~Richard, My Love, My Life~

He had fallen.
Nobly, they said.
But he had fallen all the same.

King Richard the third of England had died in battle and now his son was to be proclaimed George the first by parliament.

But all was not as it seemed. Ever since the Duke of Bedford had stumbled through Westminster with the devastating news on his lips, more and more accounts had trickled through the country to the capital; none of them good.

King Richard had been betrayed by one he trusted. Betrayed and murdered beneath his own standard.

By Thomas Stanley.

At first he had not brought he nor his brother's armies to the King's side and when Richard had Questioned Stanley's son the young man grovelling at his feet had not been able to answer for his Father!

The Percys of Northumberland (distant cousins of Rob) had turned up to Bosworth Battlefield but had sat on the sidelines, simply watching as King Richard and Henry Tudor readied their armies, white boars and red dragons flying high under the scorching August sun that had been sent down upon England that day.

Stanley and his brother soon joined him, watching, waiting, plotting, biding their time and weighing the odds against one another. It was said that Richard had threatened to execute Stanley's son in a fit of rage but this had not swayed the traitor and he had remained at the side.

When battle finally began it was bloody, as usual, two armies clashing with blades in hand, horses at the ready. A thunderous mounted charge by the King had begun it and smashed through the first of Tudor's ranks with Richard leading them.

He had worn his crown as he rode into the fray with his head held high and his truest knights behind him but while it was a brave act it simply made all who mourned him sob harder.

Some called it courageous, some called it fool hardy, everyone wished he hadn't for while it rallied his soldier's spirits and gave them a leader it gave his enemies a target. And he was a target for Stanley.

The King and his men fought well, hacking and driving through the invading forces as easily as if they were slicing through butter. Victory was said to be near when Richard cut down Tudor's standard bearer, the red rose and dragon being trampled underfoot as the enemy gave yet more ground.

They stumbled back inch by inch, Henry Tudor cowering behind his mongrel army, the men of which had been fished hither and thither from any prison he could lay his hand too!

'For York! For York!" Richard's men had cried but an answering cry of for Tudor had dashed their hopes and strength.

It had turned the tides of battle within a second and spun the wheel of fortune completely on his head. Richard's men had turned to see the Stanleys men charging at them from the side, their cavalry fully intact and soldiers ready for blood.

Unlike the soldiers already fighting, covered in blood of friend and foe and grasping at each breath they took, worked down by their hours of bloodshed, these men were skilled; were looking for a chance to prove themselves.

A change to kill a King.
And Richard had been that King that day.

Smashing into the side of Richard's forces when they were but a breath away from striking Tudor to the ground, Stanley's men had swept a chunk of them away into the hands of death. Hacking, tearing, killing and maiming, the King's soldiers were separated and scattered across the field leaving them to be routed and killed.

Which they were.

Jack and Rob were the first to die, fighting in the vanguard with the words "Long live King Richard and Queen Eleanor!" on their lips as they were cut down and their bodies hacked at by foreign blades.

They had been grinning at each other, Georgie said, both knowing that they were then to die. Rob had let out a merry laugh almost as if it were all a joke, clapping the older man fondly on the shoulder before they had plunged into the battle for the last time.

One by one the King's closest allies and friends had been hunted down by Stanley and his men while the rest were left to die at the hands of Tudor.

Brackenbury had been next, they said, fighting valiantly in the left flank before he had suffered an axe to the head and then the other Yorkist lords beside him were cut down with just as much brutal force.

Before long the attention turned to the King himself and those gathered around him. Georgie and Francis had been with Richard till the end and the young Duke had said he and Francis had begged him to abandon the field to fight another day for his own sake and his families!

But he had not listened, stubborn in the face of the prospect of defeat and had pushed his men forward to the last step. Soon enough he had been surrounded and his horse, the fine destrier he prized so much had been slaughtered, leaving him to fight on foot.

Francis had been hit with a mace and had fallen to the ground, his head cut and bleeding and so it was only Georgie and Richard. Back to back, their swords drenched in blood and gore and cuts marring their face and armour, the two had stared their enemies in the face as bravely as they could.

"This is it" Georgie cried, trying not to let the terror that made his heart and head pound seep into his voice. Beside him an enraged yell came from Richard as he hacked at another Tudor soldier, his attacks precise and strong as always but slower at some points, allowing his sword to be knocked back by enemy blows.

He was tiering, just as they all were.

"It may be" he replied through gritted teeth, pulling a dagger from a nearby corpse to drive it into the neck of a Stanley soldier "but not for you, Georgie, God knows this is not it for you, lad" screams and cries echoed around them, the young Duke thinking that if hell truly did exist then this battlefield could only be the same as it "York to me!" Richard yelled and Georgie forced himself to move backward to where the other remaining York men were struggling to get to their King to surround him "you need to go!"

A look of disbelief.
"What?"
"You need to go, Georgie! Our friends are dead and I will be too, I should've listened to you when you and Francis told me to escape but...." he paused as the enemy surged forward and the Yorks were pushed back yet again "but I didn't and now you must leave"

"I'm not a boy, Richard!" Georgie shouted stubbornly above the roar of battle "I am staying by your side until the death!"

"But it will be to the death! That's it! And you are right you are a man now which is why you must survive this!  My George has Leena but he will need you too. To be a Father of sorts! To raise him into a King as I would've done!"
"I can't...."

"Oh for heavens sake we don't have time for this, Georgie! I raised you when your Father passed, you can do the same for my sons! You are a fine man and knight! So go!"

Richard jerked his head behind them and Georgie turned to see a small band of men fighting but looking expectantly at the Duke and the King as if they were waiting for something.
"You've planned this!"

"As a last resort! But one that needs to be used" Richard gave the young man a small shove "go! As your King I command it of you, as your friend and Father I beg it of you! Tell my children I love them and tell Leena that I shall love her long past the time where my last breath passes my lips. My love for her is an eternal one and I want her to know it!" Another shove, harder this time "Go, George! For God's sake get out of here!"

"Richard...." Georgie began but one last look of almost pleading from his King made him nod. The two stared at each other a final time, determination flaring in their eyes before the younger turned and ran.
"With me!" He roared and together the small band of men and he fought their way through the enemy ranks.

It was easy, Georgie thought, far too easy, almost as if the soldiers were falling aside to let them through but that was simply because they were not the main target.

Richard was.

An agonised cry was the last thing Georgie heard as he stumbled through the bloodbath that was the battle of Bosworth, a yell that pierced even the fiercest roar of war and one that made the young Duke's heart almost break.

"Leena!"

꧁꧂

Again and again Eleanor hacked mercilessly at the tree before her. It's trunk was sturdy and thick and more than a match for her mere sword, she would never be able to cut it down, but she did not care.

Again and again she brought the blade down upon the bark, cutting away at the hard, dark bark until she reached the softer lighter wood beneath and even then she did not stop. Each new swing of her sword was fuelled by a new hatred, each blow strengthened by a new bout of grief.

It had been three days since news of Richard's death had reached her and since then she had considered herself a dead woman. She had not slept. She had not eaten or spoken since George had stumbled through the palace and told her the news of her husband's death.

And she didn't want to.
She didn't want to bare it.
She didn't want to live.

At first she had screamed and cried for the whole of England, throwing all the could lay her trembling hands too at doors and window and walls, anything she could smash or destroy.

Her rage had left her with cuts and bruises on her arms and neck but she had not cared one jot as she had sank down on her bed chamber floor and wept into the marble floor. After that Eleanor had lost all track of time, it was as if the world had stopped and all sense of time, like day and night had ceased to exist for she suddenly had no concept of it.

Each minute was the same, each hour, each torturous second the same as the last. She had cried until she could cry no more and dragged herself to her bed during the dead of night but she had not slept she hadn't even tried.

Instead she had sat upon the covers, hugging her knees to her chest as a child might and rocking herself back and forth. Anyone would've thought her insane if they had seen but she had barred all of her doors to the world and she hadn't intended to open them again.

She couldn't think, her mind wouldn't allow it. It was in a haze all its own a thick mist that refused to clear and sent her into an abyss of depression and mourning that was so deep she didn't even try to claw her way back to the light of life.

Richard was dead.
Her Richard was dead.

And nothing could be done for her now, she was sure. She was as lost to the world as a ghost was and as useful too.

Staying in her room for two full days and nights she had done nothing but cry and rage. At God. At Melusina. At herself. And then, as news began to filter through, at Stanley.

Jane and Marie were the only people she had allowed momentarily into her chamber (Anais having locked herself away with grief as news of Francis's death reached her) and then once they had relayed the latest news to her she had sent them away with a silent wave of her hand as if they were nothing more than strangers.

They weren't even sure she knew who they were.

After two nights of no sleep, her body had finally forced her into a light slumber which she had tried to fight and in the end lost but it was no rest for her. Each time she dared to close her eyes, Richard's face flashed before her only it was not his, not the Richard she knew. His face was now maligned and bloody and mixed with the man she had seen sitting on the throne in her seeing in 1483.

She was sure that man was now Henry Tudor.
And she despised him. She despised him more than any person she had ever known of. Every time he came to her mind she felt her skin prickle as if it were on fire and wanted nothing more than to slice his throat, behead him, tear him limb from limb with her own hands.

Anything, anything, to try and match the pain he had caused her.

And she wished the same for Stanley too. And Margaret Beaufort.

As Eleanor woke on the third morning, shards of dawn sunlight breaking through her shuttered windows she had been suddenly seized with the urge to leave.

And why not, she thought, as she grabbed her sword from under her bed, she could go wherever she wanted. Besides, the court was now half empty. Noblewomen had taken their children and servants and fled back to their surviving husbands in the hope of safety in uncertain times.

Safety they believed only their husbands could provide.

Husbands who were now lining up to join Tudor.
Traitors

Using the servants stairs she had dragged her blade behind her and walked out into the gardens without any thought for her appearance or others.

She didn't care.
She just didn't care anymore.

Soon enough she had found a tree that she could set her anger too and had carelessly torn off her gown; thrown it aside, leaving her in her kirtle and chemise before she had begun to hack at her victim.

Two hours she had now been at it, driving her weapon into the trunk, slicing at the bark, hacking at the branches, tearing at the leaves and almost relishing the pain of the splinters that drove into her hand as she grasped a broken branch and flung it towards the river below.

As she waged war she imagined the faces of those she hated before her and it drove her forward. Her limbs ached, her whole body burned but she didn't tire as she usually would. And she knew she wouldn't stop until she was forced too.

The faces of Stanley, Henry Tudor, the Earl of Northumberland and others who had been against Richard and her friends had caused the tree much damage but Eleanor drove her blade in as far as it would go when she thought of Margaret.

"That fucking bitch!" She yelled, pulling her sword back and proceeding to hack at the tree once again "why?" She demanded into the air. "why, damn you? Why have you done this to me?"

"Eleanor" had she not instantly recognised the composed and (surprisingly) gentle voice that came from behind her, Eleanor would've thrown her sword at the speaker but she would know her Mother in law anywhere.

Turning, she faced Cecily Neville with bloodshot eyes and was almost tempted to laugh at the other woman who was dressed in black.

But so composed.

So regal.

So unaffected.

Eleanor almost considered her to be heartless at that moment.

"Eleanor, my sweet, you must come back to us"

Eleanor scoffed and went back to hacking at her tree, pushing her tangled hair over her shoulders to clear her vision.
"That bitch and her bastard son!" She yelled as she saw Margaret and Henry's face again, expecting Cecily to go.

But, Cecily being Cecily, did not. As calm as ever she came to stand by her daughter in law and as she paused for a moment's breath; caught her wrist. Eleanor's green eyes snapped angrily to her blue ones, but she did not struggle, in fact she dropped her sword in less than ten seconds and, without warning, dissolved into tears once more.

Cecily was there to catch her as her legs gave way, exhaustion suddenly claiming her as she felt her body give up and she was gently guided to the ground and held tight; allowed to cry for as long as she wanted.

"He died the day I gave birth to our daughter!" She wept into Cecily's arms "I should've known....I should've felt something? Didn't you? Feel anything when the late Duke of York died? And your son, Edmund?"

Cecily shook her head a little.
"No" she said softly, combing an elegant hand through Eleanor's hair "nor for my brother or nephew either.... it was only after I was told that I thought I should've known....it was only after that that I felt I had lost half of me....almost half of my soul"

All of a sudden, Eleanor tore herself from Cecily's embrace and stood on shaking legs, staring down at the seemingly calm woman still knelt on the grass. She shook her head almost in disbelief. Even in grief there was an element of perfection to Cecily. In her clothes and hair, the way she still carried herself with the grace of a Queen. She was indestructible.

"How do you do it?" Eleanor cried as she broke into sobs once more "how?! You have lost people you love time and time again! You have lost your brothers and sisters, your nephews and cousins, all of your sons, your husband! Yet you carry on! How? How did you force yourself to go on?"

Cecily tilted her head and sighed slightly, only then letting the weary look of years of tormented sleep and self nursed heartache appear on her face. Yet still she did not look defeated. She never would for the determination in her cornflower blue eyes would never leave no matter what befell her.

"Because I knew I had and have a duty to this family, as do you" she replied steadily, smoothing out her skirts as she rose "The ones I loved may be dead but I fought on to prove that they did not die in vain! I fight to keep their, our, cause alive! And now you must do the same!" She reached for the other woman's hands but she pulled away as if any touch would scald her "We are Yorks, Eleanor, and while we may have lost this battle we have not lost this war!"

Eleanor could not help but scoff again and almost found herself tearing at her hair in her frustration. All of this talk of 'not giving up' and 'carrying on', she could not take it, not now. She wanted the world to go away and leave her alone. She wanted to slip away into nothingness.

'Richard wanted you to carry on....you promised you would' a small voice said but went ignored and pushed aside within seconds.

"Haven't we?" Eleanor snapped instead "Richard is...." the words refused to form on her tongue. "Richard is gone and many of the nobles have turned to Tudor! My son is a boy! A little eleven year old boy!" She was suddenly struck with guilt as she realised how little she had thought of her children the past two days. They had been in her thoughts....but not properly until now 'oh god, my babies' her mind began to cry.

"He is a King!" Cecily retorted "The King of England now and you must fight for his throne" George had yet to be declared King by law but it had to be done soon and with Parliament gone and the country in disarray, Eleanor was the only one to do that. But she was in her own world now it seemed.

"I can't!" She wept, desperate tears beginning to slide down her face again as her head spun. It was too much it was all too much "I always thought that I was strong but I'm not! I can't be! Not without Richard! I can't live without him, Mother!" At that Cecily strode forward and took Eleanor by the shoulders. Her grip was far from gentle but something in the small bout of pain her nails caused the redhead's shoulders seemed to drag her out of the mist for a moment.

"You have to! For your children! You do not want them to fall into the hands of Tudor do you?" A small sniff and a feeble shake of the head "No? Then fight! Take the grief that fills you, take your anger and your hate, take all that is within you and craft something that these bastards cannot and will not destroy! It is right that your sigil is a Phoenix, Eleanor, for now you must do as the Phoenix does and rise from the ashes! Rise up and burn those red dragons back into the nothing they always have been!"

A few moments passed before Eleanor turned away and Cecily felt herself despair just a little. Perhaps it was just as she had said? Perhaps Eleanor was not strong, not anymore. Perhaps she truly was lost to the world?

"It is always said fire cannot kill a dragon" her soft words hardly carried through the air they were so quiet but her Mother caught them and she felt a spark of hope light inside of her. Something shifted in the air, in the world.

Weather it was in the slight lift of Eleanor's shoulders as she looked out across the river Thames, how they squared a little as she pushed them back or the firmness that filled her tone, she could not tell.

But something in her words gave Cecily hope and she walked forward one last time.

"He is no dragon" she said before she tilted her head, deciding to dare in that moment "and besides....water is your strength is it not?" A moment of silence and then an almost invisible movement, a minuscule twitch upwards of the corners of Eleanor's lips.

She turned to look at her Mother and found it in herself to raise her chin a little.

"They have murdered my husband and my friends" she said slowly "and now they seek to take my son's crown" her green eyes returned to the river water, now dry of tears and blazing with a fire that took hold more each second. One of undying hatred "they have caused me and my children and my family more pain than any other could. They have torn my heart beyond repair so I no longer have one. It shall be replaced by stone. And I will kill them. Without trial and without mercy. I will kill them."