~Edmund~

January 1461, Haddon Hall....

It was no strange thing for Catherine to sit upon the dais alone, seated comfortably in George's great chair that dwarfed her while she ate and drank. With his many absences from Haddon, she had grown accustomed to her place and the servants had become accustomed to her leadership.

Now, for the New Years celebrations, the women of the household feasted in the great hall, all of them sat at long trestle tables while Catherine and Agnes sat upon the dais. The young girl looked at the rows of women (wives of squires and the like) under her care, each laughing and eating, drinking and singing; merry as ever.

And it made her pleased.

She sat up straighter than she ever had done in her chair that night, keeping her head stationary for fear that she would topple the hall hennin she wore. It was her first time wearing such a garment after Agnes had insisted that now she was married (and eight too), it was time for her to wear headdress as other ladies did.

Apart from women of the highest rank, such as Queens or royal Duchesses (who often preferred their intricate braids and coronets), a headdress was part of a noblewoman's ensemble, the steeple hennins, escoffions and cauls marking them out as ladies of rank. They decorated them with jewels, lengthily veils and sometimes Queens and their daughters would have crowns fastened onto theirs for a headdress was not only for fashion, but for modesty.

It was a symbol of marriage as well as rank, a symbol of the holy rule that none other than one's Lord husband could see their hair unbound. Catherine had always thought it a silly rule and she thought it more so now than ever, grimacing at the metal pins that dug into her scalp.

"How do you bear it?" She whispered, turning to Agnes who was delicately lifting a spoonful of soup to her lips, fully confidant that her damask escoffion would not fall from her head. A small chuckle left her thin lips and she lay her silver spoon down beside her bowl, looking at the disgruntled girl beside her with a degree of amusement.

"I bear it because I take pride in it" She answered "Just think of how many headdresses Lord George shall now buy for you! How many jewels you shall acquire to accompany them!" At that, Catherine's eyes lit up slightly, the promise of more finery a balm to her shredded nerves.

"Perhaps I shall learn to like it then" She decided evenly "But I think I shall prefer cauls like my Mother. They pose far less danger!" Agnes smiled and took up her spoon once more, about to continue her feasting when the hall door banged open and a serving girl suddenly rushed through.

Catherine stood, gathering her gown of blue silk around her before beckoning the girl to come forward. This servant was easily twice her age but she did not falter for that, she acted every inch a great lady, acknowledging the girl's rushed curtsy with a nod.
"What disturbs our feast, pray tell?"

"It's his Lordship, my Lady!" She gasped, much to the shock of the buzzing hall "And our men! They are returned!"

"Returned!" One woman cried and Catherine began to beam, helping Agnes to her feet while she motioned for the ladies of the household to leave; go to their men. They went more than willingly, rushing through the hall door in their best gowns while their Lady and her companion waltzed down the dais steps.

"Wait!" She called to the serving girl again and glided towards her, hope within her heart "You say my Lord husband has returned? Well, I trust?" The girl nodded and Catherine smiled, breathing out a sigh of relief. She did not ask who had won the battle, she would soon find out from George and sent Agnes to prepare his chamber for him "Order a bath too!" She called.

"Catherine! Cat where are you?"

Catherine swung around at the sound of her name that echoed around the chamber, rising up to the rafters. She smiled at the sound and picked up her skirts, rushing out of the great hall, as the other women had done, and into the torchlit courtyard. A great clamour surrounded the old hall, raised voices of relief and grief bouncing off the ancient stone.

Women either embraced their husbands and sons or sunk to their knees with despair, sobbing into their handkerchiefs for their loves who had not returned. With keen eyes, Catherine looked around, searching faces for the sight of the familiar one she knew to belong to her husband and, soon enough, she found it.

George was within a group of men bearing a heavy stretcher with linen drawn over it, his dark hair matted and bloodied, unlike she had ever seen it! She had never seen men return from battle this way before and felt tears prick her eyes at the sight of despondent defeat that filled the air like plague.

So Lancaster had won, she thought, the joy she thought she would feel dampened by the look of heartbreak on George's face when he turned her way. A broken smile crossed his lips when he saw her and she could see his mud- coated cheeks were tear stained. As if he were the child and not she, he stumbled towards her and collapsed to his knees at her feet, wrapping his arms around her waist. Without hesitation, he began to sob into the front of her gown, his breaths laboured and shuddering.

He looked nothing like the proud Neville knight he prided himself on being and Catherine felt her heart swayed; sliding her arms around his neck to hold him close.

This was no mere loss at battle that tore at his heart, that much she could tell. This was grief that wracked him to within an inch of his life, turning his breaths from deep to shallow in moments so that she had to coax him to his feet, taking his arm to help him inside. As she pulled him to the great hall, the men and women followed after them; helping the wounded to traipse into the warmth.

Georgie managed to stumble to a bench, slumping down onto it while he tried in vain to wipe away his tears. His wife sat by him, one tender hand on his arm in comfort but, truly, her attention had been diverted elsewhere.

After being installed at Haddon hall for over a year, she knew each servant by heart, each cook, each groom, each falconer, each squire! One glance and she would be able to call them to her and yet.....as she looked at the figure on the stretcher that was carried by her she realised she did not know him at all. His face was not disfigured (despite being significantly bruised), no, he was rather handsome, she thought, possessing dark blonde hair that lay tousled around him.

"He looks like a fallen angel" She murmured and Georgie's head suddenly shot up, his legs forcing him to rise despite Catherine's attempts to make him sit. Determined, he followed the stretcher and pointed towards the winding staircase behind the dais.

"To my chambers!" He ordered and his men obeyed, hurrying away to see to their task.
"Your chambers?" Catherine exclaimed once they had gone "but you need your rest, frère!" George only turned to her at her words, taking her hand and whisking her to an alcove by the dais where they would not be heard. Catherine frowned at the worried expression that suddenly overcame his face "What is it? Who is he?"

A slight sigh filled the air.
"Edmund of York. The second son of the Duke of York"

"Edmund of....!" She began to exclaim only to find George's hand pressed over her mouth to silence her. She scowled at him, jerking his hand away "You bring a York here, George?" She hissed "A York!"

"He's only a boy!" George protested, in the same hushed tone as she "He's seventeen and he's sick, Cat, very sick, he has not woken for days! If he is not well looked after now he will die! Even with the best care he may still!"

'Better for Lancaster' She was tempted to retort but bit her tongue, instead keeping her deep scowl to show her displeasure at this enemy in her home "I shall see him!" She declared, sweeping out of the alcove before George could stop her and mounting the steps with determined strides that he could only follow.

Up, up up, she climbed, silk skirts bunched in her fists to prevent her from tripping (and to sate her anger) until she came to her husband's chambers, stomping inside to see six men gathered around the large bed George usually slept in.

"Leave us" He ordered with a wave of his hand and they left in silence, leaving their Lord and Lady alone with the unconscious York boy that lay atop the covers like a broken doll.

Catherine watched him with narrowed eyes, resenting the fact that she could feel her anger melting away at the mere sight of him. It was ridiculous! She was meant to hate this boy! She had done just moments ago in the hall and had stormed up to her husband's chambers to despise him more but now that she saw him.....all she could truly feel was pity.

"Seventeen?" She whispered and George gave a small nod, watching as she slowly approached the bed, hesitant, like she expected poor Edmund to spring from the covers with a knife to kill her with. 'Her family trained her well in their laws of hate' He thought.

Catherine's steps were slow and measured, her expression stoic as she came to the unconscious boy's side and slowly sat down on the silk covers. She looked at the ripped linen shirt he wore, no armour was on him, no sword by his side as she had imagined a York to have. One sleeve was stained a deadly crimson, evidence of the deep wound that drove into his arm and seeped blood daily, refusing to close.

Golden hair touched his shoulders and she realised with a pang he was not the monster she had first thought him to be but the angel she'd likened him to.

Studying him, her eyes swept over pale skin, bruised cheeks and chapped lips that she cautiously ran a finger along, feeling pity sting her once again.

In that moment, she remembered the other York boy she had met, little Dickon who she now knew to be Edmund's little brother. Dickon had not been scary, nor had he tried to harm her, he had been nice to her so perhaps Edmund would be too when he awoke? But, then again, she thought, Dickon was a boy, Edmund was all but a man, the strong muscles he had gained from wielding a sword clear through his clothes. He would know more of the world and the Percys then young Dickon did.

And still, despite that, there was something vulnerable about him, something that lit the desire to care in her, the same fire that always appeared when she saw those in need. Even when it came to Yorks it apparently would not be quenched! Her right hand wandered, coming to rest atop both of his which were placed neatly on his abdomen.

"I will care for him" She said as Georgie's hand appeared on her shoulder "I will care for him" She repeated and knew he was smiling, much to her private delight "bring me warm water and a clean cloth, I shall wipe the blood from his face and wounds, then apply fresh bandages to them"

"I did not know you to be a little nurse" Her husband murmured, clearly amused by her sudden change but she did not join in, simply shrugging as she did so often when there was a task at hand.
"Thank Agnes" Was all she said before waving him away to do her bidding.

꧁꧂

Two days and two nights, Catherine sat by this son of York, watching over him, caring for him and now, as the sun rose on the third, she knew another day of healing approached. She slept on a palate at the end of the bed, her insistent nature making her refuse to let Agnes take her to her own chambers at the other end of Haddon.

She had left the bedchamber only once, stepping into her husband's solar to change into the clothes her old companion had brought her. Allowing the women to remove her finery, she had changed into a clean shift and clothed herself in the blue linen gown. It was clearly of good quality, holding embroidered red roses around the neckline with the Percy lion between them but it was simple. Catherine had long used it as a gown for when she would tend to the herbs in the gardens and now she knew it had a different use.

With an apron atop it, the plain garments brought a new range to the girl's care, allowing her to move as freely as she wished, which her finer gowns did not. Her hair was in a simple braid, the waist length curls tucked neatly away with only a few unruly wisps escaping. She took her meals in the bedchamber, sitting by Edmund's bedside with a damp cloth in one hand to press to his forehead and a spoon or knife in the other!

His wounds were extensive and grisly, the cuts on his chest and abdomen, Catherine had to tend to each day, cleaning and dressing them with bandages each morning and night. The blood that seeped from them would deter most, as would the metallic smell that filled with room, mingling with dirt but she was not.

While the other wounds began to heal, there was one that did not. Inflicted by a pike driven through his armour and tearing through his flesh right to the white bone that shone through his torn flesh when the bandages covering it were pulled away. That did not heal, it refused to like an obstinate child refusing to go to bed. It festered, the wound turning from a healthy pink to a sick grey and then almost black as it began to rot, the skin dying with no hope of revival.

Edmund had already possessed a fever by the time he arrived at Haddon but Catherine found she could do nothing to quench it. His skin glistened with sweat each minute of the day, dampening his hair and causing his breath to quicken in his impenetrable sleep. No matter how many cloths she pressed to his forehead, his burning skin refused to cool so all she could do was pray by his side.

On the third day, she had placed herself by his bed once more, the chamber windows open to allow a cool breeze to float through in an effort to break the fever. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a book in her hands, one of John's books as it happened, though she had many more now. It made her think of his brother.....Thomas, one of the men who had taken her yet her husband mourned for almost more than John's father and the Duke of York. The leader of the Yorkist cause.

He mourned the dead Duke more than any, more for his and his fellow men's lost hopes then for the man himself. His death marked the end of their dreams and now all their was was his eighteen year old son, Edward of York, left on his own to take the reins of his noble house and war all on his own. 'Of course there is Warwick' George had said but Catherine had only glared at him for that, the mere name of her jailer making her blood boil.

She tried not to think of the man she hated most while she turned the pages of The Canterbury Tales her mind earnestly focusing on the colourful pages of the story she read, the characters and setting that let her escape to another world. For once, it did not work, the Neville book reminding her of the Neville she hated.

Lying it aside, she reached into the pocked of her apron and pulled forth the most precious object she owned. The ring of Prince Edward. It shone in the light and tempted a smile to her lips, one that appeared whenever she looked at the glistening ruby that crowned it.

His promise to her.

She wondered where it's other half had gone, Queen Marguerite's ring that was crowned with an emerald and she had given to her husband as a charm for luck. He had not yet returned it to her and she constantly asked herself when he would. Perhaps it had simply slipped his mind in his grief?

"That's pretty"

Catherine shrieked, hiding her ring in the front of her gown as the second York boy she had met spoke the same words of the first. Her eyes darted upwards to find a pair of misty blue ones staring back at her with a form of tired amusement swimming writhing them. After a moment they began to look around, slowly assessing them while confusion overtook his expression.

"Where am I?" He asked, looking to the unfamiliar girl by the bed.

Catherine's breath hitched. It was one thing caring for a York, he could not speak and therefore could not bother nor berate her, but now, now she had to talk to him!
"Haddon Hall" She answered quietly, deciding to busy herself with once more dipping a cloth into the bowl of water a servant had brought and pressing it to his forehead.

He sighed at the coolness that was brought forth to his skin, only then realising how it burned and itched uncomfortably. Glancing down to his arm, his eyes widened at the heap of bandages beneath his shirt and he winced at the memory that surfaced of the pike that had been driven through his flesh.

"Who are you?" He asked with a slight groan as she forced him to lie his head back down again and he suddenly frowned slightly, the name Haddon Hall brining a remanence of news to his mind, something his father had told him "No....do not tell me" He told her softly when he saw her lips part "You are Lady Catherine Neville, are you not?"

The girl visibly swallowed, avoiding his eyes at the name that he could see caused her pain.

"Percy" She corrected "I am Catherine Percy, my Lord"
Edmund nodded, taking to studying the little flaxen haired child that began to tend to his arm, pulling up his sleeve to check his bandages to secure "A physician came yesterday" She continued, eager to change the subject "He wanted to bleed you but I told him not to" She smiled slightly when she let their eyes meet once more "I did not see the point of drawing more blood when you have already lost so much"

A smile to match her own lit Edmund's lips.
"No, I suppose not.....my brother has spoken of you, Lady Catherine. My youngest brother, Dickon" She looked up at that.
"Dickon?"
His smile widened with mischief and he nodded.

"Aye, my Lady. When we were at Ludlow last summer he said that before he left for Middleham he had met a captured Percy girl called Catherine on the morning of her wedding to our cousin George. I can only assume that's you" Catherine nodded, leaving her chair for a moment to pour the York boy a cup of water, lifting the iron jug and watching the cold water flow into the goblet she held.

"I liked him" She said "He was kind to me....one of the only people kind to me for many months" Before he could reply she turned back around and thrust the goblet in his direction, helping it to his lips when she realised he had not the strength to lift his arms.

Unusually for one asleep for so long, Edmund did not eagerly drink the water, as soon as it touched his lips he began to cough and splutter, his fever taking hold once more. He turned his head away.
"Dickon" He groaned, tears pricking his forlorn eyes.  "Poor Dickon....he has no Father now....none of my siblings do and nor do I"

At once, pity flooded Catherine's heart and she placed a hand onto his shoulder, rubbing it comfortingly while fever claimed him into unconsciousness once more.

꧁꧂

Tears pricked Catherine's eyes as Edmund thrashed around on the covers of his bed, groaning and spluttering in his sleep. For two more days she had tried to care for him and for two more days the wound on his arm had festered.

He had not spoken to her once since he had last been awake, in fact he had not been awake at all. Unconsciousness had indefinitely claimed him and all she could do was watch and wait and care, hoping that he awoke once more and his fever broke.

Once or twice he had murmured or cried out words, names, into the air. Edward, George, Margaret, Richard, names that were unfamiliar to her yet, she had found from her husband were in fact the names of his siblings, the siblings he had said were now Fatherless thanks to the battle he had been wounded in. 'If only his fever would break!' Catherine would constantly think as she mopped his brow and did so again that night.

His wound had been sewed up by the physician but still it refused to heal, continuing to fester and bleed while Edmund's fever heightened. If it broke then there was a higher chance his arm would heal, that he would recover! It was still a strange notion that she wanted him to recover but she found that she did and the sooner he did the better.

"Mother!" Edmund cried and Catherine's heart twisted, making her take his hand before she had even realised. The York boy groaned in his sleep, shifting uncomfortably while images of his life flashed around in his brain, warping his unconscious mind "Mother!" He called again, a new sheen of swear breaking out onto his pale skin "Don't...." He panted "Don't cry...."

The little girl by his bedside yawned. She had hardly slept that week apart from a few precious hours when Edmund was at peace and even though he wasn't now, the covers looked so inviting. So warm and before she knew it, her head was leaning towards the bed's covers, settling against them while her eyes closed and the York boy's pained moans faded away.