~Lost Souls~

November 1470, Westminster Palace....

It was just as it had been in April.

A trap.

A trap set by master hands intending to catch a prized mouse and, while the King was not caught, it had snapped away his pride and power in one foul swing.

Every inch had been planned out, every move, every whiff of bait placed exactly where Lancaster wanted it to draw Edward in. He'd been drawn by the news of Warwick's northern landing, intent on crushing him flat with the promise of the York sons reunited....only the enemy hadn't landed in the North.

The King wasn't to know that; wasn't to know that each day, each hour, each step brought him closer and closer into the spider's web, that invisible ropes were being wound around him.

At Doncaster those ropes were finally seen, glistening with betrayal under the full moon as Warwick's army advanced on Conisbrough Castle in a storm of swords and treason. The guards barely had time to raise the alarm before the enemy was upon them, tearing through the gates like hungry wolves with Somerset and Warwick at the head.

One was more undoubtedly keener than the other, calling out for Edward of York, for his head. 'I'll have it on a spike by dawn' the Duke had boasted and if the King's younger brother hadn't been a light sleeper, perhaps he would've succeeded.

Dickon had jumped from his bed at the first sign of trouble, pulling on his clothes as he ran through the halls, yelling into every bedchamber at the top of his lungs. Soon, the whole castle were roused but they were unprepared, lambs for the slaughter, which left only one option.

Running.

And run they had.

From Edward's bedroom window they'd jumped into the dark moat: the King, his brother, two of his friends, John, Will and Anthony Woodville, barely dressed with not a penny to their name. They slipped away, the King of England decreased to a thief in the night. He barely made it across the channel alive, having to give his cloak to the boat master as payment.

Only James stayed behind, gathering what few men he could to buy the King time. Soon, all but he were dead and he was hauled forth before the Duke and Earl, the former of which wanted him executed as an example. Only Warwick's reminder that King Louis wanted the Bourbon Lord alive stopped him, so it was decided he would be kept under lock and key until he could be returned to France.

The moment it became clear their target had slipped the net, the Lancastrians descended on London with brutal force, deciding if they could not tear out the root, they would crush the stem.

Elizabeth fled into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey with her boys and that was where she stayed.

No one knew where George stood but most never did. George stood where George was safe or where his ambition was fed. The latter certainly wasn't being sated Lizzy thought as she thought of how the Duke of Clarence was shunned at court by almost all.

No matter which side one fought for, a turncoat was never welcome, let alone a turncoat twice over!

Lizzy sighed, dipping another clean rag in the bowl of water she'd set by the bed she watched. In truth, she didn't know much of the politics of England, having spent her entire life away from court.

Married at the age of thirteen to Lord William Parr (a man twenty eight years her senior) she'd spent the two years since residing at his Northern estate, Kendal Castle. He much preferred the company of plants and dogs to men! She didn't mind, not that she had the right to, her Lord husband was a kind man and she found ample activities to occupy her time.

She spent her days with her ladies, picking flowers to weave into crowns, dancing; playing the array of instruments her tutor had instructed her in! It was a quiet life but she was content.

Lizzy never thought herself much of a girl people payed much mind to, being only fifteen, so when a letter arrived from London commanding her there, it was the greatest shock of her life!

Niece to the Kingmaker, that was what she was through her Mother, Alice Neville - Warwick's little sister. She didn't know much of her famous Uncle, having only ever seen him from afar, apart from what her Ladies had told her and even then she couldn't figure him out.

One minute he was a hero, the next a traitor. She'd received the news of King Edward's overthrow with a degree of disinterest but at night her mind spun tales explaining why her Uncle would turn on the man her husband told her he made King!

Now she served his unmade Queen. 

Her husband released her with little fuss, a small kiss on the cheek and an affectionate "Goodbye, Lady wife" to which she curtsied before climbing into her carriage. She'd thought her Uncle would greet her upon arrival at Westminster but he wasn't to be found, like a ghost, spoken of but never seen, and instead a man came to collect her with instructions she was to wait on the Lady Constance.

She'd only ever caught once glimpse of the York Queen, when she was just a little girl at her coronation but she would never forget it. Constance had looked so beautiful, Lizzy was sure she was more an angel than a woman but that ethereal beauty seemed to have vanished, she realised, when she first lay eyes on her.

She'd been moved from the Queen's rooms to a small bedchamber, tucked in the farthest corner of the palace, barely furnished and there she lay beneath thin sheets, pale skin stretched over bones marred by deep purple crescents under her eyes. She hardly opened her eyes.

By the time the sun hid behind the horizon on her first day at court, Lizzy had heard of how Constance's children had been ripped from her arms and her heart ached for her. Women in their world had little to call their own but their children and even the thought of having them taken was excruciating torture.

A hand slipped to her belly, now flat, but just a few months ago it had been rounded with life before she gave birth. She'd been sure the pain would split her in two but when the midwives handed her her daughter, she instantly knew she'd never love anything in the world as much as she loved her.

Oh Anne, her sweet darling little Anne. She was the light of her life and she often spent days sitting by her cradle, simply watching her sleep. She missed her terribly, even knowing she was safe, so could only imagine the pain within Constance's heart.

So, she began to serve the deposed Queen, or rather, tend to her. Lizzy was of a merry disposition, light hearted, bubbly but that nature was repressed at court. Constance didn't speak, she hardly woke, being gripped by bouts of fever that left her bed bound and forced mumbled names from her lips.

"Edward" She sometimes groaned "Marie" at others. The names of her son, daughter and husband. Sometimes she even called out for her Father, pleading in French for him to help her, her fingers clutching tight at the rosary he'd given her so many years ago....

When Lizzy had told her her name, who her family was, she'd begun to weep, cursing Nevilles left right and centre in a confused haze before falling to sleep again. Constance had no one in the world it seemed, even James was now across the sea, returned to John and their childhood home.

On the rare occasion she did rise, she sat by the fire and cried into the sleeve of her shift. Still, she didn't speak to the young girl always lingering nearby, in fact, Lizzy didn't think she had looked at her more than once. It was if she didn't know she was there; that she didn't see her being too bound in the painful trap of her own mourning mind.

Her dark hair hung limp down her back, unkempt, and blood resided under her nails, the only other colour on her, gathered when she stripped her fingers of skin. What food Lizzy brought often went away untouched and as the weeks went by, the girl watched more flesh melt from her bones like wax from a candle. It simply slipped away, burnt by despair.

She was a skeletal ghost of a woman; void of all hope and life.

Her mind was trapped in darkness beneath a black veil that blurred and warped all around her. When she slept, she never rested for her head swirled with pain, pounding with betrayal. It hurt. Everything hurt.

"How could you?" She wished to scream at Warwick "How could you?" She wanted to take him by the shoulders, shake him until she had answers, until he told her why.

He was her friend, her family! He'd treated Marie as a daughter, her as a daughter only to orchestrate the destruction of her world and stand by, unmoved, while it fell. He'd prayed by her side for a son, held her hand when she cried after she lost her children! All of the times he'd stood by her side only made the dagger of his betrayal drive deeper into her heart.

She'd loved him, deeply, truly, but as the weeks passed, forcing her to run over her pain over an over again, the strength of her love only served to strengthen her hate.

And by God it was strong.

Her love fell away like rose petals in the winter, stripping the tender softness from her heart and leaving only bitter thorns. Curved needles of revenge she wished to sharpen and drive into her enemies. Into Warwick. Then he'd bleed as she did.

He'd destroyed her husband, her sweet daughter's innocence, her world, her son's peace, her kingdom, her heart. The men and women he'd meant to love, he'd sought to destroy and he'd succeeded.

He was no longer her beloved second Father, Richard, the silver-tongued ally and mentor who'd made her Queen. He was a demon, a dark monster who'd torn her family apart. He was Warwick. Her enemy. Perhaps the devil had taken his soul away for she couldn't recognise him. Even if she saw him, he would be a different man but she didn't wish to see him. The very idea made bile rise in her throat.

She only wanted her children, craving them more than food, more than air. They were her sustenance and without them, she starved.

Edward had to return.
He had to.

Her brow creased as another strip of damp cloth was placed across it in another attempt to cool her burning skin. Two days she'd been bed bound by this particular fever, throwing up what little her stomach contained, finding her shift stuck to her like a second skin. It had finally broken that morning but she felt no better for it.

She couldn't tell weather it was night or day, she hadn't been able to for a long time. Her world was all darkness. Drops of cool water trickled down her skin, painting paths of minute relief across her cheeks to the damp pillow beneath her head. Sighing, she forced her eyes to open. She would exist in this hellish world just for a bit, she decided, in case any news of her children, of Edward, came.

Her head told her it wouldn't, but her heart still yearned. 

Hearing the sprinkled sound of falling water, she shifted her head to the side, expecting to see a cross faced old woman only to see a girl. A child, she realised. Strands of chestnut hair, falling free beneath a silk veil, framed eyes of deep brown, wide with the sparkle of youth glimmering in their depths.

Inwardly - she groaned.

Through the depressed haze of her dwindling existence, she'd realised there was someone waiting on her, someone of Neville blood she faintly remembered being told but she'd thought it was a woman! Not this....this child who barely looked older than Annie!

Only God knew how long this girl had endured her company (Constance didn't know one day from the next). There was every chance she could be a spy of course, Warwick definitely possessed no qualms about using children for his own ends, which meant she wouldn't trust her as far as she could throw her but that didn't necessarily mean silence was the order of the day.

Enough children suffered in their world, she didn't need to create another one. Even if the world had done her no good.

"Lady Parr, is it not?"

The doe eyes of a scared deer darted up as if their owner had been struck and Lizzy's delicate hands jumped, almost knocking over the bowl of water! Constance arched an eyebrow. She herself was shocked at how her voice sounded, like a blade being ground on stone but she hardly thought she deserved that reaction!

Or perhaps she did after refusing to speak for over a month, she mused.

The girl blinked before quickly collecting herself, nodding in place of a curtsy.
"Yes, my Lady"
Constance's heart stung; expression hardening. No matter how weak she seemed, her claim to her rightful title wouldn't fail her!

"I am your grace, Lady Parr. The one true Queen of England. You would do well to remember that"
"My Lord Uncle says...."
"I do not care what he says!" She snapped, cutting the girl into silence "I couldn't care less about what he said if an axe was hanging over my neck and it very well might be!"

With that, she turned her head away (unable to move her body fully) but her anger soon fizzled to mere embers. What fault of the girl's was Warwick's treason? She was likely another pawn. Just like Annie....

She sighed and looked back again to find Lizzy still staring at her, truly the terrified deer she'd first likened her too. God only knew what she thought of her "For heaven's sake, girl, I have no wish to see you in trouble" A feeble cough worked it's way from her lips, her throat sensitive and sore "Call me what you must before others but never forget yourself when you are only with me"

Two white teeth emerged, gently biting down on Lizzy's lower lip as she hastened to nod. She could do that, she was sure....her role was to serve after all?

"W-would you like a little something to eat my...." She caught her tongue in time "your grace? You have not eaten since Sunday"
"And what day is it now, pray tell?"
"Tuesday, your grace"

Constance groaned, the very thought of food making her stomach churn with sickness. She shook her head and turned it away again.
"I will rest" Closing her eyes, she felt two gentle hands adjust the covers around her, tucking her in as one would a babe.

"I shall ask for some soup later perhaps?" Lizzy suggested but Constance didn't reply and the girl hesitated, looking warily towards the locked door before she bent her head to the York Queen's ear "I am very sorry, your grace" She whispered "For everything"

༻᯽༺

December 1470, Bermondsey Abbey, London....

Moonlight cascaded through the single arched window in the whitewashed bedchamber where two children lay. Well, a child and a babe.

No fire was lit in the hearth, despite the winter and the walls only adornment was a wooden crucifix fitted with an effigy of the dying saviour. On the small, wooden bed tucked in the far corner, Marie shivered, pulling the thin sheet covering her tighter around her shoulders. There were more blankets but she'd long since given them to her little brother and reached out a hand to him, the straw mattress beneath her rustling.

At first, he'd been taken from her, unceremoniously hauled away but in an institution where silence was next to Godliness and, when it became apparent only she could calm him, he was returned. She'd not let him leave her side after that, not during the day, not during the night - never.

The rough prickle of the homespun gown she wore made her grimace and she drew her knees up to her chest. She missed her soft clothes of silk and satin but they'd been taken from her too when she arrived, looked on as if they were disgusting before being thrown in a fire before her very eyes and she was forced into the drab brown dress she donned day after day, void of any discernible shape.

She'd only been able to keep the ring bearing her family's initials by cramming it into her mouth when no one was looking.

She'd been so scared that night and prayed over and over for her Father to sweep in with all his majesty and save her! She pictured him forcing open the door, taking her and Edward in his arms, telling them they were safe....but he hadn't, he was gone, just as their Mother was. Now the two children only had one another.

Her hair was covered during daylight hours, bound tightly beneath a starched wimple. Oh, how she hated the white headdress! It chafed against her ears, making them itch but whenever she reached a hand to scratch, her fingers were slapped away by whichever monk was nearest!

She hated it.

They told her repeatedly this was how she'd dress for the rest of her life, that she was to take holy orders, give herself to God. The flounces she'd been draped in since the day she was born were a sin she'd never see again, she was sternly told day after dreary day; she was no Princess but a child of Christ sent to do his bidding on earth.

Had it been her alone sent to Bermondsey, Marie would've perhaps let the York fire woven into her soul, rear its mighty head.

Perhaps she would've protested, perhaps she would've torn the hated wimple from her had and thrown it into the nearest fire like they'd done to her dress, perhaps she would've retaliated when she was slapped for speaking during prayers, refused to do the unfamiliar chores set to her, refused to kneel before the Abbey alter until her knees were the colour of ripe plumbs....

But she couldn't and was reminded of that fact every time she looked at her baby brother.

At his christening, she'd promised herself she would protect him and now she was all he had in their burning world. It was her duty to protect him, not only as a sister but as fiercely as their Mother would; their Father. With them vanished into the grip of the enemy, she would take on that ferocity; a ferocity running through her veins between Plantagenet and French blood.

No matter how many times she was told she was just a girl, no matter how many times she was told she was no Princess, she would never forget who she was.

She was Marie Plantagenet, Princess of York, and just like her Mother, she would be strong in her duty.

So, when she was slapped, she held her head high and bit her tongue, when she was ordered to daily chores, she completed them in silence, knowing every ounce of pain that made her cry when her palms split open; dry from scrubbing the floor, was for her baby brother.

Most days she was kept at prayer (Edward in a little basket close by) but far from driving away all of her faith, Marie found she prayed harder than ever before! She decided to pile heaven with her prayers, pushing them up against God's gates like holy letters until he finally listened! He had to some day, didn't he? He had to see what was right!

Unable to sleep, she shifted onto her side, stroking the small cowlick of golden hair sticking up on Edward's head, his pale skin milk-white under the silvery glow of the moon. What harm could one more prayer do, she asked herself, the night was as good a time as any, when the world was still; quiet if not at peace.

Making sure the blankets were tucked securely around his warm little body, she planted a kiss to his brow, about to close her eyes for prayer when suddenly.....

Footsteps on the stairs.

The ancient wood creaked under any weight and Marie had quickly come to recognise the sound of people approaching her door....no matter how slowly these seemed to be doing it. Her heart leapt for a moment, perhaps it was her Father? Come to save her and her brother?

Men's voices filtered through the cracks in the wood and the rickety stairs creaked again, hums of familiar male gruffness to them but nothing more. No, it was not her Father, she realised with a pang and forced herself into the mattress, nestling Edward against her and shutting her eyes tight. If she were found awake at his hour, God only knew what would happen!

Her breath hitched with the latch on the door, fingers curling ever tighter around her brother when the footsteps advanced into the room. Quietly, softly, they came closer and closer.

'They will not hurt my brother' Marie thought 'they will not hurt my brother, they will not hurt....'

"Watch it, clotpole! That was my foot!"

On pure instinct, overwhelming the need to protect thrumming through her heart, her eyes snapped open and the Princess jumped upright. The room was dark but with the glow of the moonlight she could just make out two figures.

Even if she'd been blind, she'd have had no trouble knowing who one of them was.

She knew that voice, she would know that voice anywhere. It was the voice of safety.

"Dickon!"

The cry left her before she could stop it and she slapped a hand over her mouth, tight, yet another instinct ingrained into her body by the past months. Making sure Edward still slept, Marie slowly removed her hand and began to crawl across the bed, fumbling in the dark. With each second, she became more desperate, just a little six year old girl searching for comfort, for rescue and hot tears began to run down her face.

"Dickon...." She repeated but it was a strangled whimper and suddenly, a pair of arms went around her, lifting her from the bed. In the dark, she clung to her Uncle, burying her face in his neck, clasping onto his cloak. It was much rougher than the fine ones of velvet she knew him to wear, her fingers observed, but her mind didn't care.

Her Uncle Dickon held her.
And into his arms she cried.

༻᯽༺

Bruges, Burgundy....

Edward squinted as he tried to force his eyes to focus on the papers spread out on his bed. The swirls of black ink were barely visible and he sighed, carding a hand through his hair when the candle flames beside him guttered.

They would need replacing soon, he thought ruefully, glancing at the mound of melting tallow, but where they would find them, he had no clue. What little money they had was spent on food - if the plain bread and cheese they often had could be considered food by his fine tastes.

Hell, they'd already had to sell Dickon's signet ring that month!

Groaning, Edward rubbed his eyes, hoping that somehow the writing would become clearer but it didn't and at last he pulled himself away from the papers. Perhaps he would have to settle for reading when the sun gave its permission.

He'd had to do that a lot lately - settle for other's permission.

Burgundy had meant to be a place of refuge when he was forced for his kingdom but, more than that, it was meant to be an ally. He'd expected to be welcomed with open arms by his brother in law, Duke Charles, expected to be landed in England at the head of an army by Christmas.

He sighed again, walking the short space from his bed to the little arched window overlooking the street below.

That hadn't happened!

His brother in law had proved about useful as a blunt sword without a hilt.

"Perhaps his sword is blunt" Will grunted to him once "And that's why your little sister still isn't with child" Only out of bitterness did Edward find it in himself to laugh.

Far from extending the hand of help to the English, the only thing Charles had done was not turn them away! He hadn't offered men, he handn't offered his support, he hadn't even met with his wife's family! What little contact they had came through Margaret herself who was distraught at her brothers position but far angrier with her husband.

She'd convinced him to provide them with a place to stay but that was all she'd been able to manage and so, the exiles had been stuck in Bruges for two months. They'd been given a house used by foreign ambassadors a few streets from the Burgundian court, a timbered building built around a small courtyard with an apple tree.

It wasn't unpleasant but without servants and never more than a few coins to hand, it certainly wasn't a breeze for the seven men living there. Edward, Will, Anthony Woodville, John, Dickon and his two companions from the North, Francis Lovell and Rob Percy made the group but while they were all skilled on the battlefield and in politics, they certainly weren't in household affairs!

It took poor Francis near a month to figure out how to cook sausages properly, without either burning them to ash or serving them raw and when it came to washing clothes, all of them were clueless!

God, the thought they'd been brought so low made him want to set fire to the Burgundian court there and then!

The sound of the busy streets below filtered through the thin panes of glass set in the window and Edward looked down at the moving figures on the cobble. He shouldn't be here, none of them should be in Burgundy, living on the scraps of a Duke. A Duke when he was a King!

And the enemy had his Queen....

"Ned?" Edward spun on his heels at the sound of his brother's voice but his strong body froze at the sight before him.

Stood in the doorway was his little brother but it was not him he looked at, no, it was the little girl he held. Dressed in plain brown with her hair uncombed, almost wild around her pale face, she looked naught as a Princess should but to him she would always be a Princess, his Princess.

His girl.
His daughter.
His precious Marie.

She stared at him with wide eyes, clinging to her Uncle while her lower lip trembled. Marie always tried to be brave but then she looked so small, so young, so innocent. Slowly, like one would do when coaxing a frightened animal, he got to his knees, not once letting their gazed break.

"Marie..."

At the sound of his voice, a small sob broke from her throat and she scrambled from Richard's arms, her own stretching out, fingers desperately seeking warmth, as she ran to her Father.

He caught her in seconds, wrapping her tightly in his embrace like the finest jewel. Pounding in his chest, his heart sang with relief. He'd known Dickon could do it, heaven's above there was nothing that boy wouldn't do for him, but it was nothing short of the greatest solace to hold his girl.

It had been too long since he held her, too long since he kissed her goodnight, too long since he'd held her hand or sat her on his lap at a feast. Far too long. His hands brushed through her hair, the thick brown locks exactly like her Mother's, and her slight shoulders trembled, shaking with her sobs.

"Don't ever go to the stars again" She whispered against his neck and Edward's heart clenched painfully in his chest, making him hold her tighter. Warwick had done this, Warwick had torn apart his family; made his darling daughter cry.

He would have blood for it. For all of it.

"Hush, mon petit" He soothed "I am here, I have you" She nodded, over and over, trying to convince herself of his words. Her tears wet the front of his shirt but he didn't care, gently holding her until her sobs subsided.

The quiet whimper of a babe made his head jerk up and he sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of Francis holding a bundle of blankets with little hands emerging from them. Marie heard it too and suddenly, she was jerking free from his embrace; striding towards Francis and holding her arms upwards with all the demand in the world.

A small smile flitted across her Father's lips. She was so like her Mother. His beloved Connie. If any had harmed one hair on her head, he would have them hung drawn and quartered....

"Father?" He blinked, realising he'd been staring when Marie was suddenly in front of him; his namesake nestled happily in her arms "I brought Edward too" Bending to kiss his brow, she offered up her brother and their Father slowly lifted him into his arms. His breath shook as he exhaled. He was safe.

His son.
His Prince.
His heir.

"He's grown" It was a whisper of pure wonder. God knew how many nights he'd feared his children harmed; their little hearts stopped by cruel hands. Particularly Edward, a boy and a babe, much easier to simply make vanish than six year old Marie.

"He has" She confirmed, keeping her eyes on her baby brother; a shine to their depths now crafted by pride instead of tears "I protected him, Father, I protected him every day"

At that, Edward's head rose again and he looked at his little girl. Lifting a hand from his son's blankets, he gently cradled the side of her face, smoothing back the soft strands falling over it. Those dark eyes of hers watched him, full of questions: a craving to feel loved again.

"Come here" He whispered and pulled her into his arms once more.