The year is 1464.
The War of the Roses rages on; a great showdown between Lancaster and York.
Yet, asleep in her bed, fiery-haired Melissa Woodville dreams of splintered shields, broken swords, and the resounding screams of wounded men in the Battle...
The duchess felt almost sorry for her lady — well, former lady — as she watched Anne go through a range of difficult emotions. Confusion, horror, and anger seemed to be the most prominent, vivid and obvious, as the girl had never gotten used to schooling her expression, even with her many years at court.
"I do not know what to say," she confessed. "I am ... you do not blame me?"
"No, I do not." The red-head confirmed. "We are not defined by our parents' sins, Anne. My father and yours ... well, let us just say they have never been friends. Something like this was bound to happen. I am only sorry my brother was caught in the crossfire."
"Your brother?" The Neville girl folded in on herself, almost, trying to seem as small as possible.
Melissa nodded heavily. It had barely been a day since she had received the news about John, but it felt like a week, a month, a year. His death weighed on her heavily ("Why did I not see it? Why did Melusina warn me about father, and not my brother? Did I cause his death? Did my actions hasten his passing?"), and she was trying not to ponder on it too heavily.
"He has been executed, Anne. In punishment, for laying his hands on your sister."
"Izzy?" The brunette perked up. "Is she alright?"
"She is fine. My brother is not." The duchess replied shortly.
Anne clearly understood that that was the end of the conversation, because she fell silent and lay down in her bed, pulling the covers up as far as they would go. Melissa stayed awake for a little while longer, visions of her brother's death echoing throughout her mind. Over and over, she imagined the way he would have died: kicking and screaming, insulting his captors, professing his innocence, anything that may have gotten him out of his predicament.
"Oh, John," she lamented, closing her eyes in pain. "Why did you have to be so reckless?"
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THE NEXT DAY, after breaking their fast, Melissa hurried their party along, and out of the inn. People stared at her and Anne as they swished by, garbed in their fine dresses, followed by their host of guards; but still, they said nothing. In this part of the country, keeping to your own business was custom; this was bordering on the north, after all, and in the north lay Warwick's lands.
They found their horses in the stables; rested, fed, and watered. Melissa mounted hers, waited for Anne to do the same, and they set out, with the knights riding behind them. The late summer sun beat on their backs, warming their skin, rendering them thirsty in quick intervals. They stopped only once to replenish their water skins, but other than that, it was a day of hard horseback riding. The duchess knew that once she gave her body time to process it, she would be unbearably sore, but she would not relent. Who knew for how long Warwick would hold onto her father? She could not risk it.
The sun was close to setting in the western sky when the landscape started to become familiar — neatly kept roads, greenery across both sides, and Yorkshire in the horizon. The tension visibly began drain out of Anne; her shoulders sagged in relief. Melissa, though she was fond of the north due to Richard's own happy memories, could not say she felt the same. What had once seemed like home was now enemy territory, and she was riding right towards it. Still, she did not falter, and maintained them throughout the rest of the journey — soon, they were outside of York, and she had to stop herself from looking up at the spikes ("Is John's head there? Have I truly killed him?").
