~The Bloody Meadow~

29th of March 1461....

Edward looked around, his vision blurred by the icy flecks of snow that swirled around the battlefield. From all directions the agonised cries of men echoed and blood soaked the ground, the pure white blanket of ice ground into a grisly mud by hard boots and broken bodies.

Horses whinnied as their riders plunged them into the freezing river running across the field, trampling soldiers beneath their feet, drowning them, crushing their skulls. Never had a battle been so brutal.

Four hours the battle had raged, slaughtering men of Lancaster and York in numbers he doubted even God could count amidst the blinding snowstorm. Many had been slaughtered by blades, even more through the volleys of arrows sent back and forth between the two sides, giving no warning as they descended onto the battlefield in a deadly rain through the snow.

Was this how it had been at Wakefield, he wondered, a world of fatal, icy white swirling around all, a mocking cage with moving bars, so simple yet so difficult to escape, not knowing where the next strike, the next battle cry would come from? Was this how his Father died, in the icy grip of death, the snow stained with his blood, red bleeding through the white, destroying it....

He shook his head, driving himself through the next line of soldiers, their warm blood spraying on his face as he slashed their throats, cut open their bellies.

Such grisly thoughts plagued him day and night, whirling around and around in his mind even when his own life was at stake, wondering what pain they'd felt, how much they'd suffered....the anger it sparked drove him on, twisting him into the warrior with the luck of the Devil he would ensure the Lancastrians feared.

They already did, that much he knew, even before he stepped on a battlefield, men shrunk away from him, not eager to see him draw his sword as he did now, cutting through men like sheaves of wheat.

They fell to the floor, lifeless puppets of the enemy, their strings cut, leading him ever and ever closer to defeating their puppeteer. In the heat of battle, they were not men to his eyes, not humans with families, they were part of the devil's army that had taken his kin, his Father, Edmund.

With a yell he fought on, driving his sword through man after man and kicking them aside. All around cries for York echoed in his ears, drowning out those for Lancaster, mingling with cries of King Edward, a cry he almost refused to hear.

It should be King Richard the men rallied to, it should've been his Father they gathered around. To hear his own name on their lips was wrong. It was all so so wrong - the timeline of his life he'd imagined turned on it's head - and yet he had no choice but to accept it.
His Father was dead and, if he faltered, he would be to.

He had to fight, he had to win, for him, for Edmund, for Constance, for all of his family, even little James.

"Onwards!" He bellowed, raising his bloodied sword high into the air, hearing his men yell a cheer that rose above the winds "For York and for England!" He charged forward, the sound of soldiers and destriers behind him as he smashed into more ranks of men, driving his dagger into the neck of the nearest one.

He let out a garbled cry, blood pouring from the wound and into Edward's gauntlet as he pushed him aside, ready to kill once more.

For hours on end he fought, beside his men, for his men, sweating beneath his heavy armour despite the freezing cold, watching men he'd known from childhood die either side of him, praying for God to show him favour as he'd done at Mortimer's cross.

"Just one more push, lad!" Warwick yelled over the deafening roar of battle and it was only once the Yorkists were cheering, chanting for their new King a n hour later, that Edward knew he'd been right.

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April 1461, London....

Towton.

It had been no usual bloody affair like fierce battles before, no, it had been nothing less than murderous carnage. Men, covered in their own (and each other's) blood, tore each other limb from limb, stabbing, hacking, swinging their swords with nothing less than a hellish fury while a stinging wind slapped their faces; stung their eyes.

They staggered around blind in the storm that descended upon them that day, hardly able to distinguish friend from foe apart from who tried to slit their throats and who did not.

Fought in March, the weather had threatened to freeze their fingers to their daggers, so cold it was. Snow rained down from the heavens though it's white purity was ruined as soon as it landed upon the ground and mingled with the river of blood staining the churned earth. The stench of it lived in the noses of those who fought long after the battle was done.

It was a lingering stench of death.

Eighty thousand soldiers had been upon the felid that day and only half of that astounding number left the field alive, the other half lying dismembered and unrecognisable on the churned up dirt. It had been the bloodiest battle ever to be fought on English soil and had shaken the people along with the nobles to the core.

But Edward did not think of that as he rode into London that fine May Day at the head of his nobles and army, all he could think of was the victory he had won amidst the snow and blood, and the polished crown that was soon to rest upon his noble brow.

He had been crowned King before the battle had even taken place, weeks prior in the quickest ceremony known to man, but now none could deny that he, Edward of York was no mere Earl anymore, he was King of England.

Now, he rode victorious through the streets of his new capital, white rose petals raining down upon him. They were thrown by the abundance of families crowded around open windows and the thousands of citizens gathered at the roadside, cheering his name until their voices were hoarse! It seemed the entire population of London had turned out to celebrate their new King and Edward revelled in their love.

Men were dressed in their best, proudly displaying the freshly sewn white roses on the  sleeves and breasts of their doublets. Young girls wore their long hair loose, adorned with an array of flowers who's hues were bright in the sun that shone down upon London, just as the streaming suns of Edward's banners shone upon their golden haired King.

The Sun in Splendour, it was his new emblem and suited the aim of his Kingship well, he thought, as he glanced at one blue and murrey banner that fluttered beside his destrier. He would see the law of England run from one coast to the other and clear the sky of the ever present clouds of Lancaster so that the land could bask in his York sun. It would be a new dawn.

Some of the ominous clouds had already been swept away for Queen Margaret had fled to Scotland with her hapless husband and son in tow! At last, their threat was dormant, though for how long, Edward did not know. It would only be a matter of time before they began to rumble again, or at least, she would.

He had to have a son.....another one.

He made an impressive figure sitting atop his destrier that day, golden curls freshly washed and cut, lightly touching the bejewelled chains of office resting on his broad shoulders atop a doublet of fine cloth of gold, trimmed with ermine. It was not simply a coincidence or for the sake of fashion that he appeared as regal as he did, it was but a small part of his (or rather Warwick's) plan to appear as unlike his predecessor as was physically possible.

Edward must prove to the people that he was a ruler worthy of their allegiance and would not lead them into war as witless old Henry had done. He had to show them a new England that would emerge as a result of his reign, an era of peace and prosperity and that began with appearing in a glistening spectacle of majesty.

He rode tall and proud, a handsome golden god towering above the mere mortals that were now his subjects. He was the man his Father had wished to be, had fought to be, had died to be.

He was King of England.

As he made his way through the city, basking in the endless adoration of his new subjects, he gazed upon the spires of Westminster Abbey rising in magnificent splendour ahead. That glittering building of Kings and Queens would now be his, all of England was his, every field, every castle (even every cow if he so wished it) and it was an enticing prospect to his young mind!

How much fun he and Edmund could have free to roam the Westminster palace as they had done at Ludlow! How much merriment they could make, drinking, dancing and admiring every beauteous maiden that waltzed their way. His ears ringing with exuberant laughter, he turned to his younger brother and shouted merrily over the yell of the crowds.

"How now, Edmund! What do you...."

His voice faltered at the same time as his dazzling smile when he saw his little brother was not by his side and he was brutally reminded that he never would be. Never again would he and Edmund ride out together to hunt, never again would they laugh and carouse late into the night, heavily drunk on stolen wine and their own youthful dreams of girls and glory.

Never again would Edward be able to say he had three living brothers. Now, he only had two and they were not by his side, they were only just returned from their desolate Burgundian exile.

George and Richard were children but Edmund.... Edmund had been an equal, a confidant and friend, though he knew it sounded unmanly to think such things. While he loved his other brothers and always would, Edmund had been a part of him none could ever replace.

"Are you alright, lad?" The steady voice of Warwick broke through his silent reverie and Edward forced a smile onto his face once more as he turned to his cousin, who rode proudly beside him. The great Earl had aged those past months, the young King thought as he observed him, though that was the understandable result of the heavy loss of his dear, now dead, kin.

The lines on his face were more pronounced, his eyes duller than before and, though he was only thirty two, there was a streak of silvery grey hidden within the dark curls that crowned his head. But it was not only Warwick who had aged, Edward knew he had and it appeared the Earl knew it too, sending him a sympathetic smile.

Warwick then reached out, masking the tender hand he placed on his cousin's arm beneath the pretence of momentarily losing his balance while he leant over to the young King "We all miss him but he would want you to be happy on a day such as this! So smile and please your subjects, Ned" 

Edward knew that he was right but still took a degree of comfort from his words and straightened his back; widened his charming smile.

When the procession finally reached Westminster Abbey, Edward did not even need to enter before he was met with the sight of his kin. Upon the freshly swept steps stood his sister and two little brothers, all dressed in bright murrey and blue with black bands around the tops of their sleeves, a signal to their lost kin.

Duchess Cecily was dressed in the colours of York too, her face merry beneath a tall, silk hennin but her son could see the careworn expression behind her carefully crafted smile and how her perfect facade cracked when her cornflower-blue eyes fell upon him. He smiled, determined to do her proud, and she gathered his siblings closer, nodding in his direction.

"Ned!"

There was no mistaking the excited call of young Dickon and Edward looked down as he pulled his destrier to a halt to see the eight year old grinning up at him. Nodding to a nearby guard, he swiftly had the little boy lifted into his arms (much to the acclaim of the thousands of excited onlookers) and chuckled when the lad threw his spindly arms around his neck.

"Whoah there! You shall have me on the floor, Dickon!" He pretended to lose his balance for a second in an effort to coax from his brother his familiar light hearted squeal but Dickon simply laughed and began waving to the cheering crowds, bouncing in Edward's arms while George jumped beside them.

"Now me! Now me!" He demanded, reaching upwards until his older brother grasped his arm, pulling him upwards to the front of his saddle. George looked around proudly, puffing out his chest and waving to the Londoners as if he were King "See, Isa!" He called proudly to Isabel Neville, who stood on the steps beside her Mother and little Nan "I told you I could do it!"

"That you can!" She returned, a smile gracing her lips before she curtsied to her Father. Those few words seemed enough to satisfy young George and he smirked to himself before beginning to bombard Edward with questions just as Dickon was doing. Each were eager to hear of their eldest brother's exploits and, while the young King indulged them for a minute or two, he could see the way his Mother was anxiously wringing her hands beside them.

She needed to embrace him to reassure herself that he was not a figment of her grieving imagination.

Setting the two boys back upon their feet, he then dismounted with grace but soon found himself darting forward when his Mother moved to curtsy! He could not allow that! He could never allow that, she was his Mother, not his subject! 'She is both now' He knew Warwick would say had he been able to read minds, Edward often wondered if he could!

"Nay, Mother! Do not curtsy to me!"
Cecily peered up at him as he took hold of her shoulders and raised her to her feet again, a look of relief clouding her eyes. She raised one slender hand to his cheek; thumb gently rubbing along the golden stubble on his chin.

"You are a man" He found he could smile again at that and raised his head to show her her words were true, that he was indeed a man and not the babe she had birthed eighteen years prior "Your Father would be proud" Edward gulped before he took her into his warm embrace, holding her slender figure against his muscled one to hide the tears that pricked his eyes.

'Your Father would be proud' They were words all sons yearned to hear but then, when his Father was dead and gone, they meant so much more than a simple praise.

"Thank you" he whispered against her neck, feeling Margaret choose that moment to wrap her arms around his waist "Thank you, ma mére"

"Edward!" The call of Warwick made him draw away from the comforting embrace and, with a nod and a kiss to his sister's cheek he moved towards the Nevilles. Countess Anne dipped into a deep curtsy and this time Edward relished the elegant act, watching with a grin as her two daughters followed suit. Isabel looked the image of her Mother, prim and proper, while Nan merely stared at him as if he were one of God's archangels!

Her innocent gaze amused rather than irked him and he reached out to gently tuck a stray honey curl behind her ear. The little girl looked ready to faint at that and had to be sharply elbowed by her elder sister for her to even begin to mumble her thanks. They were alike as day and night Warwick's two daughters!

"But wait" He suddenly said, looking around in confusion "Where is Constance?" Cecily smiled.
"She is...."

"I am here!" The pair looked up to see Constance rushing out of the Abbey, cerulean skirts bunched in her fists, a wide, relived smile on her pretty face. Edward didn't hesitate to sweep her into his arms, clasping her close as the beads of her rosary drummed against his doublet and the crowds roared "Oh God, Ned!" She breathed "You are back you are...."

Her eyes widened with remembrance and suddenly she was dipping into a curtsy, one pale hand curling around his as the crowds cheered "You are King" She breathed as she rose and he nodded, a certain solemnity overcoming his handsome face.

"And you are my Queen"
He glanced at his Mother who watched on sadly, trying to smile again when he caught her eye.
"And what a great Queen you shall make, my dear" She encouraged "Go, Ned, tell your people whom they must call Queen!"

"You needn't" Constance quickly assured him, squeezing his hand. She had no wish to solidify Cecily's mighty fall by rubbing salt in the wound through a declaration. She could barely believe the new title herself, she had no need to hear it spoken to thousands! And yet, Proud Cis shook her head.

"He must" She said stoutly, giving the young couple a little push forward "You are Queen, all must know it"
"Queen!" Dickon crowed happily, taking Constance's free hand to cuddle into her side "Queen Connie of England!"

"Come here, Dickon!" Margaret chided, pulling him gently to her side as Edward stepped forward and raised a ringed hand, the gold and jewels glistening in the sun. As if he were God, the unspoken command was obeyed in a moment, leaving a thousand pairs of eyes looking up to him in silence, waiting, watching for the next words to leave his handsome lips.

"On this day, God has seen fit to smile upon me and all of you in giving me the crown" He boomed "It is by his will that I hold it and I come hither not only to take my rightful throne but present the woman whom shall sit beside me" Glancing down at Constance with a small smile, he looked back to the crowds after a moment and raised his chin "I give you Queen Constance!"

The world remained silent for a moment before it began to roar, the city's voices crying out their love so loudly, Constance was sure she would go deaf. A hot flush spread to her cheeks and her fingers clutched her rosary as the people began to wave, calling out her name like a sacred prayer, as if she were an angel sent to save them all!

"Queen Constance!" They chorused and she couldn't help but smile.