𝙪𝙣𝙗𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙
forty-two. — ambush at tewkesbury!
COLD. SHE STILL felt cold. Ever since she had lost her boy, all she could feel — or rather, could not — was a dangerous numbness, each breath she took tinged with glacial fraught. She had never lost a child before, not until that horrible, horrible day; she had never had the misfortune. But now ... her life had irrevocably changed. How could she go on, tend to those children yet alive, when she knew there should have been another now with them? That five should have been six? How did anyone ever recover from this? Elizabeth did not know.
Following her husband into the royal quarters in the Tower, she felt colder still. He had come to her before Barnet, enveloped her in his arms, told her that he shared her grief, that not all was lost ... but he was different. Over the last four years, she had felt herself losing Edward; a piece of him broke away each time he took a mistress to bed, each time they birthed him a son or daughter (especially when they birthed him sons!), and she had felt apprehensive, but never in danger! He had always been captivated by her, and she — confident in her charms — knew he would always make his way back to her. But could the death of their little prince have been too much for him? Had he become too distant, too far away for her to pull him back?
Yet another thing she did not know.
"I have to go again, tonight." he stated, his back to her, as it often was these days.
She nodded, desperately trying to put on a brave face, squash the pit of dread emerging in her stomach. "You hope to capture Margaret of Anjou?"
"No. I hope to ambush her."
Elizabeth blinked. That was not the answer she had been expecting. "Ambush her? Where?"
Holding up a piece of parchment she previously had not noticed in his hands, he replied, "Tewkesbury, north of Gloucestershire."
"And how are you certain she will be there? Her and her army?"
He cleared his throat. "I have had news, and the source is one that I trust. She is riding west to join forces with Jasper Tudor."
Elizabeth nodded, her heart heavy. "Just do whatever it takes to end this." She approached him, so that their noses were almost touching. "If one battle can bring peace to England, peace of mind, it is one worth fighting." She reached over to grasp his hands, but he pulled them back, pretending to busy them with the letter. Frowning, the blonde cleared her throat and continued, "And you will be back in no time."
Edward chuckled uneasily, dropping the missive down on the table. He poured himself a glass of wine, replying, "You have more faith in me than I ever had in myself."
"I remember meeting a fairly confident boy under an oak tree, some years ago." She grinned, reminding him of where it had all started, of the good times they had shared. If he was drifting away from her, she needed to pull him back — and what better way than to speak of their meeting, when he had seen her, a true English rose, and had become captivated by her?
But Edward did not take the bait. He did not even smile. He seemed lost in thought for a few seconds, and she thought she saw the ghost of grin appear on his lips, but it went away as quick as it had come. Her statement had not served to cheer him up, but Elizabeth was relieved — he had not completely forgotten the fire of desire she had ignited inside him.
"Anthony will guard you in the Tower. But you must stay here out of danger."
The queen considered that, and — raising an eyebrow — inquired, "And who will keep you out of danger?"
"Elizabeth, if something were to happen--"
She shook her head and moved close to him once more. "Do not!"
"There is a man in Flanders who will take you in. Your mother knows where to meet him. You must hide for awhile, 'til--" he faltered, but quickly cleared his throat and forged on. "Until Richard can gather an army and take back the throne. Once that is done, he will protect you, find the girls good husbands. I know he will; we have already spoken about it."
"Richard?" Elizabeth huffed, and though it galled her to say it, went on, "What about ... George?"
"I have signed an attainder, barring him from ever taking the throne." Edward replied quietly. "My closest advisors have been informed, as has Richard, and now, you. But listen to me, Elizabeth--"
"Edward--!"
"Listen to me!" he insisted. "No one can know about the attainder; no one! Especially not George! If he finds out, only the Lord knows what he will do, and I cannot afford him pulling his men away from the army. Our numbers are already reduced. We need him for now."
"An attainder?" she breathed, hardly able to believe it. It was almost too good to be true. "Can it ever be reversed?"
He shook his head. "Only by the sovereign, and I am not inclined to ever let him be crowned. He has already shown a taste for power, and often, people like that are prone to mishandling it. Better Richard be king, if I fall on the battlefield."
Elizabeth hesitated. "But what about the girls? Lizzie? She could be--"
He cut her off. "No, she could not. I love Lizzie, as I love Mary and Cecily, but they could never sit on the throne. England has already seen a queen regnant in Empress Matilda, and she has not been a good example. The lords would never respect Lizzie, would try to rule through her, if anything. No ... Richard is by far the best choice in our current circumstances."
"But, Edward--!"
"It is done, Elizabeth." He stood up. "It is done, I have my failsafe, and the lords are satisfied as well. I have had need of a successor for awhile now, and though my heart aches to say it, I do not see us having a son any time soon. Should anything happen to me, Richard will rule, and he will rule well. I know that for a fact."
"Richard is just a boy!" Elizabeth argued. "Still only seventeen!"
"And Lizzie a girl, who does not yet even know her letters!" her husband snapped. "You do not have faith in either of my brothers, and though I understand your enmity with George, I can hardly comprehend it when it comes to Richard! He is ever loyal and just, and I know he would be a good king, as he is much like our father. And if ever there could have been a good king, it would have been my father, Elizabeth!"
The blonde took a step back, realizing that she had perhaps touched a sore subject. Edward had always seen their father in his youngest brother, and it was probably the reason why he kept bestowing office upon office on Richard, why he had so much raw trust in him. She, however, did not believe the youngest son of York to be a saint — no one was — and she could see a cast of George in his face, every time she looked. It was just a feeling, but one she could not shake off. Behind every smile, she had always sensed malice. No, she would never trust Richard, and with her husband, she had to move carefully, especially since her hold on him was so tenuous. The slightest pressure could have it snapping.
"Of course. You are right." she backed off. "If you think that to be the best decision..."
"I do." Edward snapped. He drained his wine and slammed the glass on the table. "I must meet with my brothers. Stay in your rooms, keep the girls safe." And without so much as a kiss or a farewell, he stormed out, evidently angered by the line of questioning she had piled on top of him.
Elizabeth sighed and went to pour herself a glass of the malmsey, when her eyes caught on the letter. Curiously, she picked it up and flipped it over, eyes running over the writing. Margaret of Anjou ... Gloucester ... stalling her, for now ... ford at Tewkesbury ... ambush ... with my most heartfelt regards, Melyssa, Duchess of Gloucester.
"Melissa?" Elizabeth breathed, her heart skipping a beat.
Her sister was Edward's informant? But ... how? How had she ... oh. She looked over the letter again, this time more carefully, and registered the contents in their entirety. Melissa had participated in a parley with Margaret of Anjou without ever intending to let her soldiers pass, stalling her to give Edward's army time to move out to Tewkesbury, where they could form an ambush and put an end to the Lancastrian threat, once and for all.
Elizabeth should have been happy; relieved, even, that the source was as trustworthy as her husband had said. But all she could muster was a weak sigh, an uncertain one, too. If Melissa had been where Edward had gotten his information, why had he not just said so? She would not have thought anything of it, would have been content to know ... so why had he hidden it? Why he did he not tell her, his wife, that her sister, Melissa, was writing to him? Why had he been shifty when he had mentioned his source? Just what was going on?
HER VISION FADED in and out. Neck and back slumped over the black destrier she had been forced to ride, Anne squinted her eyes, struggling to see what was going on, and where they were.
"Not in Gloucester, that is for sure." she thought bitterly, slowly sitting in an upright position again.
Yesterday morning, the duchess to whom she had once been lady-in-waiting to had sent her adieu and refusal, firmly informing the Lancastrian army that they would not be able to pass the gates of her city. Furthermore, if they did not move, the soldiers posted on the walls would rain arrows down upon them, so they were advised to take their leave and make no further attempts at entreaties.
Anne's husband had been enraged at the duchess' temerity, had almost ordered their men to storm the city nonetheless, but — as always — his mother had managed to pull him back from the brink of insanity. Anne had been slightly surprised to see how calm Margaret of Anjou was, but the woman simply said that she had expected the refusal, had never thought that they would advance toward their goal by way of Gloucester.
"'Tis a pity she has not sided with us." The queen had said, as they all mounted their horses. "But she will come to see things my way. Once that wretched husband of hers is dead..."
Anne privately hoped that the outcome would be the exact opposite to what her mother-in-law wanted. If she had any hope for her own salvation, Richard and Edward must prevail, must be the victors to this never-ending war. If they were to kill her mad husband while they were at it, too ... well, that would just be a bonus, would it not?
"This is what it is, to be Queen Militant." Ahead of Anne, Margaret of Anjou spoke up, startling her out of her reverie. "You have to fight for what you own. Remember these odds, this pain, for if we win, you will never have to march again."
"No, I will not." Anne vowed inwardly. "Because after this, I will wash my hands of princes and kings. They are not worth the pain and sorrow they bring with them." Outwardly, she replied, "Do you not ever tire of living like this?"
The queen scoffed. "Never. This is what I live for."
"Even if it means you are hated?"
"I have never been liked." Her mother-in-law responded matter-of-factly, as though it were a truth she faced everyday. "I am damned twice in most men's eyes. I am the woman who dared to rule when her husband could not, and who fought to ensure her only son's position. Now, how could I do such a thing?" Here, she scoffed. "Men."
Anne blinked at the strangely frank response. Though she did not like the woman, she could not deny that her ideologies were ones she had heard echoed by many of the ladies in her life, her own sister and the Duchess of Gloucester among them. Clearing her throat, Anne inquired, "Why damned twice?"
"Because I am French, of course."
Anne's lips twitched. Margaret of Anjou had a sense of humor, it seemed. Izzy would possibly faint away, if told.
Thoughts of Isabel drifted away, however, as they marched further onward, into the land known as Tewkesbury. The sky was overcast when they arrived, the abbey beyond just slightly visible. The trees were barren, the ground scraggy and mottled, and Anne could hear the thickets and brambles brushing against their horses' legs. Batting some mist away, she frowned, struggling to see beyond a few feet away from herself. Nothing was visible, even the abbey had disappeared, and she felt a sense of disquiet overtaking her.
"What is this foul weather?" Her husband called out, as though searching for somebody to blame it on.
It began to rain, then, small droplets at first, but growing in intensity by the second.
"Devil's climate!" his mother replied. "Mist and rain, where there was sun and clear skies just minutes ago. Edward of York won Barnet cloaked in these conditions, and it seems he intends to do the same thing once again."
"Then let us move! We must reach Tudor's army before York reaches us."
"He is in London's vicinity, yet." Margaret waved him off dismissively. "He cannot have caught word of our movements so quickly. We have time left to--"
What happened at that very moment, Anne could not describe. She could barely see her own horse amidst the thickened mist, much less wayward foot soldiers approaching them, but — as she later conceded — that is what occurred.
She had not even realized they were being attacked until the first men began to scream, falling down onto the mud, corpses now, rather than people. Her horse veered, screeching to the tune of the chaos, and she barely held on as it shot forward, trying to buck her from its back.
"Penny, no!" She howled, using the name she had come up for the destrier in the short time they had been acquainted. "Stop! Stop!"
But the horse would not give up. Anne clung on tightly, afraid for her life as a sword sailed just above her head. Men were dying around her, she quickly realized, and if she did not buckle up, she would soon join them on the ground. Usually, soldiers would not attack a lady of her stature like this, but these were furious Yorkists, angry that their king had been driven to exile. They had no compunctions whatsoever. But, even if they did, the mist made it impossible to see who was attacking who.
Somewhat belatedly, Margaret of Anjou screamed out, "We are being attacked! Protect the Prince of Wales!" Lancastrian soldiers surged to and fro, not knowing where exactly their prince was, and most fell to the blades of crafty Yorkists who bore them with a vendetta.
"Oh, god. Oh, god. God almighty, in your mercy, please preserve me..." Anne began praying, urging Penny forward, not caring who she might be trampling. She had to survive if she wanted to see Izzy again, and her niece and nephew. She just had to live, had to get away, had to-- someone grabbed her arm.
"Anne," a strong voice said, a strong voice she recognized. It was--
"Richard!"
He grabbed Penny by her reins and forced her out of the hullabaloo, bellowing out orders to men around him. Before Anne knew what was happening, she had a contingent of men surrounding her, protecting her with their swords drawn. It was, in her opinion, nothing short of a miracle that they made it out of the central commotion, into the cover of the trees beyond.
"Lady Anne," a breathless voice called out. She looked up, and realized it belonged to none other than Harry Stafford, the young Duke of Buckingham.
"My lord?" she looked into his eyes, relief flooding her at seeing yet another familiar face.
"We must hasten to the abbey. His Grace the king has commanded us to take you there."
Nervously, Anne nodded and spurred her horse forward, following their steeds as they led her there. She did not know what was going to happen, what her reception would be when received by her father's former wards, but at least she was no longer being crushed under the wolf's jaws. At least there was that.
THE BATTLE WAS quick, bloody, and over before the Lancastrians even realized what had happened. In its aftermath, the Yorkists roamed the field, plunging their swords into the forms of whichever enemy they still thought to be alive. Staring at his own weapon, Richard sighed and bent down to wipe the blood off of it, using the tunic of the man he had just killed.
"Your Grace?" One of the foot soldiers approached him, tone hesitant.
"My brother, the king ... where is he?"
"About to head to the abbey. It is said that the Duke of Somerset has fled there, seeking sanctuary."
Richard scowled. "Of course he has, the coward." Motioning down at the fallen form before him, he continued, "Come with me, and bring his body with you. It must be displayed." Seeing the confusion on the man's face, he sighed. "'Tis Edward of Lancaster, the last Lancastrian heir. People must see that he is well and truly dead."
The soldier nodded heartily and hastened to comply, acquiring the help of two comrades to haul the body up. Richard did not wait around to see them complete their task; sheathing his sword, he signaled his men and mounted his horse. To the abbey, they went.
———
Margaret of Anjou was in horrified disbelief. There was no better way to say it — she had been well and truly caught off-guard, defeated. Edward cherished her expression and resolved to have it burned into his memory; the woman who was singlehandedly responsible for the butchery of his father and brother in front of him, and he, finally, in a position to prosecute her.
"Edward!" George called out, descending the stairs of the abbey two at a time. He motioned behind him, where soldiers were hauling a sobbing Duke of Somerset out with them.
"Right on time," the king murmured, gripping his sword tightly.
"No! No! Please, mercy! Have mercy--!" Somerset howled.
"Silence." Edward sneered, as George proceeded to give the man a good kick behind his knees. Buckling down to the ground, and held there by the same soldiers who had brought him out, the Lancastrian noble could only look up and beg hysterically.
"You cannot do this! I was in sanctuary! You cannot violate--!"
"You were in sanctuary." Edward pointed out.
"And now, you are not." George continued, smirking cheekily.
"Please! I beg of you--!"
The king scoffed and raised his sword, positioning it on the ill-fated duke's neck. "I, King Edward of the House Plantagenet, fourth of my name, by the grace of god, king of England, France, and Lord of Ireland, do hereby sentence you to die. May god have mercy upon your soul."
And then he lifted his sword, chopping Somerset's neck off clean.
"Blubbering fool," George sneered. Seeing Richard a few feet away, he called out, "Brother! You missed the show!"
Their youngest sibling joined them, observing the now-dead man grimly. "Edward. George."
"Who is that?" The king pointed to the prone form that Richard's soldiers had just dropped down behind him, half-afraid that it would be one of their own loyalists.
"Edward of Lancaster. Anjou's son."
"You found him?" George inquired, nudging the dead prince's face with his foot.
"I killed him," was Richard's dry answer.
His brothers both chuckled, but it was Edward who patted his back and said, "Well done, Dickon. Lancaster is well and truly done."
"Where is Anjou, then?" George raised an eyebrow.
"In our custody," the king waved him off carelessly. "Along with Anne Neville."
"What will we do with them?"
"I will have the false queen imprisoned in the Tower," was the reply.
"And Anne?" George stepped forward, a greedy glint in his eyes. "Isabel could--"
"I have not decided anything about Anne yet." Edward stopped him. "First, we must plan our procession to London, and then I will see what to do about her."
"I must go back to Gloucester," Richard, who had been quiet until then, began. "See Melissa and my children--"
"No, Dickon, you will be leading the procession, as you led the vanguard."
"But--!"
His eldest brother held a hand up. "I will not hear it. I will have your wife and children escorted to the city, so they may be there to greet you when we enter it in triumph. Is that clear?"
Richard nodded, though he did not look too happy about it.
"Good," Edward nodded firmly. "Now, gather yourselves. We ride to the nearest holdfast within the hour."
And then he strode off, leaving his brothers with no choice but to follow him. George and Richard comforted themselves by thinking that nobody ever had a choice with Edward, anyway
a.n. that's a wrap on chapter 42! we're not quite done with act three yet, but we're almost there!
we got an elizabeth pov in this part, the first one in awhile. she's slowly recuperating from losing her son, but you can clearly see that her main worry is how edward is drifting away from her. on the surface, they seem to be okay, but even the slightest thing makes him snap now.
on the matter of edward ... he put an attainder on george! now, usually, an attainder would be a very public thing, with all titles confiscated; everyone would know about it, and it would bring shame down on the one who was subject to it. but as edward himself said, they need george's men, so he couldn't broadcast the news. this is extremely significant, because as of now, richard is heir, and george or his children won't ever be able to take the throne unless the king himself reverses the ban (which i don't see him doing).
from now on, you'll see a big change as to how people treat richard, those who know about the attainder and even those who don't. to the public eye, the king has no male heir, and many don't think george a suitable candidate to succeed him, so the obvious choice here is richard. those who know about the ban ... well, for them, it's pretty obvious who the next king is gonna be.
moving on, the battle scene in this chapter is one of the first ones i've ever written from my own head. ngl, i was pretty nervous to write about an ambush, but i think it turned out alright. you may have noticed the mist element present throughout, and it was similar to what elizabeth and jacquetta did at barnet. except this time, it was melissa's work. she didn't have a pov in this chapter, but we'll be back to her in no. 43.
(also, yes. i had richard kill edward of lancaster, because why not 🤷🏻♀️)
anyway, i really hope you enjoyed this chapter! please leave any feedback and ideas you have in the comments. as always, votes are extremely appreciated 🙂
bisous 😘 and have an amazing day!