~Rescue~

Westminster Palace....

"I swear I don't know!" Constance screamed as the leather strap came down on her back again, striking agony into her torn flesh. Her head fell forward onto the bedpost, knocking her wrists that were strung above her head by a rough rope.

She'd been held there for the past half hour, being dragged from her bed by Somerset's men without reason and without warning, her mind so confused she was unable even to scream. Lizzy had tried to explain that she was too sick, that she needed rest but went ignored and Constance was hauled to Somerset's rooms through the torchlit corridors where shadows danced like demons on the walls, staring around like a scared child.

The men holding her offered no explanation; simply throwing her to the Duke's feet who loomed above her like the grim reaper.

Pure rage resided in his eyes as he looked down on her trembling figure, struggling to hold her own weight as she tried to push herself up from the floor. She was still sick, she was still weak but he didn't care and without warning she was dragged to her feet again; hands strung up against the bedpost. She'd tried to look around, try to grasp what was happening and then her head had been pulled back; a voice hissed in her ear.

"Where are they?"
'They? They? Who was they?' She blinked, frowning as her mind spun, trying to drag her back to rest.
"T-they....." the grip tightened, forcing a small cry from her.

"Your children" Somerset demanded "Where are your children?" Her eyes flew open, suddenly alert and her heart pounding. Her children? What did he mean her children? They were at Bermondsey Abbey, that was all she knew, that was all....unless.....
"I don't know"

The Duke raised his eyebrows, sneering.
"You don't know?" He asked, his voice not one note above normal but no less menacing "you don't know?" Constance shook her head, glancing up to where her hands were bound. The rope cut into her skin, stopping the blood reaching her fingers so they began to tingle strangely.

The hold on her hair was relinquished and her head slumped forward, leaving her in her confused daze for a moment before she heard the clink of a buckle, a slide of leather.

"Why...."

A burning pain stuck across her back, dragging down her skin and slashing the thin linen of her nightgown. She screamed, her spine arching in an attempt to run from the agony but the rope held her fast and when the belt came down again, it bit into her skin, painting a line of blood across her back.

"Where are they?" Somerset was suddenly by her side again, grabbing her chin like he had the first night they'd met; forcing her eyes to meet his.

"I don't know!" She cried, her voice breaking with a sob as two heavy tears rolled down her cheeks "I don't know....." Again, the Duke only sneered and waved a hand to the man behind "No...." The leather hit her back again and her legs trembled beneath her, her frail body unable to hold her.

Screams echoed around the chamber as the man continued to beat her, the rough leather shredding her skin, making her flesh a mess of red burning welts and blood that trickled down her body, turning the torn remnants of her nightgown to crimson ribbons.

Tears ran down her face in a heated river, soaking the neckline of her nightgown but no matter how much she cried, how much she begged, Somerset wouldn't send the order to stop "I don't know!" She screamed over and over "I don't know! Please I don't know!"

At last, her legs gave out beneath her, leaving her hanging by her hands, head lolling back as the line between unconsciousness and reality began to blur. Behind her, Somerset's man glanced to his master who was watching from the fireplace, his lips set in a thin line of irritation.

He hadn't expected her to hold out for this long, he hadn't expected for her to still be partially conscious. He'd expected her to break after the first lashing and yet, here she was, half an hour later, bleeding.

But unbroken.

"Your grace, perhaps she...."
"For Christ's sake, they can't have just disappeared!" He snapped tersely and it was then, it hit her, even with the agonised haze tearing through her.

Perhaps it was madness, perhaps it was the last sane strings of her mind trying to cling to something other than excruciating pain that felt like the devil's claws dragging down her back, but before she knew it, she began to laugh.

Leaning her forehead against the bedpost, her laughter echoed hauntingly through the chamber, the tang of tears appearing on her tongue when they slipped past her smile; salted serpents. A rough hand fisted itself in her hair and she gasped in pain as her head was jerked back.

"What? What is so funny?" Somerset demanded and the rage in his eyes only encouraged her. Her smile returned and a breathy giggle passed her lips, girlish, almost mocking.

"You expect to hold a Kingdom and yet you cannot hold two children? Not even that! A child and a babe!" She felt his grip might tear the hair from her head but only smiled more, revelling in the small victory her heart freely claimed "they're gone....and there's nothing you can do about it. You've let perhaps your greatest asset slip through your fingers and my children are safe from you"

"I should've taken their heads when I had the chance" He spat, a remark clearly meant to scare her into silence but all that met him was another smile and heavy lidded eyes filled with mockery.
"But you didn't" She whispered "You didn't and you will never touch one hair on their heads again"

The back of his hand collided with her cheek and she cried out, head swinging to the side, sending bolts of pain down her neck. The edges of her vision began to blacken, white dots, like small stars, dancing around in centre.

"Again!" Somerset ordered and her body instinctively arched, but before the leather could strip her back of more skin, before the command could be carried out, a voice halted them all.
"No"

George.

The second son of York stood in the doorway, a raging figure of man, fists clenched, blue eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. For the coward Constance thought him to be, he certainly didn't look it at that moment. He gazed at the two men in the room with unabashed disgust, advancing with menacing steps that echoed on the marble floor.

"No. You will not touch her again, Somerset" Beneath his embroidered shirt, his chest heaved, the after effect of his the mad dash his legs had sent him on at the sound of Constance's screams. The other man arched a dark eyebrow, looking on George with the expression of hatred dished out to all Yorks. In all honesty, it was a surprise George didn't reside six feet beneath the ground!

"Oh?" He sneered "And who are you to stop me, Clarence? What power do you...." His taunting words died as George's right fist collided with his nose, sending an almighty crack around the room that left no doubt it was broken. Somerset's head jolted back, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he fell to the floor, unconscious with George looming over him.

"Fucking bastard" He muttered. His gaze flicked upwards to the Duke's man and one jerk of his head had him marching quickly from the room, quickly trying to replace his belt. A belt soaked in royal blood.

Constance barely noticed her brother in law's presence, though she heard his voice and her heart railed against it. It was no matter to her mind that he'd stopped her torture, she wanted nothing more than to gouge his eyes out with her own two hands for what he'd done! But her body was battered and bleeding, her limbs trembling, her arms numb.

She could no more gouge his eyes out than she could attempt to write her own name. The sound of a blade being drawn made her flinch and, for a moment, she feared her torturers had returned but mere moments later, the rope binding her hands was cut and her body fell into waiting arms.

༻᯽༺

"Sweet Mother have mercy!" Lizzy cried, slapping a hand over her mouth at the sight of the Duke of Clarence carrying her mistress through the door. Constance was a bloodied mess, only just clinging to consciousness, groaning when George lay her down face first on the bed.

"Water!" He ordered "And bandages! Go! Get them now!" All the girl could do was run, grabbing a woollen shawl to wrap around herself on her way to the door. George didn't look at her, keeping his eyes fixed on Constance and the deep guilt gnawing at his heart. He'd done this, this was his fault.

He grimaced.

Brushing his hands on his shirt, he gently peeled away the strips of ripped linen sticking to her bloodied. Constance cried like a little girl, sobbing pitifully into the pillows between groans of agony, her body twitching this way and that in a dazed attempt to escape the pain.

When Lizzy returned, he sent her directly away again, unable to stand her accusing gaze (weather she intended it to be or not) boring into his skin. God he was a fool, a child with a paper sword who'd burnt his world to ashes with his own torch. Now, he held no power, he couldn't in this Lancastrian court of snakes, and every day looks of hatred followed him from dusk till dawn.

The life of a turncoat. A traitor.

His Mother had refused to see him when he called at Baynards and from a heavily pregnant Beth he'd received a slap to rival the ones Edward could dish out. He was alone in the world but, while he knew he only had himself to blame, he couldn't refrain from self pity. That was how George worked.

Tearing the bandages into strips, he dipped them into the bowl of water Lizzy brought, draping them across the bloody wheels across Constance's back. The deeper ones would likely scar and God only knew how his brother would react when those scars were discovered. Every touch sent excruciating pain through her body and she whimpered into the pillows, the agony finally dragging her into darkness.

It was a small mercy allowing George to work and he slowly cleaned her wounds, silently thankful that he didn't have to look at her face. That would only remind him of who she was, what he'd taken from her. Of Edward. Of Dickon.

By the time she came around, the rays of dawn filled the chamber and her back was fully bandaged, though she still couldn't move. George's heart leapt at the sight of her open eyes, thanking the Lord that he hadn't played a part in her death.
"Connie!" Those eyes narrowed, filling with burning hatred.

"You have no right to call me that. You have no right to even think of me"
"Sister...."
"You are no brother of mine"
Despite knowing he deserved them, the words still stung.

He reached forward, slowly taking her hand and she had not the strength to pull away, all she could manage was a look of disgust.
"I can be" He said quietly "If you'd let me....I could return" Even with her pain, she couldn't halt the wretched laugh that worked its way from her throat. George? Return?

"You promised Edward you would" She snapped "And yet where were you at Doncaster, brother? Certainly not at his side. What is your excuse this time?"
"I....I..."

"You you? Well that's certainly nothing new is it George? Because it's always you" She tried to sit up a little, tried to pull her hand away but she could only struggle, struggle then collapse like a rag doll.
"Rest, Constance...."
"Don't tell me what to do"

George finally retracted his hand, hanging his head in a shame Constance could only describe as childish, like when little boys stole sweetmeats and were caught by their Mothers. In some ways, her son was more mature than he.

And yet....there was an echo of the months before in her mind, the times when she'd worked to reunite the three sons of York. Together, they were a bright sun, calling men to their sides, separated they were mere rays with hardly the same power.

But would that power still work when their light was almost burnt out? Two were in exile, the other sitting by her bedside looking like a frightened weasel - hardly the powerful warriors York needed.

And yet, if they could be united just as she'd planned all those months ago....perhaps, just perhaps....it was desperate but desperation was all she had. It was all George had too. And she had to protect her children.

"You would return to Edward's side?" His head shot up at the same rate as an eager puppy catching a whiff of meat and he nodded, over and over and over "You would swear your fealty to him...."

"Yes!" He interrupted, grabbing her hand again "I would swear fealty to him, repent all that I've done, I would fight by his side, I would see York back on the throne, it's rightful place with my brother as King"

"Which is where he should've always been" She bit out, making him hang his head again "Not you, not Henry. Edward. He is the one true King as I am the one true Queen and my son is the one true Prince of Wales" The faces of her children flickered across her mind, little Edward, her beloved Marie, each now hopefully safe in their Father's arms but they'd been taken from hers all the same.

She snatched her hand back from George's, grimacing at the searing pain it sent through her body.

"Any place you have at Edward's side will have to be earned" She said bitterly "At this moment I would rather you were not there at all but the sons of York must be united. For England. For the safety of my children. They are what I care about the most in this world, George. My little boy and girl. I bear a love for them you will never be able to understand and it is for them I allow you to stand by Edward again"

He kept on nodding but she didn't smile, she didn't take back his hand. Her heart still craved to tear him limb from limb for the sake of her little ones, for the sake of his brothers and sisters, all those who he had betrayed. But she had to do what she could for her house, her children and it that meant letting a traitor back into their midst for the sake of unity, she would do it.

"Make no mistake, waver one inch from your place and I will see you dead by my hand"
"And I do not doubt you" George answered swiftly "Tell me, Constance, tell me what I can do" He spoke in earnest, his desperation clearer than the shallows of the ocean.

"What you can do?" She repeated and he nodded again, eyes pleading, eager to prove himself. Oh she would give him a way to prove himself it that was what he wanted "Get me to my King"

༻᯽༺

January 1471, London....

Letters were carried by the capable hands of loyalists back and forth across the sea for a month. Messages were passed from pocket to pocket, household to household, hiding between the pages of bibles and fresh sheets. The most ingenious tactic George had seen was when a message from Edward was concealed between the layers of silk in a doublet he'd sent away to be mended!

He'd employed little Lizzie Parr as his personal messenger, thinking her a perfect unnoticeable piece to play. It was true, she was Warwick's niece but the look on her young face when he'd threatened to make her a widow should she breathe a word of the plot to any was enough to assure him of her loyalty. Or at least - her silence.

It was a cruel tactic, but that mattered little to him, he had his own ends to gain through her insignificant existence.

God, he could only imagine what his brothers reactions had been when he sent the first missive pledging his loyalty and support; suggesting he help sneak Constance out of the country. All he'd received in response was a cool note from his King with undertones of bitterness running throughout.

He'd agreed to his brother's return nonetheless.
The three sons of York were United again. Partially.

In truth, the moment, the exiles realised the letter was from George, Dickon launched himself at the parchment, trying to throw it into the fire! It took John Neville dragging him across the room to prevent that and even then he stayed in the corner, muttering a string of curses onto his older brother.

George's letter was read and, throughout a month, a plot was carefully woven between England and Burgundy. Edward didn't inform his host, nor his sister for that matter, no he had bigger plans. He would have his house united, children, wife, brothers and only then would he present himself to Phillip. It was his greatest hope of gaining Burgundian support and besides, he had no intention of letting any meddle with his plans.

One foot wrong and his Queen could be kept from him forever. He would not allow that. Never. Constance was his and he would have her again.

So it was, under the cover of darkness, he dispatched his little brother's men to rescues his Queen - one who'd helped to return his children (Francis Lovell) and Robert Percy.

Despite having grown up under the guardianship of Warwick, their loyalties lay with Dickon and they knew London well. Nobles they were, and so knew the outlay of Westminster, but not so prominent that they would be easily recognised. Dickon assured him they would do well and he trusted his brothers judgement, so away the two men were sent.

In the light of the moon, they krept through the palace gardens, armed to the teeth with daggers up their sleeves; down their boots. They hoped they had no need to use them (if anything would draw attention to them it was that) but they were under strict instructions from their King to use any means necessary to obtain the Queen and they would obey.

Francis was the shorter of the two men, not yet fully grown at just sixteen, and sporting a crop of curly blonde hair not dissimilar to the King's. The first friend he'd ever made when he was sent to the North was Dickon, having then been just a seven year old orphan afraid of his own shadow until the older boy found him.

He was an observer, reserved, quiet, much like his royal friend, but not adverse to mischief which would make his kind eyes crinkle at the corners when he was amused!

Rob was superior in height and twenty, dark haired and possessing a sharper tongue than Francis could ever dream of having! While his brusque remarks weren't always meant to be scathing (rather they were just the way he spoke: directly) they often came across that way  so he regularly found himself at the end of one of Francis' timely 'shut up's.

Scaling the wall into the kitchen courtyard, they made their way toward the small wooden door, making sure to keep their hoods securely over their heads. Nodding to one another, Francis slowly raised his fist and knocked on the wood.

Three quick taps, a pause, then another two, just as arranged. The two held their breath, glancing up to the starry night sky above before the door's latch was lifted and a little face peeked around, flushed with fear.

A girl.

Her eyes were wide, hesitant, and when she saw the two men, they both thought she would slam the door in their faces!

"Well, this is certainly....underwhelming"
"Oh shut up Rob" Francis snapped, although he couldn't deny his own surprise. He'd expected loyalists to meet them at the kitchens, perhaps even George himself! Not....not a child.

"I'm Lizzy!" She whispered, pushing open the door for them to slip inside "Her grace is waiting for you" and with that she scurried away into the kitchens, leaving them to follow. She was like a little mouse, scurrying through the torchlit hallways at a rate of knots that betrayed her eagerness to have her job done.

The two men followed the pitter patter of her shoes and the train of her gown, keeping one hand on their swords, ever alert for any sign of the enemy.
"It's like a tomb" Rob whispered and Francis arched an eyebrow. He was right. It was like a tomb but with any luck, the Yorks would soon bring it life again.

"Come on!" Lizzie called quietly over her shoulder and they hurried their steps, feeling their hearts skip a beat when she finally came to a halt at a great oak door. Raising her hand, she performed the same knock they had and after a moment, slipped inside, holding the door open for them to follow.

It was time.

Inside, the room was barely lit, what few candles there were - extinguished so as not to draw any attention to the small bed chamber, leaving only a small fire. Before it stood two waiting figures, the air tense with their silence. One was the Duke of Clarence, although few would be able to tell of his elevated status from the plain black velvet doublet he wore covered by a cloak.

He stood with his arms crossed, eyes wary and fingertips drumming impatiently on his elbows, the muffled thud sounding the same as his erratic heartbeat.

The second figure was smaller but almost identically dressed and, had they been looked at merely from behind, any would've taken it to be a slim man. In fact it was Constance. She stood slightly hunched over, the injuries left by her beating still healing.

For two days, Lizzy had forced her to rest but on the third day, she'd ignored her advice and rose, defying the pain. She would not let it defeat her. Every movement, every step was torture but she didn't allow herself to rest. She'd already lost too much strength those past months, she needed to gain at least a remanence of it if she was to flee.

It was all for her children, she told herself, all for Edward.

When she straightened her back for the first time and her injured flesh tore anew, she thought of her daughter while she cried, of the happiness she would feel when she was in her arms again.

When she forced herself to eat or took a bath and the touch of the water set her skin aflame, she thought of her son, of the lengths she would go to defend him.

When her flesh started to heal, covered with scabs that itched, she thought of Edward, of the wrath he would bring down on their enemies. Now, the lashes were red marks across her back, tight skin newly stretched across her wounds. They hurt but she refused to let it bother her.

When Lizzy had brought a pair of breeches and a doublet, hidden beneath sheets, to her that afternoon, her eyes had practically bulged out of her skull with surprise. She'd never worn such garments and as they were George's she wasn't sure they'd fit!

It was strange to pull them on, to have something other than stockings constricting her legs and being without the heavy reams of silk descending from her narrow waist but when she looked at herself in the mirror, when she saw her changed reflection, a spark lit within her. A spark of power.

It was a crime to dress the same as a man, Joan of Arc had been burnt for it, and yet to Constance, she had never felt as free as she did in those small hours walking back and forth across her chamber. Her soft figure was morphed to the shape of a warrior, her elegant glide transformed into the easy strut of a man; the confident gait that had surrounded her all her life.

Now, she had it.

"Make no mistake. Betray my kin and I will cut you cock to throat" She muttered, fingers lightly brushing across the hilt of the dagger at her waist, held next to her onyx rosary. She needn't look up to know George understood, his sharp intake of breath was enough.

The sound of the door opening and the patter of Lizzy's feet made the pair turn and when two men followed, Constance's grip instinctively tightened on her blade. They headed towards her, in step, throwing back their hoods while the young girl closed the door and then, they fell to their knees.

Neither of them even glanced at George.

"Your grace. I am Francis Lovell, this is Robert Percy"
They bowed their heads and Constance felt her confidence swell a little more.
'See' She thought, Somerset's mocking use of the title crossing her mind 'I am still Queen. I shall always be Queen' 

"My Lords" Her voice was even, the tone of a leader, a warrior "It gladdens my heart to see you"
"And us you, my Queen" The dark haired man of the pair said, keeping his head bowed "God knows what his grace would've done if you hadn't been here!"

A small smile twinged at the corners of Constance's lips, her first smile since October and her heart gave a little skip. Edward. Oh her beloved Edward. He was still there. He still loved her. And she him.

"Rise, my Lords. It is time we flew this burning nest" The two men did as they were bade and at last payed a little attention to George, nodding at him - though far more out of duty than respect, Constance noticed. No sooner than that duty was done with then they returned to the side of their Queen.

"You are right, your grace" Francis agreed, glancing back hesitantly towards the door where Lizzy lingered "We have little time and each second we stay only takes from that!" Constance too, looked at the door and felt her stomach flip with nerves, her feet itching in her boots as freedom came into her grasp.

"Lizzy" the girl looked up, still a frightened deer "I will not forget the service you have done me. You will be rewarded when the King returns. Wait two hours then raise the alarm of my escape, I shall be long gone by then but you shall stay clear of fault" All Lizzy could do was nod and before she knew it, the group were rushing past her.

Constance's heart hammered in her chest as she broke into the corridor, a sight so familiar and yet so thrilling with the rays of freedom it was filled with. The three men gathered around her. She pulled up her hood.

God had chosen this path for her and with all the strength she could muster she would walk it.

"Let us take back England" She murmured and a smile curved her lips again as they ran.