~Death to the Traitors, Life to the Loyal~

Margaret Beaufort's thin frame shook, rattling the chains that bound her hands as she stood in the high tower cell of Middleham Castle. She could hardly breathe, her mind reeled so, she was sure she had not drawn a true breath for at least half an hour, ever since the Yorkists had stormed the Tudor encampment.

Four high Lords had torn into the tent where she had been sat, anxiously awaiting news of her son's divine victory, and for a moment she had feared she would be ravaged as most women of the enemy were after battle. But they had simply swarmed forward, yanking her roughly from her seat and binding her in chains that cut into the skin of her wrists they were so tight.

'Tis the Queens orders that she be brought to the castle' one of the Lords had said and at that most would find it in themselves to let their lungs draw breath again, but not Margaret. No, in that moment she had rather the soldiers had run her through with their bloody blades there and then for she knew what was to come.

This order to be brought back to the Queen was no sign of a reprieve or anything like it, it was more a death sentence, a promise of pain that would be drawn out as long as her body had strength to bear it. Margaret knew Eleanor, had done for fifteen years, ever since she had comforted her at Westminster when her daughter, Jaquetta, had passed.

Yes she knew her mercy, her gentleness, her kindness, she had seen with her own eyes. Eleanor had been the one to reunite her with her Henry, risking her very portion and that of her family so that a mother and son could be together. She had seen how she helped the poor and the sick and cared for her people as diligently as she did her own children!

But she has also seen Eleanor's hatred.
She knew her anger.
She knew that it was not in her nature to forgive those who had harmed her loved ones.

And Margaret had harmed more than she cared to count during her quest to make her son King. A quest that she had clung too since she had been a mere thirteen year old girl, screaming as she gave birth to her son, had failed.

Now all that there was left to do was die, her sole purpose in life unfulfilled.

As Margaret stood in her muddied and torn gown, loose strands of ebony hair falling loose around her thin face, she knew she was a dead woman. She pulled fretfully at the chains locked securely to the cell floor and winced at the searing pain that cut through her wrists, there would be no escape.

Her lower lip began to tremble with fear, a cold gripping fear that she had never known before but spread throughout her like a corrosive disease, flooding her body, burning her spirit to ashes.

Not even her precious God could help her now, his will was far beyond her reach.

"Well, I must say, tis strange to see how far you have fallen" Eleanor's cool tone chilled her to the bone and Margaret gulped. She turned, hearing the heavy thud of her cell door and almost wished the guard that stood outside had not left them.

The last thing she wished was to be alone with the woman that now stood before her, clean of all marks of battle save the small crescent cut under her left eye.

She wore the wound proudly.

Garbed in a gown of heavy silk damask, as black as the darkest night, Eleanor stood statuesque and stoic before her former friend, turned traitor. Her hair, freshly washed, hung loose down her back in curls of heavenly fire beneath her golden crown and her hands were folded elegantly in front of her, bedecked in shining rings. But it was not her glistening appearance that scared Margaret nor her intoxicating air of majesty.

It was her eyes.

Never had she seen eyes so cold, so unfeeling yet so filled with rage they could make the bravest warrior tremble with one glance. Eyes of a dragon.

Often the same had been said about her sister, Elizabeth, but while her gaze could serve to burn a noble where he stood, Eleanor's could serve to burn an entire Kingdom.

"I...." Margaret could not speak one word before a pained gasp escaped her as a result of the blow Eleanor struck across her face with the back of her hand. Rings cutting into her skin, Margaret's ears rung and she grimaced, flinching when she felt the Queen step towards her so that she was just inches away.

"Silence snake" she hissed, her voice thick with an unbreakable hatred that emanated from her "I do not want to hear another drop of your venom" drawing away to her previous position, she looked upon the cuts her rings had inflicted with a bitter satisfaction "I did not come here to speak with you, rather to look upon you one last time. I wanted to see your face up close knowing that you had lost, that you are defeated, before I watch you die"

Margaret took a shallow breath, gulping a second time as she tried to gather what courage she had left within her tired body. Her stubbornness would never leave her, not even as she was faced with her last chance to plead for mercy.

"I am more than ready to face the axe" she declared, trying to hold her head high only to find herself trembling at the laugh that rang through the air. It was harsh and grating, void of any humour yet a large smile lit up Eleanor's features all the same.

Mocking her.
Taunting her.

"The axe? Oh no Margaret" even in the Queen's sickly sweet tone, there was no mistaking the hatred that mared the syllables of the traitor's name "you are not to face the axe! You did not think I would allow you to escape as easily as that, did you? Really, you of all people should know me better! No, you are not to face the axe, you are to face the flames"

Margaret felt her blood run cold.

"The flames?" She stammered, beginning to shake her head. The Queen's eyes flashed with malice "you would not dare! I am of noble blood! More noble than your dirty Woodville blood could ever be! I am a Lady of the house of Lancaster! I am..."

"A traitor" Eleanor spoke airily, almost as if she were speaking of toys to a young child and not discussing burning another woman alive "That is what you are and that is what you will always be. A filthy traitor. And you will burn in the flames that are lit today at my command. You are to burn in hell for all eternity for your sins, I see no reason why I should not serve you a taste of your everlasting fate while you still walk the mortal earth. It will give you a chance to acquaint yourself with the fire that will burn your flesh as long as time endures"

Margaret bit the inside of her cheek, so harshly that the bitter taste of blood filled her mouth while she sought to hide her trembling hands within the folds of her gown. She would not show fear, not now.

"No...." She grimaced a second time as Eleanor laughed again, tossing back her head just as she would at one of her friend's jokes.

"Oh yes!" She affirmed triumphantly, stepping slowly toward the other woman until they were face to face and Margaret's dark eyes were unable to hide from her piercing gaze "and your husband shall burn alongside you and then, when you are dead and your remains discarded I will hunt down your son, I will capture him and I will tear him apart limb from limb and if I die before I can then my children shall fulfil that duty for me" her voice lowered to a dangerous hiss.

"Your traitor of a son can run, can fight all that he wants but I want you to die knowing that one day, maybe a week from now, maybe a month, maybe a year, maybe ten, your son will die screaming for mercy at the hands of a York and all that you have fought for, all that you have lost because of your treachery, will have been for nothing. Think of that as you die, the pain in your heart may be enough to distract you from the pain of your flesh as it melts like wax on a candle" she took a deep breath, glaring at her enemy before she moved away towards the heavy door, a feeling of justice growing within her.

Margaret was trying to hide her terror but there was nothing that could hide from the all seeing emerald gaze that swept over her in disgust. She could not remember a time when she had felt so small, so helpless and at the hands of the woman she had schemed so long to tear down!

The woman who had just sworn to kill her son, to hunt him down and not cease until Henry's blood was upon her or her kin's hands. Putrid bile rose in her throat and she forced herself to choke the foul liquid down while Eleanor watched, almost smirking.

"Now" she said "I think I should go before I take it upon myself to kill you for I assure you there is nothing more on this earth I would like than to watch the life drain from your eyes as I drive my dagger through your belly. I would drive it through your heart but that would serve for naught since you do not have one and you would die much too quickly for my liking"

"Woodville witch" Margaret spat, unprepared for the cry of laughter that rang mockingly within her ears like a torturous crescendo. The Queen leant back against the cold wall of the cell, folding her arms arrogantly across her chest.

"I am a witch" she murmured, relishing the way the traitor's already alabaster skin paled. Clearly she had not expected her insult to be confirmed as fact "Magic runs in my veins, just as it did in my sisters, just as it did in my Mother's and just as it does in my daughters. I am a witch of water and air and I have cursed your son to die at the hands of the Yorks and he will, just as you will"

Margaret parted her lips to speak once more, searching desperately for a final retort that refused to appear on her tongue.

Pushing herself from the wall, Eleanor still watched her, scoffing loudly before she glided to the door and laid her bejewelled hand upon the great handle "We were friends once, Margaret, good friends. I trusted you, I cared for you and I foolishly believed you cared for me. I would've brought your son back to England, restored his title as Earl of Richmond, finally you could have been with him. Is that not all you have ever wanted? You could have been happy, Margaret, safe, and your son could have been too"

In that moment there was almost a hint of sadness to her voice, a single sliver of nostalgia that dared to intrude on her hatred. She shook her head and as soon as it had appeared, the sadness was gone, overcome by the anger that raged through her veins. She turned the handle, about to pull on the heavy wood.

Margaret felt a surge of desperate pain. This could not be the end! For years and years she had fought, endured a Yorkist court, married Thomas Stanley, bowed and served two Queens, schemed and plotted with every coin and minutes she could grasp! This could not be the end, she could not have lost her fight, her son's fight. She would see herself as Margaret Regina!

"My Henry was born to wear the crown!"

Eleanor shook her head, glancing back one last time over her shoulder as she pulled open the cell door.

"No" she returned crisply "he was born to serve it just as any other subject is born to serve the crown. But now, he shall die at the hands of it. Farewell, Lady Margaret, do greet the devil for me when he receives you in hell"

And then she was gone.

꧁꧂

The steady beat of the executioner's drum was all that broke the silence that stretched across the hot summer's afternoon. The courtyard of Middleham castle was crammed full with the surviving Yorkist soldiers of the battle but in that moment they were not celebrating with drinks in their hands, they were watching.

Their eyes were fixated upon the cleared space in the centre of the crowd where a small scaffold lay and next to it a raised platform upon which a sturdy stake was placed, freshly gathered wood stacked around it.

Opposite lay a raised raise upon which was an oaken throne and the Queen of England occupying it, her Lords standing stoic behind her. She did not weep but nor did she smile, she simply stared, her gaze cold and unfeeling while she gazed upon the two platforms in front.

Jasper Tudor was the first to be led out from his dungeon, dressed in his shirt and breeches, hands bound with iron chains. The Yorkists let up a roar as they saw him and immediately began their taunts, hurling their insults at the grey haired man for all they were worth.

"Traitor!"
"Coward!"
"Bastard!"

Eleanor watched, listening to the clamour of her men while Jasper Tudor was led up the stairs of the scaffold to where a block awaited him. He would be the only one of the traitors not to die by the flames, she had decided, for he had never made any pretence of loyalty towards her.

He had been kind during their first and only meeting, told her he counted her as a friend but he had not wound his way into hers and her husbands affections only to betray them.

He had always been clear for Lancaster, for Tudor.

He had been loyal, even if it were to the wrong people and he would be given a clean death for it.

But not before he had suffered.

He had stood against her, had been a leader of the army that had slaughtered her husband and her friends, who had sought to take her children from her.
That, she would not forgive.

Instead of being forced to his knees to the block, Jasper was forced to turn to look at the unlit stake to the side of him and Eleanor waved a hand, a signal.

The Yorkists erupted into cries of hatred once more when the second traitor was brought, nay, dragged forth from the dungeon, Stanley. Unlike Margaret and Jasper whom the Queen had kept unharmed, she had allowed for the Lords to take their anger out upon the man who had betrayed them at Bosworth.

And take out their anger they had.

The wiry man was unconscious as soldiers dragged him towards his death, his body limp in their arms. His shirt was stained with his own blood and his face plastered with it. His lips were cut and bleeding, one of his eyes swollen shut from when he had been hit with the hilt of a sword.

As for his nose, it was clearly broken, was almost twisted, that had been John's work. The soldiers that carried him hauled him up the steps to the stake and used a rope to bind him to the side facing away from Jasper, tying him rigidly upright. Still his head hung.

Eleanor sniffed slightly, motioning the Duke of Norfolk forward, not tearing her eyes from Stanley as he bowed to her, awaiting her command.
"Revive him" she ordered quietly "I will not have him sleep while the fire claims him"

Norfolk nodded and bowed again before moving away to instruct a servant in his Queen's wishes. She waved her hand a third time but kept it raised, a command for silence that even the most rowdy of her soldiers obeyed at that moment. She would have this event uninterrupted, not even the birds would dare disturb her with their incessant tweeting.

The drum halted.

Stripped to only her shift and her hair falling loose about her pale face, Margaret Beaufort was marched into the courtyard to face her fate. Her hands were still bound with chains yet the tight metal rings did naught to cease their fearful trembling that gripped her with a fist of iron.

Beneath her bare feet, the ground was hard and cold, stray stones cutting into her flesh so that she winced with every step. She fought the urge to cower under the hateful eyes that watched her.

Margaret knew that she should relish the icy feel of the courtyard stones for soon all she would know was the excruciating heat of flames. Flames that would engulf her, burn her skin, her hair, turn her body to ashes.

She shuddered and stumbled upon a rock, causing a roar of mocking laughter to erupt from the onlookers.

"Silence!" Margaret's head snapped to the side as she was pulled before the dais and Eleanor cried her command. The crowds fell silent once more. The Queen watched her with a glint of amusement on her face, she was enjoying the execution of her enemies like she would the hunt.

'You have no idea, traitor' those striking green eyes said.

Margaret found that she once more did not dare to breathe as she was forced to the stake, her shift tearing upon sharp sticks before her back was forced against the hard round of wood. A man's gasp filled the air, mingling with her own. Jasper.

His brave expression dissolved into painful desperation within a blink of an eye and Margaret felt Eleanor's satisfied glare bore into her side. She had planned this.

"Maman?" John whispered as he too noticed the placing of the traitors and the reaction it had sparked, stepping forward from the ranks of nobles. Eleanor murmured her permission for him to continue "What have you been plotting?"

The Queen turned her head, looking at her son with an unmistakable smirk while a guard thrust bottle of smelling salts under Stanley's nose. He jerked awake, looking around wildly like a frightened child.

"Jasper and Margaret love one another" she confessed lowly, so that only John would hear "because of them my husband had been taken from me which has caused me the greatest pain the earth has ever known. So, why not cause the same pain to them, my son?" She saw him grin slightly before he nodded "they shall know the pain within my heart, well, Jasper shall as he watches fire engulf the woman he loves. He shall hear her scream and he shall see her die. Then he will know my pain"

Reaching out to pat John's hand, Eleanor pushed herself from her throne and walked to the front of the dais, folding her hands elegantly against the skirt of her gown "Today, you come to see three traitors die" her voice rang clear and powerful through the air and her men let up an enthusiastic cheer "today you come to see justice for your King Richard and the end of an age; the dawning of another!" She took a deep breath, as Stanley suddenly stared to cry out in a strained voice.

"Mercy!" He begged as he realised his fate "mercy!"

"What mercy did you grant my husband?" Eleanor called, nails digging into the palms of her hands. She tilted her head when Stanley did not reply, simply began to struggle, much to the amusement of the Yorkists who started to taunt him once more.

The Queen turned to the man that held a blazing torch beside the stake and a hungry look in his eyes. Georgie. She nodded and returned to her throne. He bent his torch to the flames and watched eagerly as they caught.

Stanley's screams were the first to fill the air, in fact, he had begun to cry out before the flames even started to lick at his bloodied skin but once they did he screeched. He clawed at his chains, kicking at the burning wood below as the deadly flames clawed higher and higher, their searing claws hooking into his melting skin.

The scratching, broken sounds that tore from his throat were like the sweetest melody to Eleanor's ears but it was not enough, she was yet to hear Margaret scream.

The woman had already begun to be scorched by her death, her feet were engulfed in flame and her shift alight but she did not scream. She looked stubbornly into Jasper's tear filled eyes, biting onto her lips with such force that a stream of blood trickled down her chin. Jasper shook his head, struggling against the firm hands that held him.

"Margaret!"

Then she screamed, a blood curdling sound ripped straight from her very soul that rang throughout the courtyard and mixed with her husband's. A series of broken cries and shrieks followed, agonising, pleading, desperate while Jasper yelled and begged for mercy.

Eleanor did not even hear his words.
All she heard were the screams of her enemies as their bodies were burned and the smell of roasted flesh filled her nose.

A smell of justice.

And at last the screams ceased.

Jasper fell to his knees, a strangled sob escaping him while the onlookers cheered. The Queen waited a few moments, letting the excruciating pain of grief that she knew he would feel, fill his shattered heart before she waved for his death.

He went willingly, almost leaning into the arms that dragged him to the block and held his neck down upon it. Eleanor watched the axe rise, it's sharpened blade catching the rays of the sun before it fell and Jasper Tudor died with the sounds of Margaret's screams ringing within his ears.

The Queen rose from her throne once more, moving to the edge of the dais where she gazed out over her men. They all looked to her as she raised her hands to the heavens.

"And now, my good men, we celebrate!"

Loud cries of revelry met her words and the festivities began.

꧁꧂

The day was long since gone, the blood of battle behind and the new hours of the day beginning to slip by but still the Yorkist's celebrated. They crammed the great hall and the surrounding fields, drinking, singing, cheering their Queen's victory until their voices were horse.

But amongst the celebrations Eleanor was nowhere to be seen.

She was in the chapel.

She had no wish to be apart of the revelries that filled her ears even at the opposite side of the castle but neither did she wish to dampen them so she had simply removed herself from sight! Her men had earned their right to celebrate, to dance and drink as much as they wished, after all, she owed her kingdom to each one of them!

'George's kingdom' she had reminded herself as her shadowy figure glided down the isle of the sacred chapel where she would try to find solace. Crossing herself with deft fingers, Eleanor knelt before the alter and closed her eyes. She had considered asking the children or her ladies to join her but no, that would not do, they needed their rest and it would do her well to have time in solitude.

There she stayed as night fell away on the wings of loud cheers that pierced even the thick stone walls of the icy chapel.

Beside her were the graves of her two sons, William and little baby Richard, each of which had fresh white roses placed atop them. It had been an order when they passed that one of these perfect flowers be placed on each of their graves every day and even then, in a time of war, her servants had obeyed.

If Richard's body was ever retrieved, he would be placed in Middleham, beside his sons. She did not care at that moment that he was a King, he would not be buried in Westminster Abbey, he would be laid to rest in his home, their home. Perhaps one day she would find the will to return due to that? Eleanor sighed and bent her head.

She prayed, thought, worked her way through her beaded rosary with all the focus she could muster to block out the loud laughter that encased her home.

Later, she would be grateful for the rowdiness of men for it was only through that and her not being able to achieve her long sought silence that she heard the trumpets.

Royal trumpets.

Her eyes snapped open, falling on the ebony beads in bed hands, hardly daring to believe her ears. Could they be under attack? Who would have arrived at her gates at such an hour? The French were securely stationed in London, it could not be them and there was no news of the Scots making their way into the country.

So why would royal trumpets blare through the dark morning as they did?

Her heart skipped a beat, the rosary fell from her hands, landing with a clatter on the stone floor but she did not even reach to take it up again for she had already begun to run from the chapel. Yanking open the door she dashed through the castle corridors, her skirts billowing behind her and a relentless rushing filling her ears, silencing the calls of confusion she heard from the great hall.

Pushing her way through the drunken crowds that filled the heated chamber, Eleanor quickly found Georgie and John at her side, in their cups but able to stand all the same and a trail of men joined them.

The trumpets called out again and the group burst into the courtyard, stopping in their tracks when they saw a lone rider sitting atop a horse. But no, he was not alone, he carried another with him, seated in front of him through the mysterious figure was bent over, unmoving.

Their steed was panting, nostrils flaring as its powerful lungs grasped for breath.

He had been pushed to his limit. 

The rider looked haggard, almost dead or at the very least a corpse returned from the other world. His face was bloodied and bruised, both eyes sporting heavy circles underneath him and his hair was so matted, so dirtied only a few strands still retained their golden hue.

The hue that was so well known to....

"Francis!" Those in the courtyard jumped at Anais' scream as she dashed down the palace steps in naught but her nightgown; unruly flaxen curls flying. She opened her arms and Georgie gave a cry of delighted disbelief as he realised it was Francis!

"I saw you die!" He said, striding forward with a dumbstruck John by his side "I saw you die!"

Beneath the cracked and bleeding lips, Francis managed a wry smile.
"Sorry to disappoint, Neville"

"Oh my love" Anais' face crumpled at the sound of his broken voice and she felt hot tears stinging her eyes. She reached for him, intent on helping him down but he stopped her, catching her clean hand in his bloodied one. She frowned when he shook his head "what is it, Francis?"

"See to...." He grimaced, it clearly pained him to speak "see to the King" it was Anais' turn to frown then but as she looked to the figure Francis held so tightly, almost desperately, she felt her jaw slackening and her mouth fell agape.

John and Georgie practically fainted as they turned back towards the steps to see if the Queen had heard her friend's words.

Eleanor stood in a world of her own shock and desperate hope. She shook her head once....twice....a third time, feeling her chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly, her heartbeat quicken.

Richard, Richard, Richard.....

It could not be! Richard was dead! Her husband was dead and gone, she knew that!

But she had thought she had known Francis dead, they all had, yet here he was.

Weak, yes, but alive....and he carried another with him. One he called King.

There would only ever be one man Francis Lovell assigned that name too.

Richard Plantagenet.

Shaking her head a fourth time, Eleanor forced her feet to move, dragging her across the courtyard with all the strength she could muster. Georgie and John, sprung into action, as if her movement gave them a new lease of life and scrambled to take Francis' charge from him before he fell from his horse.

The blanket covering the man fell away and John gave a small cry that dissolved into a sob for despite the blood and mud that was plastered upon his face there could be no mistaking he held his Father in his arms.

"It's him!" Georgie yelled only to find himself roughly shoved aside by his Aunt who collapsed to her knees upon seeing her husband's face. Her gown tore as her knees struck the cobblestones but Eleanor did not care, all she cared about as she dragged the King's body from his son was that Richard, her Richard was now in her arms.

Never again had she thought it be possible to be so close to him and she hardly believed it now, even as she cupped his face within her hands and brushed her fingers along the cold, marred skin that had always been so warm beneath her touch. A strangled sob left her lips.

"My dearest darling" she wept, hot tears sliding down her cheeks and falling onto Richard's "my very own heart, my life....my soul's true love" his eyes fluttered slightly, eyebrows twitching and small, sputtering gasps filled the air.

"The King!" John cried, scrambling to his feet "the King is alive! King Richard is alive!"

Eleanor held her breath, trembling as eyes of blue were slowly revealed from beneath bruised lids and met hers in a gaze she had craved yet never thought to receive.

He truly was alive!

Her hand slipped from his cheek, sliding down to his chest where she pushed beneath his torn cloak and worn shirt and let out a cry as she felt the beat of his heart. She lowered her head to his, resting their foreheads gently against one another so that she could feel his breath upon her skin, to convince herself further of his life.

She half believed it were all a dream or that she were convincing herself of a false reality conjured by a freshly torn open wound.

"Leena....my Leena...." it was a barely discernible whisper, croaked and hoarse but to Eleanor it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard.

She wept once more, clutching him closer to her, never again would she let him go.
"Oh my love"