~Accursed Rebels~

Framlingham Castle, late July 1469....

A battle had been fought.

The battle of Edgecote field where Satan gifted victory to the rebel forces when they collided with the King's in the North. But there was no hope spurred on the King's behalf when the news came, no words of encouragement spoken that told of another way for the rebels to be vanquished. There had only been silence. Cold, deafening silence that spoke more words than any rain-soaked letter ever could.

At least Richard had not fought; nor Edward.

Summer seemed to slip away, the shining rays of sun meaning little in such times of darkness. The sky, stained blue and clear of all obstruction was almost a torment, making a mockery of the danger each day posed. The least God could do to lessen the wound was force the days to darken, fill the sky with stormy clouds to show his displeasure at the King being opposed by his own subjects.

But, then again, he had conjured no such signs when King Henry was deposed, so why would he do so for Edward? Perhaps he merely sat and observed from his throne in heaven, amused by the quarrels of the pathetic folk he'd placed upon his earth. The Bible told that for many years he had tried to convince humans to seek peace and trust in his will and at every turn he had been denied.

Perhaps now he found it a fitting punishment to let the House of York burn, just as the House of Lancaster had done?

"They will not win" Elizabeth had seethed when the letter containing her husband's defeat arrived, tearing the parchment to mere scraps before she tossed it into the fire "By God they will not win!" She spoke the words with venom and Catherine half expected a forked tongue to slither from her mouth but after that the Queen had become silent.

She appeared more a mouse than a snake.

She gathered her children close, her precious boys and her darling daughters, keeping them all but stitched to her skirts as she greeted nobles in Framlingham's great hall. 'Show them that you are Queen' Earl Rivers had told her the morning the Yorkist forces departed from Tamworth Castle and she'd proved excellent in her duty thus far. Only, she did not smile as a Queen was meant to and when she greeted nobles her eyes were dead, glassy, unseeing.

She often stood by the window, listening to the river rushing below her bedchamber window with Catherine watched from the shadows. Light lashes would fan her cheeks and the breeze would kiss her cool skin, turning it almost to ice while silent tears glided along the smooth surface. It was as if the river told her what the nobles and non-existent couriers did not, answering the question each member of the household held.

What did she know that none else did, the Duchess would wonder, for none held a look as haunted as Elizabeth's and did not carry a burden. Catherine could only pray it was one that would not weigh too heavy upon Edward's cause.

He could still win, she told herself night after night, as she watched her son sleep beside her in the space where Richard usually lay. One lost battle did not mean true defeat and if Warwick had laid claim to power then surely they would have heard? He was a man quick to action, quick to solidify his claims to the spoils of war so none could take them from him.

It had become apparent his plan was to place George upon the throne, a freshly carved replacement for the malleable puppet he had once taken Edward to be. Only the second York brother was much more pliable to another's will. No cries of 'King George' had been heard and the crown of England still glinted on Elizabeth's flaxen head. They were small things to take hope in but as they days dragged by, even they seemed a blessing.

Seven days and seven nights the Queen and her household went without news and for seven days and seven nights Framlingham Castle became little more than a tomb.

Cold and silent; waiting to be sealed.

꧁꧂

August 1469....

More than once Catherine had considered returning to Fotheringhay and as she and Elizabeth sat together in the Queen's chambers, the thought crossed her mind once more.

Though she had no wish to leave her friend's side in such a time of dire need, it was for her son she thought of returning to their home. Warwick's hatred of her was great but his hatred of the Queen was greater and the young Duchess knew she would be moved to measures beyond her imagination to protect her boy.

At the very least, she would be the second he sought to capture and a window to flee to Wales or Scotland where many Lancastrians lay low could prove her only option. It was a constant question that she would even be welcomed by them! A York Duchess and her York son despite her Lancastrian blood.

The very notion that she doubted her husband's chances of victory weighed heavy with guilt on her heart. How could she think of Richard capable of defeat? Her faith in him was stronger than in any other and he had looked so fine in his armour the morning he set out with his brother, kissing his wife and son with confidence.

She did him a disservice by believing so little in his capability, she knew, but it was not she thought him weak. Only Warwick stronger.

That did not stop her from hoping, from kneeling at the chapel alter day and night until her knees were rubbed raw of skin and her back ached. Until defeat was confirmed by God himself, she would not desert her husband and even then she knew she would seek to be reunited with him.

Their souls were one and could not be separated and if it were not for their son, Catherine knew she would have set out from Framlingham long ago. Not to return to Fotheringhay but to seek out the Yorkist forces. At least then she could sleep soundly at Richard's side, weather that was in a great chamber or one of Warwick's dungeons. She would not care.

"What are you thinking of, young Cat?"

Elizabeth's gentle voice stirred her from her thoughts and Catherine glanced up to see the Queen watching her intently from across the hearth "I see doubt in your eyes. The same doubt I fear I feel although I have tried to deny it...." The young Duchess could only nod, swirling a finger around the rim of her goblet, long drained of the wine the two drank to soothe their nerves.

"I cannot help it" She confessed "I have been raised to know when I am upon shifting sands and the King is strong, so is my husband but I fear the rebels stronger, at least at present. We were fools to think Warwick would abide being shoved aside...."

"Ah, but we didn't think that" Elizabeth interrupted with a humourless laugh "We merely thought he would do everything in his power to force himself back into Ned's good graces when in fact he has chosen to throw my husband aside in favour of his little brother!" Her eyes darkened and a sigh passed her wine-stained lips as she glanced warily into the flames "Your husband is strong as is mine" She murmured "But you are right. They face the man that raised them, a man who knows each of their strengths, each of their weaknesses"

"Which is in itself a danger"

Elizabeth nodded grimly.
"He is a powerful man, Cat, but I fear the harshest blow he has struck is yet to reach our ears....I can sense it...."

A small frown ghosted across Catherine's features and she followed the Queen's eyes to the window where sunlight shone through polished panes of glass. It was wisdom she spoke from her lips but not wisdom of the earth and the young Duchess found her curiosity pricked sharp, like a needle into flesh.

If Elizabeth's wisdom, her cunning and intelligence, was not of earth then of what was it? Of God? Or of something beyond her understanding, kept secret beneath a blanket of mystery she wished to peel away and one day she would, she was sure of it.

"Your grace! Your grace I have news!"

The two women looked up as Margery dashed through the chamber door, red faced with a letter in her hand bearing the royal seal. Edward's seal.

"Good God!" Elizabeth gasped, all but flinging her goblet aside and raising so her feet in a swirl of silken skirts that rustled when she snatched the parchment from Margery's hand "Ned! It is from Ned!" Her eager hands tore at the seal, breaking the hardened wax in two; filling the air with a determined snap.

Craning her neck, Catherine could only watch with baited breath as the Queen read the words scrawled upon the page, each inky letter capable of proving a beacon of hope or a confirmation of darkness. Feeling Margery clasp her hand, she looked up, recognising the look of worry in her eyes.

"What is it, Margie?" She asked quietly and her Lady glanced slowly to the Queen, watching the flaxen haired woman almost warily before she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper.
"Earl Rivers is here" She said, shaking her head as Catherine's eyes widened with brief relief "No. It is not Richard Woodville, my Lady....it is Anthony"

"Anthony? But Anthony is not...."

"No!" A despondent wail tore from the Queen's delicate throat and she collapsed to the floor, dove grey skirts pooling around her feet "No!" She cried again, shaking her head, one trembling hand snaking across parted lips "No....no! No!" Heavy footsteps sounded in the doorway and Elizabeth looked up with wild eyes at her eldest brother, staring at him with grief stricken disbelief.

Anthony stood hunched over, his chest still heaving from the hard ride he had endured but also with sobs he tried hard to repress. To seal away in his heart. Although still himself, he looked far older than his twenty nine years. The sun no longer kissed his tanned skin and his hair lay limp around his face, the dark flaxen curls drooping like wilted flowers. His blue eyes that so often shone like sapphires were sunken into his skull, outlined by a rim of deep purple struck into his skin by exhaustion.

"Brother...." Elizabeth murmured, her voice weaker than Catherine had ever heard it, than she had ever heard anyone's voice "Tell me....tell me this is not true" She shook her head, clambering to her feet "It can't be true...." Anthony hesitated, stepping slowly into the room under his sister's all seeing gaze, wishing to bring comfort when he knew all he brought was misery.

"Father and John...." He whispered, watching Elizabeth's beautiful face crumble before him like sand under a wave "They're dead....a few days after the battle Warwick took Edward prisoner....and then" His voice faltered as Elizabeth hurled her trembling body at his, fists flailing against his chest while she shook her head. Over and over and over.

Catherine did the same, ice flooding her veins at her brother in law's words, spoken almost like a death sentence on his lips. Edward....Edward captured by Warwick? Her head spun, throat constricting as it ran dry like a river in a drought. 'No' She told herself stoutly, blindly reaching for the carved back of a nearby chair 'No! It cannot be true....we cannot be defeated....'

"No!" The Queen screamed, wrestling with all her might when Anthony caught her wrists, forcing her to still "No! No! No!"

"There was no charge!" He cried as her sobbing body collapsed, dragging them both to the ground in a whirl of sorrowful weeping "No trial! Just the word of Warwick!" Again, Elizabeth shook her head, throwing the letter still clasped in her hand to the ground as if the page burned her.

"Where is he?" She demanded through her tears, her tone suddenly seized with a desperation Catherine could quickly feel rising within her.

If Edward was captured then what of Richard? Where did he lie in all of this? He was not with Anthony but neither had Anthony said he'd been captured by Warwick! Did he walk free or was he bound in chains by his old tutor and his own brother? "Where is Ned? Where is that devilish bastard holding him? I need to know Anthony! I need to know!"

"Middleham" Was her brother's quiet reply and Catherine felt her stomach lurch, her chest constrict. Margery caught her arm as she suddenly swayed upon her feet but she was shaken sharply away, left to watch as her Lady ran from the room with uneasy steps and a mind spinning with fear. She had to see her son, she had to hold him in her arms, cradle him close and whisper sweet nothings into his little ears.

He would be none the wiser to the danger around him and would probably try to play with the Neville vines that would surely seek to crush the life from his little body. And still, she felt a need to reassure him.

When she burst through the nursery doors, her nephews and nieces looked up; confused and then frightened by the flushed face of their Aunt.
"Go and see to your Mother!" She commanded in the direction of the Grey boys and all the two could do was run, dashing from the nursery while Catherine's wild eyes searched for her baby.

Henry was propped up happily in his nurse's lap, Lizzie settled by the woman's linen skirts while he sucked on the sleeve of his little gown. His blue eyes were wide with contentment, lips puckered together as he took the white silk between them, mouthing eagerly. Catherine had never felt her heart settle so quickly and, with an affectionate coo on her lips, she reached out, sweeping him into her ams.

The little baby gurgled at the sudden change in hands, slightly disgruntled at having to retract the precious sleeve from his mouth until he felt the heartbeat of his Mother beneath his fist. Rubbing his golden head against the soft skin of her neck, he nuzzled into the familiar warmth, little hands grabbing at her necklace to anchor him into place. He always clung to her thus and she clung to him, clutching his tiny body against her own.

"My darling boy" She breathed into his hair, inhaling the soft, sweet smell that still rested on his pristine skin "My sweet baby"

Her heart swelled at the jumble of cooing sounds that served as his form of reply, gentle gurglings and murmuring that made her blood sing with happiness. He was growing up, her boy and one day he would be the little knight Richard dubbed him "But not just yet" She whispered into one of his ears and Henry giggled, softly rubbing his cheek against hers.

꧁꧂

Though the mood of the country was more than bleak, the sun still shined, turning the carpet of grass beneath their horses hooves to a waving sea of lush green. Catherine knew Elizabeth wished all light to be banished into darkness; saw it each time the Queen glared at a shard of light that dared to shine through her bolted bedchamber windows.

She looked upon the hopeful beams as if they were the very spawn of Satan and, as her household rode steadfastly for London, she kept her face turned stubbornly to the ground.

Her lovely eyes were red-rimmed, puffy from the crying suffered upon them when the cries of the Woodville Queen had all but shaken Framlingham's walls in her grief. Pale skin turned translucent, almost glowing like a ghost in the summer sun and Catherine could not help but think that even then, even when trapped behind the iron bars of grief, Elizabeth was still so very beautiful.

Turning her gaze to the front, she looked at the looming city of London ahead, its heavy gates shut as they always were in times of war. It was a stinging reminder of their precarious position and the young Duchess could not help but glance warily over her shoulder to look at the guarded carriage containing her son.

'Ride to London, arm the Tower' Were Edward's hastily written orders and his wife had not lingered to set them in motion despite her grief. They rode quickly across the land in an uneasy silence, each member of the party hesitant to speak a single word for fear that to try and talk merrily would only bring hell down upon their heads. That was only, of course, if it had not already been brought down.

'Surely it cannot be worse' Mary Woodville had murmured one evening, her blue eyes as reddened as her elder sisters, but Catherine had only shaken her head.
'It can always be worse, my friend' She'd replied with a bitter laugh, draining the contents of her goblet without tasting a single drop of the sweet wine within.

Now, she took solace in the sight of her son's security, in the gentle plod of her palfrey's hooves beneath her, steering she and Henry ever closer to safety. Or, at the very least, what she hoped would be safety. While the Kingmaker held the King, England was not truly his, not just yet for he was yet to hold the key to unlock the Kingdom. And that key was the capital.

With the Queen kept safe within it's towering walls, it would take no less than a miracle for the citizens to yield. They were loyal to York, loyal to their King, a trait Catherine had once despised but now thanked the Lord above for! Besides, Edward was no simple fool! He was not the malleable puppet Warwick had thought and would not willingly yield to his cousin's demands, of that all were sure.

He possessed the stubbornness of his Plantagenet blood, a firm will stronger than iron and a sense of humour that Catherine could easily see him using to smile in the face of his captors. Would George make himself scarce or let himself be taunted by his brother's sharp tongue? After all, it was now no secret that Clarence wished to claim the crown and Catherine could only imagine the sharp edged jibes the King would be prepared to throw in George's direction.

Jibes that would likely never stop.

As long as Edward's resolve stayed strong, the will of the people and his kin to defend his throne would stand strong alongside him. Just as Richard would stand alongside him, Catherine thought with a sigh as London's gates grew ever closer. Casting another glance over her shoulder, her eyes danced over the blue and murrey fabric encasing the carriage, protecting their boy.

Her husband had not been taken prisoner and in fact, Catherine had been confused when Anthony recanted the tale of the King's humiliating capture to her. They had been cornered at Olney by Warwick's men with no hope of escape nor negotiation. Edward had had no choice but to comply with his cousin's demands and ordered the men around him to stand down.

Apparently Warwick taken one look at the dark haired boy standing behind his elder brother and simply turned away, either out of affection or an indifference to the sixteen year olds ability. Still, he had towed the King away and left his old ward to go free with what little men and pride he still had and now the Duke of Gloucester was rallying his men it was said.

If only any knew where he was!

His figure had become like smoke, evasive even to the most tightly strung net, able to slip through the loops with an ease as infuriating as it was impressive. Not one word had been heard from him since Edward's capture and Catherine longed for some form of note, even a single letter in his own hand scrawled hastily across a scrap of parchment! At least then she would truly be assured of his safety.

꧁꧂

The royal rooms of the Tower were hastily arranged but comfortable all the same. Fires roared in every hearth and beds were covered with heavy furs, warming the soft mattresses beneath them. The walls were lined with guards, the gates barred shut and the portcullis lowered with an ageing screech as its metal points dug into the stone below.

The Woodvilles had been a pitiful sight at the point of their reunion, a huddle of black fabric and stifled sobs clinging to one another before the hearth. The tall Jaquetta stood slumped, her slender shoulders weighed down with grief and the same veil of silence that had taken the Queen. She ate supper quietly and even when she and Elizabeth walked down to the edge of the Thames together, it was only the latter's voice that could be heard.

Catherine had watched from her chamber window, her eyes following the broken-hearted Queen as she paced angrily back and forth across the river bank. Once more, her sobs had filled the air and her Mother had bowed her head, drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe away the wetness coating her cheeks. Elizabeth had cried, had mourned but that rushing sadness had quickly boiled to anger; to rage.

Soon she'd held a look of revenge on her beautiful face, a craving for blood she was determined to draw with her own hand. Catherine could not hear what was said but she did not need to to know the Nevilles had stirred a storm not even God himself could weather.

'Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe' She'd thought to herself, and there was more than one Woodville wolf left to stalk Warwick's shadow. Even if there had not been, it was not difficult to believe that Elizabeth could provide the strength of an entire pack; claws sharpened; glistening teeth ready to sink into enemy flesh.

Now, as day turned to night and beams of moonlight glittered on the glassy surface of the Thames, Catherine knelt by her bed. One hand smoothed golden curls away from her son's face, watching with infinite love as Henry slept. She envied his innocence in a way, his world of blissful ignorance that allowed him to slip into such a peaceful slumber. Not one line of worry ran across his brow and his plump lips were almost curved into a smile, free of any strain.

What she would give for such peaceful sleep, she thought, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before she moved away to the open window. A gentle breeze flowed through the stone arch and Catherine tilted up her head as she leant her elbows on the cold ledge, letting the coolness run over her skin.

Sighing, a slight frown crossed her lips as she spotted a figure below, draped in a heavy bed robe and kneeling at the water's edge; lantern by her side. The Queen. Golden hair tumbled over her shoulders and Catherine's eyes widened as one pale hand was lifted up to the moonlight, followed by a sharpened needle that pierced porcelain skin. A bead of blood blossomed, ruby red and glistening as it dropped onto a leaf below, quickly followed by another, and another....

What was she doing?

Drawing a quill from the pocket of her robe, the Queen dipped its sharpened tip into the small pool of blood gathered, holding it over the scrap of parchment laid out in front of her. Her lips began to move, slowly, rhythmically, almost like in prayer and her quill began to dance across the paper, leaving a trail of bloody red in its wake.

Above, the young Duchess gasped, her body freezing in place as the questions in her mind were finally provided with answers. Answers she was no longer sure she wanted. For this was no normal act, no act of mere mortal man. This was magic. Blood magic.

She had heard that the Woodvilles claimed to be descended from a Goddess, an ancient goddess of water and air whose silvery blood ran in their veins but she had never believed it. She had never been given cause to believe it! Now, she could only watch in stunned silence as the Queen of England wove her magic before her, painting bloodied words across her parchment before she folded it, placing the small square inside a silver locket.

Still her lips moved and Catherine stared as she held the pendant over the the lantern at her side, slowly swirling it around the open flame. As if she knew she was being watched, her golden head darted upwards and the Duchess felt her breath hitch as her eyes met with the Queen's. Their gazes held for a moment, unwavering, almost calm until Elizabeth nodded, a slow incline of her head that Catherine could not help but return.

Pushing herself away from the window, she glided back into her bedchamber, sinking into a nearby chair while her mind whirled with the sights she'd seen. The bloodied parchment, the locket held over an open flame.....she shook her head, leaning her head upon her hand.

What words had been written? What curse had been laid?

She did not know how long she stared into the realm of her questioning mind, her eyes fixed upon the floor beneath. Her soul drifted into another realm it seemed and it was only when she heard the click of her chamber door that she looked up to see the Queen before her, the locket on its leather cord freshly placed around her elegant neck.

Gliding over to her friend's side, Elizabeth poured herself a goblet of wine, swirling the red liquid around in her mouth as she relished the sweet taste. Flicking her tongue across her bottom lip, she sighed, glancing down at the young Duchess who stared at her blankly. Almost like a child.

"How long have you known?" She asked, the question spoken as easily as if it had been one about the weather "That I practice magic?" Again, she lifted the silver goblet in her hand to her lips, waiting patiently for an answer from the befuddled girl.

"About fifteen minutes...." She stammered at last and the Queen hummed, raising her eyebrows slightly.
"I thought you may have discovered it before then!"
"Why? Do you have a caldron in your bedroom?"
A smile touched Elizabeth lips and she placed down her goblet, slipping into the chair beside her friend's.

"No" She admitted, taking up her locket, the silver cold against her palm "But I do have this" The Duchess gazed curiously at the small oval and she reached out to touch it, letting one finger trail over the metal "You have suffered at Neville hands and now so have I, as well as George's. They have taken from us what cannot be replaced and we shall have our revenge Catherine, just as you talked of so many years ago"

Catherine looked up at that, a certain fire lighting in her eyes as she remembered how she had talked of her craving for revenge. The long suffering embers of that feeling still lingered within her and now she could feel them begin to stir into a flame. One that would burn bright until its purpose was served.

Catching the determined in her blue eyes, Elizabeth quickly clasped her hands in her own, holding the locket between them, binding them together in an unspoken ritual "We will tear him down, him and his family, Catherine" She promised fiercely "Never again will the Nevilles feel the warmth of the sun, even if it shines upon them, I swear to you"