Warwick, brandishing a letter in his hand. His white and red livery flashed bright in the sun and with a barked order from their leader, the hunting party slowed their steeds. Warwick motioned the young lad forward, holding his hand out expectantly before all but snatching the letter into his hands.

With an eagerness Catherine had not seen before, the Earl tore open the seal, discarding the red wax for his hounds to paw at curiously. John leant in on his saddle reading over his brother's shoulder at which his face dropped slightly while his brother's lit with thrilled light. A satisfied laugh left his throat, coaxing the boy at his side to laugh too as he kicked the flanks of his steed.

"We shall feast well tonight!" He announced merrily, his party speeding toward home.

Step by step, young Catherine backed away from the window, placing a hand to her belly as a strange knot of unease tied itself there. She did not know why, but something about that white piece of parchment in Warwick's hand unnerved her. It was a strange sensation and she slowly sat down on the edge of her bed, swallowing slightly while she frowned.

The sudden sound of heavy boots and the muttering deep voices of familiar men a few minutes later alerted her to danger. She forced herself to stand, retreating to the other side of her bed while the voices came closer and closer, the footsteps became heavier and heavier....

And then a key turned in a lock.

The raised voices became louder in bitter argument and the door was thrust open, Warwick and John striding inside. Still dressed in their hunting garments they made an extravagant pair but there was no happiness to match such luxury. The two brothers stared at her and the latter gave an indignant huff, folding his arms.

"She's a child, Richard!"
"She's an asset, John!" Warwick corrected while Catherine shrank back, the knot in her stomach becoming tighter and tighter by the second as worry swirled her mind.

An asset he had called her, an asset to them, but what would she be used for?

The Neville's continued to watch her, one with a frown and the other with sympathy. Warwick fished the letter he had received from his leather belt and opened it, his serpentine eyes once more lighting with smug satisfaction.

"You are to be married" He announced.

Catherine's blood ran cold. Colder than the snow that dusted the roofs of Alnwick in winter, colder than waves of the sea that crashed against the shore, seeking to take the land as the Nevilles now sought to take her life.

Staring blankly at the Earl before her the girl shook her head and looked alarmed to John who refused to meet her eye.
"No" She said stoutly "You....you have no right to marry me off....I will not do it!" It was a feeble attempt at a defence, she knew, and Warwick simply snarled, his resentment of her clear.

"You will do whatever I wish" He hissed, his gaze steely and harsh so that she shrank back even more "You will be married to George Neville and become the Baroness of Bergavenny, a Neville."
"I will never be a Neville" She yelled, backing away until she was pressed firmly against the cold stone of the chamber wall, trying in vain to escape "I will never be one of you! I am a Percy!"

She shook her head again, her braid coming undone and flaxen curls flying wildly about her face. Her hands pressed against the cold stone, trying to press the wall away so that she may run, flee. She, Catherine Percy, would never be a Neville! Not ever! Once the time came for her to marry she would be a De Vere, a Beaufort, a Clifford or even a Plantagenet of the House of Lancaster! Her Mother had promised her!

She would not be the wife of a lowly Neville Baron! Never! A Duchess or Countess or even a Queen were the fates that awaited her! Not this! Her head shook again.

"You will be a Neville" Warwick told her sternly, verging on striding forward to shake her to sense but his brother stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder "You will marry Baron Bergavenny and when the Yorks take the throne, he shall rule the North!"
"Never!" Catherine breathed "My Father rules the North and then my brother shall after him"

"Not if they are dead"

Those few words hit her harder than a slap in the face, as if the Earl had driven an invisible dagger into her heart where it began to crack and break.
"Dead" She repeated, once more looking to John who refused to look back "They cannot be dead, they will not be dead....my brother is a child! Surely you would not murder a child...." Her voice failed her as tears filled her eyes.

"I would not" Warwick admitted "but soon your Father will be killed in battle and once your brother begins to fight, he shall be too. The Nevilles will seize the North but many here support the Percys which is why we have you, Catherine" It was the first time he had ever spoken her name and the girl grimaced, hating the way it sounded on his lips "This union brings Percy assurance to a new reign of the Nevilles"

"I will not do it!" She bit out "I will not be married!"

"You will! My brother, the Bishop of Exeter rides here as we speak and so does your husband. You will marry on the morn that he arrives and then you will be bound to us. It is a simple choice, girl! You either do this or we will hunt your family down for that is the only way we can claim power if we do not have one of you bound to us. I do not kill children but when it comes to my family I do what needs to be done" Sniffing slightly, Warwick turned on his heels and strode from the room, not waiting for his brother to follow.

Silence encased the chamber before a sob tore from little Catherine's throat. Her weak body slumped, slowly collapsing against the wall until she was in a grey silken heap, weeping against the floor. How could God allow this to happen? Ever since her birth she had been faithful to him, attending to her prayers even now when she could have lost her faith!

So why now did he abandon her? Why did he leave her to these Neville wolves to be locked into a marriage of torture?

Why did he take her life without letting her die?

John's footsteps approached her but she shrank away, her vision blurred with tears and hatred when she peered up at him.
"Catherine, I did not...."
"Get away from me!" She screamed, startling the kind faced warrior "You were party to this! I know you were! Leave me!" Scrambling to her feet, she turned from him "Leave me!"

And he did.