~The King and The King ~

15th of September 1484....

The camp awoke two thousand stronger than they'd been at sunset. In the midst of the small hours the Duke of Buckingham had scurried across the battlefield and up the bank with his troops, immediately hurrying into Edward's tent and falling to his knees before the boy, pledging allegiance and begging forgiveness.

Of course Edward had given it, he couldn't deny such a force for his cause and when Arthur saw then men he'd thought his own standing side by side with the true king's, in the vanguard no less, he knew he'd be shaken. He couldn't have wished for a more successful night!

Just before dawn, when the cloak of night covered the earth, tinged with a growing golden glow, the last of the men made it to the bottom of the bank. Formations were made, cannons aligned and banners raised. It would hopefully come as quite the shock to the enemy faction if they had not noticed the movement of almost twenty thousand men and a handful of their commanders.  

Constance didn't sleep. She didn't think she would. Instead she listened to Margaret's calm prayers and readings from the Bible then the clanking of armour and blades when the camp awoke. When an orange glow tinged the horizon she finally rose on trembling legs and bade them dress her. She wore the same gown she had on arrival, parti-coloured with the arms of her husband and England.

They braided her hair then wrapped the long plaits around the back of her head, pinning them into place but attended no more to it. She could not bear the fuss of a headdress that day.

"Go, see to your menfolk" She told them for their fears were no less than hers. Their hands trembled as they dressed her and their faces were white as bedsheets. Margaret was somehow even paler than usual!

They curtsied, mumbling their thanks and squeezing her hands before leaving, hurrying into the camp and she did the same.

"Is my lord of Gloucester ready?" She asked the man guarding Richard's tent and he nodded, pulling the leather flaps aside so she could enter.

Alone and dressed in his polished armour, Richard was fiddling with the strap of his gauntlet. He looked up as she entered and in a moment she was in his arms, the sound of clanking metal filling the tent.

"You can't die." She whispered shakily, clutching at his pauldrons "I won't allow you to die."
"I won't die, Connie." He murmured and a metal-clad hand cradled the back of her head, cool fingers stroking her hair "Nor will I allow Edward to die. We will win and we will live and you and I will guide him until he is ready to rule."

"You can't die." She whispered again, trembling in his embrace, the same feeling that claimed her before Ned went to battle creeping over her heart. Perhaps this was even worse for her son was there too and she'd never been with Ned only hours before battle; had never seen the men move, watched the enemy awake.

"Don't die, Richard. I wouldn't be able to bear it."
"Well, I have a token for luck" He told her and gently moved her away so he could fish the golden C pendant from beneath his breastplate "See? I have your love with me." But tears only filled her eyes.

"What if God strikes you down because of what we have done?" She asked frantically "What if he sees our sin and seeks to punish you? What if he seeks to punish Edward?"

"Oh, my sweetheart." He drew her into his arms again, rubbing soothing circles over her back and pressing soft kisses to the curve of her neck "He won't, He won't do that." Though he had harboured moments of worry about it "God is with us in this, Connie. He knows your son is his chosen king and will see him ascend the throne. The bastard will die and so will his bitch of a mother."

"We must go to Edward. I must see him."
"Of course, of course. But first" Placing a hand at the back of her neck, he tilted her face up to him, crushing their lips together in a sweet kiss she immediately melted into. It sent life into her veins, easing her fears for a moment, blurring them with bliss. At last, they pulled away.

She looked at him and was suddenly reminded of his age. Just thirty one. It was wrong, she thought, that his face should bear such tired lines and his hair be streaked with silver. He should still be bright-faced and merry - although he'd never been given much time in life to be the latter.

"Come." She said "Let us go to Edward. He needs us."

And so they did, ignoring the men all around them and striding into the young king's tent. Constance stopped in her tracks and her breath caught in her throat.

Her son was dressed fully in his armour, his body encased in black iron, a sword, dagger and battle axe at his hip. When he turned it was with the clank of metal - a sound of war long dreaded. Though he held his head high and smiled at them, she could see the fear in his eyes.

"Your master is ready?" She asked the squires attending him. They nodded.
"Yes, your grace."
"Then leave us."

In her mind she began to pray again, renewing the promises of the night before: that if it took her soul for her son to see victory then she would go to her death gladly, that she would see England become an alter to God at which all would worship in peace, that Edward would be great and bring glory to his name, that there would be no more war.

"You look well." She murmured, allowing trembling fingers to brush golden curls behind his shoulder "Did you sleep?"
"I slept."
"How long?"
"Two hours or so. But it was fitful. I spent the rest of the night with Uncle Dickon and Bedford. I've ordered that there is to be no quarter for the soldiers. I want their leaders to be captured but if they are dispatched in battle I will have no quarrel with their killers."

Good she thought, checking over buckles and straps, motioning for Richard to do the same. Edward's squires were well trained but she would have no peace of mind if she didn't check herself.

"Richard, fetch him a drink, he hasn't had a drop this morn."
Edward arched an eyebrow as Richard went to pour a cup of watered down wine.
"How do you know?"
"Your lips are dry." She said without looking up from her work "Your Father's were the same when he hadn't drunk."

He drunk the wine in three great gulps, swallowing the last thickly.
"The day is dry."
"But covered in a thin cloud." Richard replied "It is good. There is no sign of rain but we shan't be scorched by the sun."
"And the ground is unlikely to become a mire even with the blood-"

"Oh for heaven's sake, be quiet both of you!" Their gazes shot to Constance at her sharp words. Her nerves were thinner than a strand of silk thread and she couldn't stomach their easy talk, passed between them as if they spoke of nothing more than what was for breakfast!

She cupped Edward's face, peering up into his blue gaze that was marred with fear "I said this once to your Father when we were in France" She told him sternly "I said it to try and prevent him from fighting but now I say it to encourage you to draw your sword. You are young, Edward, but you are your Father's son and you are strong. Remember, all it takes to kill a man is one well aimed blow." She nodded "Just one."

Suddenly his lower lip began to tremble, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. A quivering breath filled his lungs.

"What if one hits me?"
"It won't" She whispered "It won't, Neddy. Last night I prayed as you asked me to and the lord visited me!" His eyes grew wide at that, unsure if she spoke true "The Holy Spirit filled my body and God told me he was at your side! Ask Lady Margaret, she bore witness!"
"Truly?" He breathed.
"Truly!"

She was uncertain of it herself but better to tell him what she would've been sure of only a little over a year and a half before than to cast doubt at such a moment. "God is with you! You need to fight but you will have your Uncle by your side, my brother, and thousands of others on the field fighting for you, to see you anointed as king, they already see you as such! You are their King, Edward, you are God's King and we will all be damned before we see this traitor and his bitch mother take that from you! You will win today and tomorrow you will truly be King of all England!"

Nodding again she leant their foreheads together and closed her eyes for a moment, willing all her strength and courage to flood her son's veins, to make him stronger, quicker, invincible.

"Edward?"
Looking to the side, Richard was holding out her son's helm to him with its golden crown.
"Do you think it wise?" She asked.
"I am the King." Edward replied, taking the black sallet and tucking it under his arm.

"It's time." Richard murmured and they both nodded, Constance pulling her boy close for one last embrace, pressing frantic kisses to the side of his head, caressing his hair.
"Come back to us." She whispered and he nodded, the grip on her waist tightening for a moment before he let go and went to his uncle's side.

"I will keep him safe." He said and she could only nod, her throat tightening, trapping the words in her head. She knew Richard would keep his word, he would give his own life to do so. By god she hoped he needn't. She watched as they strode out of the tent together and followed, hands clutching at her skirts to prevent her from pulling Edward back.

Every instinct screamed for her to push him behind her, to keep him in his tent and forbid anyone going within twenty feet of it! But she knew she couldn't, not even when her heart howled as she watched him mount his destrier and take up the leather reins. He wouldn't be on it for long, only using the great animal to get down the bank.

It had been decided that the vanguard would lead a mounted charge but the two other guards would fight on foot, better suiting the terrain Richard said. It also gave the horses rest had they need of escape.

Oh god....her boy....her sweet boy.

She couldn't stop herself.

Almost running up to his steed, she grabbed his armoured hand and brought it to her lips, squeezing with all the strength of her adoration.
"I love you." She told him. She could no longer see his face, the helmet was on and he was now a warrior king ready to lead his men. Still, his hand squeezed hers in return.

"I love you too, ma Mére." He said as two tears slid down her face and then his spurs dug into his steed's muscled sides and he was away, leaving her hand empty and her heart aching.

༻᯽༺

The day was warm yet the sun had barely risen. It was seven o'clock, Edward estimated. What hour would it be when the battle finished? Would he see it?

He looked to the right where the vanguard waited, the air filled with the whinny of horses and Suffolk heading them, gleaming in his armour. He looked to the left where he could see the standards of John Neville and Peter of Bourbon.

He looked ahead to the enemy and in the distance could see Arthur leading his own middle guard on foot. The golden bastard. He doubted the gold plate on his armour was even real, more likely the work of his mother's sorcery or (if it was real) stolen gold that should be his. He would get it back.

He looked behind to the bank looming over the land. He hoped his mother was in her tent and not trying to peer over the edge, he wanted her as safe as could be, wishing for a moment he'd made her stay at Helmsley. He could see a few of his archers.

When he drew his sword and raised it, a signal would be given and they'd draw their bows, preparing to shoot the first volley of arrows into the enemy. When he swung it down, the would let them loose and then the vanguard would charge. Then he'd fight.

There wasn't to be a speech, he could barely form thoughts, let alone inspiring words to stir the blood. The pretender hadn't made one either.

"W-when do I start it?" He murmured and Richard, who stood beside him, turned with a small smile of reassurance, visor open.
"Whenever you're ready, lad."
He could feel his limbs trembling beneath his armour, it was a miracle the metal wasn't rattling!

He wanted his father, he thought, he wanted his mother and to go back to Ludlow or Middleham with uncle Dickon and sit by the fire with the wolfhounds while he told stories of his youth.

"Go on, Ned." Whispered the voice of George Neville from behind him "Let's grind these bastards into the dirt!"

Nodding, a small smile twitching at his lips, he raised his arm and slammed his visor shut, followed by hundreds of others. They were with him. It made him feel strong.

Stepping forth, the sun-scorched earth was solid beneath his mettled feet and he clasped his hand around the pommel of his sword. Hot blood pumped through his veins, pulsing from his temple to his toes; the tips of his fingers.

He would win.
He would win.

His men at his back, his father in his heart, he drew his sword, thrusting it into the morning light. Pikes rattled, men yelled, stamping their feet and pounding their fists against their chests.

"Mother, Father, Marie Isabella, Cecily, Aliénor, Richard, Charles, Anne, Grandmother, Jamie, Dickon, England." He whispered.

The blade fell, and a thousand arrows flew, whistling death into the air.

༻᯽༺

Breathe, breathe, breathe....

In, out, in, out, in....

It was so hard to in the hot crush of metal bodies surrounding him, the cries filling his ears, the blood covering him, seeping through the joints in his armour, beneath his jerkin and mail, clawing at his skin with its slick, crimson fingers.

He didn't know where theirs ended and his began.

How many hours had it been? One? Two? Ten? Had it only been minutes and their agonising seconds had been stretched out into an eternity?

Stab, twist, punch, tear, maim, kill over and over and over and over. One after the other after the other falling onto his sword, their life trickling down his dirtied blade.

They came at him from all sides, eyeing his crown and spying a chance for glory, a chance to kill a king. His blood was gold, his life the greatest jewel and they all came to snatch at it, clawing fingers slapped away by his uncle and men's blades.

His throat was dry, screaming for water, for air. His body was slick with sweat. It ran down his face (or were they tears), drenched his hair under the confines of his helmet. How he wished to rip it off, he could barely see in the damn thing!

Perhaps that was a good thing, then he couldn't see the full scope of the horrors he'd committed. Oh but he could hear them. Yes, he could hear them....

The squelch of their spilled guts, the sharp cracks of their breaking bones followed by screams of men and boys.

He could feel where bruises would be, his sides were aching, screaming into black, purple and blue flesh. The fingers around his sword had almost lost their feeling he'd gripped the hilt so hard and for so long. All he could do was hold on as he killed - over and over and over.

He could see the face of the first man, just as Richard had said. Young, brown hair, flecks of dirt on his freckled face, a commoner. Edward had driven his sword into his chest then left the boy's jerking body to be trampled, blood leaking from the corners of his lips.

Despite the heat, he shivered.

Glancing to the side, he saw a man yelling at his uncle. Richard then nodded, punching the soldier he was fighting in the jaw and the man was away again.

"What is it?" Edward cried. With a roar, Richard brought down his battle axe upon his opponent, piercing his skull and sending him, crumpled, to the churned ground.

"A man from Suffolk!" He yelled back "The bastard's vanguard is almost broken! He says they look close to retreat!"
"Good!" And it was good only he didn't know where the vanguard now was, he didn't know where the rear was or where he was! He could've been on the moon for all he knew since the battle started!

He could only keep fighting, cutting down man after man, inching closer and closer to victory, towards Arthur.

He would cut him down himself, he would-

'No!' His mind protested firmly. Richard had warned against such goals and he would take heed of those wise words, however much his heart wanted to ignore them.

It didn't have to for much longer.

A banner fluttered only ten metres or so away and when he looked up, he saw the royal arms of England flying bright over the carnage. But it was not his, no, this accursed standard bore the Woodville arms too, the greatest stain ever beheld and it captured the attention of all around him.

Arthur was here.
Edward and his Uncle glanced at one another and even though he couldn't see his face Edward knew what Richard looked like.
"No." His expression said "Stay your hand, lad!"
"But let me come with you!" Edward shouted and Richard gave a swift nod, raising a hand to motion for the men to follow.

Despite his tiredness and the burning ache in his bones, Edward found himself grinning and his heart quickened.

The bastard was here.
The bastard was finally to die.

They forced their way through ranks of men until the glimmer of gold caught their eye, still gleaming beneath the mud and blood marring its polished surface.

Arthur stood tall, sword in hand, dagger in the other which he was dragging from the neck of a Yorkist soldier, letting him fall in a heap to the ground. His armour was scraped, his helmet dented on the right side from where someone had tried to smash a mace through it. Would that it had worked, Edward thought, his anger and grief pushing him onwards, propelling him forwards.

Arthur's men surged forth and so did his, Edward colliding with a Woodville man while Richard lunged toward's the bastard's standard bearer with a determination that would scare the bravest of men.

The man before Edwaed thrust forth with a morning star swinging it toward the young king. It collided with his breastplate and he felt the breath knocked from his lungs but refused to slow his movement, grasping the man by the neck and throwing his head forward, bashing his armoured head against the enemy's naked one. Another one came for him and he turned to fight his new foe.

The other man stumbled back with a cry, his temple cracked and bleeding, blind in one eye from the blood and it was then Rob leapt forth and struck, kicking his legs out from under him before delivering the deadly blow to the chest, sticking his sword straight through.

Dispatching the second, Edward stepped back, panting.
"Rob!" He turned "I am-"

But Rob was gone.
Rob was lying on the ground.
Rob was choking on his own blood with an arrow stuck fast in his neck and his eyes bulging from his skull as he clawed for air. There was no time to mourn him.

Looking up from his uncle's dying friend, his eyes blew wide as he saw the bastard's standard bearer lying dead a few meters away and in his place, Richard was fighting the bastard himself. Arthur was almost as tall as his father had been and clearly strong but Richard was a seasoned warrior, smaller, yes but strong too and filled with a molten rage and grief that strengthened every blow.

The battle would be over soon, his mind said, it would all be over soon! Richard could kill him, he knew he could!

But his gaze was torn away when an armoured man lunged towards him, forcing him to fight again. Thrust, punch, stab, twist, hit, break, kill. It was surprisingly easy to cull him, perhaps owed to the renewed adrenaline pumping through his veins and he looked to his uncle once more only to see a knight heading for him with an axe.

"Richard!" He yelled "On your left!" And sped towards him, heart pounding, raising his blade, arriving at Richard's side just as the knight reached him and his Uncle turned, swinging his dagger, pushing back the man with a heavy kick and a cry.

Edward's raised blade clashed against another, the crossed swords flashed menacingly in the sunlight. He looked down the blooded weapon, it's engraved hilt, it's golden pommel to the golden hands of its owner. For a moment, he froze and his opponent did too.

Arthur.

"Protect the King!" A voice yelled and immediately his men were swarming in about him, pushing back all around them, killing, maiming, injuring any that were too close until a crooked circle was formed.

The two young men stared at one another. Arthur's visor was gone, torn off by the looks of it, perhaps by a hammer, and leaving a bloody face on display, pale and marred with cuts. The stench of death surrounded them, clinging to their bodies, forcing itself up their noses, rushing through their veins and trying to claim their hearts; wrap thorny vines around the beating muscle and squeeze every drop of life from it.

Edward shuffled from side to side, pushing back and forcing their blades apart. Rage coursed through his veins, tears pricked his eyes.

At last! As last he could see his enemy, this demon, this boy who had taken so much and vowed to take more!

"Finally." His heart skipped a beat as Arthur's scathing voice cut through the roar of battle, his face twisted into a mocking smile, jaw taught "We meet."
"It wasn't difficult to find me, I haven't been hiding behind my mother's skirts like you. Bastard."

This was it.
This moment would decide the fate of England, the fate of their lives, the moment he'd been waiting for, training for, hungering for!

Arthur's expression faltered a little, eyes glimmering with feeling Edward didn't want to admit he could possess.

"Our father loved me!"
His blood boiled. How dare he mention his father? How dare he speak of him to his face? How dare he even think of him! He had no right! No right!

"That he did" Edward spat "My father loved you and how did you repay that love? With betrayal and deceit! You are nothing more than the ill-begotten spawn of a whore. I am his true heir, I am the rightful king!"

Either could live at the end, but not both.

"King William the Conqueror was a bastard, or have you not been paying attention to your histories, boy?"

Edward couldn't contain the laugh that burst from his throat, a moment of mirth amidst the veil of death they were trapped in and, oh, was it a fine one!

"You think to compare yourself to him?" He cried, incredulous "The mewling kitten masquerading as the lion? Ha! You fool, your mother probably told you he's your father too! Really, how does she know you belong to the late king? I wager there were so many men in her cunt she wouldn't be able to tell if you were my father's or the blacksmith's! Hell, you might even be my dead uncle George's then treason is truly in your blood!"

He knew as the words came out of his mouth that he probably shouldn't have uttered the last part but he didn't care. His aim was to wound not preserve the dead's honour.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, grip tightening on his blade, moving forward half a step.
"I would kill you for such slander."

Edward sheathed his sword and plucked the battle axe from his belt, flexing his fingers around the carved wooden handle. He would make it hurt. He would make it brutal. He would make him feel every moment.

"And I will kill you for what you've done to my family. When this is done, I'm going to drag your bitch mother naked through the streets of London then burn her like the witch she is! And your bastard brother? I say he'll very well suit a spike in his skull!"

A mighty roar erupted from Arthur's mouth and they lunged forward, colliding in a storm of hatred and fury.

They flung every ounce of strength at each other, beating, punching, hitting, aiming not only to kill but to hurt. Again and again they collided, trying to gain the upper hand. At one point Edward wondered if he should bite Arthur's nose off, it was certainly close enough and would give him a great advantage.

He'd only have to raise his visor for a moment but didn't have time when Arthur landed a hard punch to the side of his head, making it ring as he stumbled back.

"Bastard!" He spat over and over "Bastard!" It only inflamed Arthur more, which pleased him, and after each insult he would leap forward with a renewed spirit and Edward would meet him, weapons clashing, seeking flesh and the reward of blood. Soon they were both panting, gasping for air but their efforts did not waver, they couldn't allow them to. Whoever weakened first would be the one to die - the one to rule and the one to punish the others kin.

And so they fought on with gritted teeth and bruised skin spitting blood from their lips. Edward surged forward again.

He grabbed Arthur's pauldron, raising his axe, ready to strike that pale neck and turn all beneath him to blood when Arthur swung his dagger at the hand holding him, crashing it down on his hand. Edward screamed as the pommel flattened his little finger, metal crushing flesh and bone, mashing them together into a pulp.

"Fuck!" His hand jerked out of reach and he pushed Arthur away, slamming his hands into his breastplate and arm and sending him flying with a pained cry. Through the haze of blinding pain, he frowned, cradling his injured hand, the finger that had begun to ooze blood from his gauntlet's black joints.

He hadn't pushed the bastard so hard it warranted such a sound of pain! It wasn't....oh.

Arthur straightened up with several clanks, a tear rolling through the mud on his cheeks as his right hand reached underneath his left arm and, with another pained yell, tore the dagger there from his flesh, watering the earth below with a torrent of blood.

It was short, the cross-hilt wrapped in black leather and the pommel set with a ruby.

He'd recognise it anywhere. As a child he'd run his fingers over the jewel, knew the smell of the leather, how it felt in his hands.

It was Richard's.
His uncle had managed to wound the bastard before he was distracted. Of course he had! And under the arm no less. From the look of the blood leaking down his side, he'd hit the artery they were all taught to aim for in training. One that could kill.

Arthur looked at him with wide eyes, the dagger slipping from his grasp and landing with a thud on the ground. But he was not finished yet - oh no. His eyes narrowed and, reaching up, he removed his helmet, shaking the sweat from his hair and throwing it aside with a snarl. He snatched his mace from his belt.

It was a challenge, Edward thought, bait.

However foolish of him, he decided to take it.

Tearing off his helmet, he squinted for a moment as the light hit his eyes and gasped, letting air flow into his lungs for what felt like the first time. Finally, he could fully see the carnage surrounding him, the men that stood around him, fending off every would be killer. Apart from Arthur of course.

He was now his to dispatch.

The two took one another in for a moment, breathing heavily, struck by how alike they were, similar in height, similar in looks, both with damp golden curls clinging to their foreheads. They both had mothers, they both had brothers, their father was dead.

And yet they couldn't have been more different nor hated each other more. Or at least Edward hated Arthur and believed he hated him. How could he not?

His hand throbbed, adrenaline drowning out the brunt of the pain and he gripped his axe tighter. Then swung.

Again they collided, even more violent than before, kicking, punching, swinging, stamping. Intertwined in a deathly embrace, they fell to the floor, trying with all their might to gain the upper hand. They pushed and pulled, Edward smashed his brow against Arthur's forehead, dazing himself a little but doing worse to his opponent who fell back from his position above him, clutching his head with a grown.

They were both covered in his blood, the dark sticky liquid flowing from his wound in a thick stream.

"Is the kitten finally drowning?" Edward taunted, rising to his feet and Arthur looked up at him before forcing himself upright. He swung his mace but he was growing slower, sloppier and Edward was able to dodge it ably. Back and forth they went, clashing every so often, the younger more frequently dodging the elder, slipping in a few mocking hits.

'Don't be arrogant, Edward' He could hear Richard's chiding voice say and so limited himself until Arthur began to stumble, his face growing paler and eyes clouded, almost glassy. Drawing in a ragged breath, he surged towards his half brother but Edward pushed him back and his eyes widened when Arthur fell, collapsing in the mud with a sharp cry and struggling to rise again.

He wouldn't, he decided. This was it.

Arthur raised his eyes, meeting his gaze, battered and bleeding. His mace had slipped from his hand and lay beside him in the dirt. He made no move to take it up again.

The world slowed, almost stopping as they stared at each other, one tired, the other, not victorious, no - disbelieving.

Edward swallowed, panting hard, watching the older boy before him.
"Did you truly think you would win?" He asked, surprisingly without mockery "Did you truly think you could beat me? England's love for me?"

Arthur blinked, slow, almost sleepy. Blood leaked from the left corner of his lips.

"You could never have been my brother." He continued "But maybe, just maybe, Arthur," Edward took a breath, shook his head "You may have been my friend. I would never have harmed you. Never. Now, I hate you. By God I hate you, you bastard. And your brother."

Arthur didn't utter a word, only looked up at him, ragged breath after ragged breath leaving his lungs, swaying a little.

"With your death, my troubles end and my peace begins. England will forget you, I will forget you."

He raised his axe, wrapping the left hand around it too, not caring how much it hurt.

Arthur's face crumpled.
"No you won't" He said and, never breaking their gaze, let out one final roar before Edward brought the spiked side of his axe down upon his head, piercing his skull and driving into his brain. The scream that erupted from his throat pierced Edward's ears and he grimaced, watching as the cry quickly dwindled and the bastard's eyes rolled back into his skull. He was pulled into the darkness of death and his body fell to the floor.

Only moments layered, a cry went up.
"He's dead! The bastard's dead!" The single voice was soon joined by others, one by one, group by group until it seemed Edward's entire army was screaming the news.

The news of his victory.

With a trembling breath, he looked down at the body of Arthur, the blood leaking from his head, the stillness of his limbs and realised with a sharp pang in his heart that he'd won. He'd won!

The bastard would not rise again and nor would any of his kin.

His throne was safe, his brothers and sisters were safe, his mother was safe, Anne was safe, James and Will had been avenged. Rob's death was not in vain.

Tears filled his eyes as the cries of victory built up and up around him. He suddenly felt like a little boy again, small and weak, wanting for his mother's embrace and her sweet words that could make everything better. It took all his strength to not fall to the floor. He looked up to the heaven's, staring into the clear sky, the sun almost at full height, shining on the battlefield.

"I have given England justice, father." He breathed "I have won."

Mother, Father, Marie Isabella, Cecily, Aliénor, Richard, Charles, Anne, Grandmother, Jamie, Dickon, England -

Rob.