Chapter XXV: September- October 1459
Ludlow Castle, Shropshire, England
As Cecily, Duchess of York peers over at me from her place at the foot of my bed, despite her years, I can see why she is called 'Proud Cis' and was known as the 'Rose of Raby'. Of course, I have been much in her presence before, but the candlelight illuminates her features for all to see; her full, pursed rosebud lips, refined cheekbones, fresh complexion, high forehead, winged eyebrows, a long, elegant nose, and wide eyes full of knowledge. She bears herself as if she were a Queen already- indeed, she may become one after recent events. Even she cannot deny her and her husband the Duke's designs for the throne now, by her upright stance and commanding presence, swathed in emerald silk and appearing most formidable; indeed, I am presently incurring her displeasure. She wears upon her head a heavily padded turban headdress with bejewelled horns in an elongated heart-shape, coiling upwards and above, with a train snaking down about her neck, adorned with feathers and beads. She places her hands on her hips, resting them on a sash with the Neville and York arms quartered, cinched about her tiny waist, showing off an array of ruby and sapphire rings on her long fingers.
She frowns down at me, laying with tendrils of hair plastered to my glistening cheeks as Bessie wipes sweat from my brow.
"You were foolish to come here." I nod, unable to speak, for my throat feels as though it were burning.
She sighs. "I am gladdened and assured of you making a full recovery." I smile weakly at the doctor's report. She frowns again. "Pray, I wish it speedily. It is dangerous for you to be here." I nod; she casts me a dark look, and sweeps out of the chamber, Bessie hastening to make a clumsy obeisance. Gone is any familiarity we once might have breached when I stayed at Ludlow last year. I sigh- I am anxious too to recover, for the battle is headed our way.
I come to presently be here at Ludlow Castle languishing in one of the bedchambers, as I have become greatly afflicted with the most awful illness. I fear it is some sort of message from Our Lord sending me to eternal damnation, for when I visited Henry's burial place nigh over a month ago as I did intend to, I was cast down with the strangest pain. It was so strong I fell to my knees, it was wracking my chest, I felt as though my head were swelling. I thought mayhap I were dying, as I lay there writhing and sobbing as it coursed through me. My vision was becoming hazy, as blood beat in my ears. My surroundings were spinning, I felt as though I were about to vomit.
The last thing I heard was Bessie's cries before I awoke yestermorning, after a month in a complete delirium and unconscious state, for I recall nothing. Bessie had run for help at the castle, and although apparently tight-lipped, the Duchess had called some men to carry me in, and has cared for me, paying for her own doctor to attend to me. Bessie feared I would die, and still does as I lay here feverishly. Was I close to the arms of God, and joining Henry? I do not want to die! How ill can I have been, to be in such a state that I have been almost gone to the world for over a month- am I as mad as King Henry, when he went into his great sleep? And why was I struck at Henry's grave- was it guilt, conscience, a calling of some sort?
I reach out for the wine beside the bed but slump back, my head still throbbing. Bessie leans forward and passes the chalice to me, holding it to my lips, and I sip a little, but it tastes raw to me. The liquid burns in my throat and I shudder, for it is most dry seeming. My body is all afire still- is there still the possibility of death for me? I feel for my rosary beads with my sticky palms, praying for guidance.
"Elizabeth," Bessie says gently. I take in her face, which is of good need of a wash, her flyaway hair, unkempt clothes, the lines on her thinned face. I feel so awful that she should have to care for me all this time. I shall see her pay by annum is greatly increased. I was forevermore seeking a motherly figure as a child- not appreciating what indeed was before me, my Bessie.
"I do not mean to alarm you," she says, as I shift in the moist bed, for this room is sweltering, and I shall tell her to put that fire out. It brings me memories of my confinement, and I smile sadly. So long ago... "You recall what I told you yesterday, of the battle?" I nod- indeed, there was another ruckus between the Lancastrians and the Yorkists on the twenty-third of last month. By a stroke of luck, although the Yorkists were supposedly reported to have been kissing the ground as their deathbed when they did see how greatly they were outnumbered, we were triumphant. We. Despite having been home amongst the Lancastrian nest for a year now, my opinions in regard to King Henry and Marguerite of Anjou, have not changed. The woman had the cunning to send the army in the name of the Prince, with the Duke of Gloucester's badge, the evil of her, to make it seem as though the Yorkists had declared war on a small boy. I have decided to proudly declare myself a Yorkist- well, in secret at least. I would like to see the Duke and Duchess as King and Queen; My Lord has the true claim to the throne, and they would be just and competent. York surely intends for the throne now?
If Henry were alive, would his body lie on the battlefield at Blore Heath, bloodied such as Lord Audley's, the Lancastrian lead commander? Would he have been captured such as My Lord of Salisbury's sons Thomas and John Neville? If Henry were- No, Elizabeth. Stop it. Stop saying if Henry were here. 'Tis a year now. Move on.
But being here with the Duchess Cecily reminds me of the Bourchiers. How fares Humphrey and Joan, and the other three brothers? Elizabel's letters have been so infrequent of late when I was last back at home in Middleton, and she laments on William and his mistresses. Did the other three Bourchier brothers fight? Which of my own kinsmen fought- were they some of the Lancastrians rained down by arrows?
"Well," says Bessie hesitantly, "The King did not reply when York and his allies swore fealty to him at Worcester Cathedral. Madam the Duchess says they are but a day away from Ludlow, with the King's- nay the Prince's army hot on their heels." I blink. I shift in the bed, swallowing.
I frown. "They come here? But why here?"
Bessie shakes her head, biting her lip, and she reaches out for my hand. "I fear for us. You are hardly in a position to travel, and our way home would be blocked by the armies. What do you say we do?"
"The Duchess will know," I mumble, closing my eyes, and I feign drifting back to sleep, realising with sheer horror, the predicament I am in.
The Yorkist army arrives and sets up camp south of Ludlow town, on the banks of the River Teme by Ludford Bridge. I cannot understand why there is to be another battle, nor why the fighting has been brought to Ludlow, but I am still too fatigued to comprehend this. What is the worst, which, God forbid could happen, unless there was a battle, and the Yorkists lost? Then what... I rage and battle with my fever through the days, the Duchess at times growing irritated by my presence.
"You are a thorn in my side" she cried one day, at her wit's end from the events occurring, then she bit her lip and apologised. I did not blame her, for she has an army encamped on her threshold, a whole few thousand or more; a sea of grey metal, banners and tents and roars. The fighting seems so very far away, yet now it feels very real. I lie sweating, waiting to hear of the Lancastrian coming, knowing how precarious it is for me to be present here. I may even see the battle, if there is to be another. How could I flee? Do I want to be here when that occurs? What shall I do, trapped in the battle for power? Will my Father be in the Lancastrian ranks? What of my Mother, still one of the Queen's ladies; did she receive the Duchess' stern letter, telling of my plight? Why has she not come to be with me? What shall I do, for I am all alone... My recovery is slow and my position complicated.
I had replied to the Duchess' outburst, "Ah, but My Lady, the thorns belong to that of the white rose of York, not the red," for even in my state, I can still muster a witty response of diplomacy. At least, I think, if any terrible fate shall befall any party; I have useful ties to both sides. The Duchess had looked at me in a strange manner.
"My dear sister Isabel told me you ever were an outspoken child." Isabel. Does she ever deserve to know the true nature of her son's death? "Evidently, you are reckless woman. What were your thoughts, cavorting about the country with your servant, intending to visit the resting place of your former husband?" I pressed my lips together. She does not understand, I had to see it, after what happened, and to make peace with Henry and myself. "I am grateful for your support of my cause," she had said uncertainly, before picking up her skirts and taking leave.
My fever cools in the days later, and my head stops pounding like a packhorse in a hurry. I can walk slow steps across the bedchamber, and I presently sit at the window seat, shivering, looking down at the town as I watch the King's army advancing. The men are dogged, clanking in their armour, shaking the earth as the thousands slam their feet down. What shall they do? The Duchess is reportedly pacing her chambers. Certified by her doctor, that I shall not pass any of my contagion, her children who remain here- namely Meggie, George and Dick, for the elder boys are with their father, come to my bedchamber, so I can read to them. I ruffle their hair and smile at them. They no longer call me 'the sad Lady' but 'Lady Lizzie'.
"You were married to cousin Henry?" they had said, "We had a brother once called Henry, but he died as a baby." So many babes, heirs, infants, who never lived. I enjoy spending time with them, for they a bright brood, but it only increases my own yearning for children of mine own, boys to be proud of, and pretty little girls.
Today, Meggie is subdued, biting her thumb, as her brothers play with wooden swords. My stomach turns- will real swords be drawn today, or in the immediate future? Will these young boys one day too fight for the York cause- for how long shall this war go on? How many years will their Father and his allies wile their lives away, asking for their King to be just?
"What ails you, Meggie?" I say, lifting the girl onto my lap.
"Will the army hurt us?" she trembles, looking to the window. I stroke her hair and draw her tighter.
"Of course not, they dare not touch you; you are a princess of the blood!" Would they? Am I right to encourage her, in pressing attention to her father's close claim to the throne? What shall we all do; shall we just sit here in the castle, waiting to see what action occurs? Why can the King not properly comply, and desist accusing his faithful subjects as traitors? What was the Loveday parade last year for? Has Henry gone to his grave, guilt-ridden over Somerset's death, in one of these sordid battles? Look how this war... affects everyone...
I feel my eyes widen, and Meggie slips off my lap, as I grow stiff. "Lady Lizzie?" she says. Henry was so contrite over his suspected part in Somerset's demise, for all those years that he cried over it in those last months, his conscience too great to bear. How can it have taken me a year and two months- for I am informed today is the twelfth day of October- my word, I have languished here two months- and my Mother has not come in search of me- to realise that this is the real reason Henry... committed suicide? I blink, as the information swills about my head.
"Dame Elizabeth is probably still weary, Meggie," says the children's nurse, bustling in, and ushering them out for supper. "Shall I summon Bessie?" she asks. I nod. As soon as they all quit the room, I press my hand to my mouth, letting out a little yelp, tears threatening in my eyes. I do not have to blame myself; Henry's death is not on my shoulders. The burden seems to seep out of me, and I feel a release on my chest slowly, finding peace with myself at last. He.... killed himself, that great crime, because of Somerset? That villainous felon! Oh Henry, you silly fool! 'Tis not even proven Henry did aught, for surely the archer that claims Somerset's blood on his hands was also to blame? I wish Henry had talked to me. Mayhap his deed was to find peace with himself too...
I pick up my girdle from the table- thoroughly knotted onto it is that sash, our wedding day sash, the bloodied scrap from St. Albans. A few tears spill down my cheeks, because now I know the true legacy from St. Albans, not just this scrap. Oh Henry. I kept it there, a reminder of him but suddenly, somehow, I feel as though I have let him go. Why do I still wear it? Why am I holding onto old memories of long-ago childhood love? It is over Elizabeth.
Bessie walks in as I dry my tears, but I open my arms and she comes over into them, and we hold each other tightly. I feel as though now, I can sleep at night, I can laugh without feeling guilty, because I was not to blame. Is it selfish of me?
"Are you quite alright?"
"I am well," I say, smiling a little, "Truly well." Now, I can see a proper future for myself, one not tainted with Henry's ghost. I can think later upon the true reason, there are other matters to address. "Bessie, I must dress. I do not know whether to flee..."
She squeezes my hand, lips in a thin, grim line. "We shall see what happens."
I am glad I am finally recovered; 'twas strange knowing that there was a possibility of being so close to death. We sit in the Great Hall awaiting news into the night, for the Duchess wants the children to be awake, should we have to move quickly. We can hear the tumultuous roars outside of the armies, which is strange and frightening to them of course, and they are tired and squabble often. What am I going to do? I can hardly write to either Mother or Father to help me in my plight... It is not safe for me to travel from Ludlow alone, with so many mercenaries wandering about the hills. The Duchess is wringing her hands, waiting for news. I feel light-headed still, not just from my illness, but at the prospect of whatever fate shall become of me and the armies outside, huddled in a dark blue cloak of hemp which Her Grace kindly lent to me over my stained gown.
Suddenly, the doors swing open with an almighty crash. I look up instantaneously. I inhale sharply, rising, unsure of what to do. The children cower. The Duchess runs forward to her husband, who has stridden through the door, hair matted, face grimy and unshaven, still in full armour.
"Bloody traitor," he roars as he walks forward, prowling like a lion, "Damned knave, damned fool!" He throws his helmet to the floor with a sharp clatter on the flagstones, and the children squirm at their father's cussing, the spit flying from his mouth, the baring of his teeth, the livid anger boiling in his eyes, countenance red. Behind him are two-tight lipped men, gritting their teeth also, who must be his allies, My Lords Warwick and Salisbury.
"Richard, calm down!" she cries.
"Calm down? Calm down?" You can see the whites in his eyes, and I swallow, a cold sweat breaking over my body. What has happened, and what does it mean for me? The other two men behind his allies are fresh-faced youths grimly removing their helmets; Edward and Edmund, the two York sons. How Edward has matured since I saw him last; he has grown rather tall, dashing, like a warrior prince in his armour...Elizabeth! I scold myself.
"Lady Mother," he says grimly, in a low voice, stepping forward, as the Duke wipes his mouth, shaking his head, "We were betrayed. Pardons were promised to deserters and amnesty from the Queen if we dispersed. Anthony Trollope defected having heard this, with all his men, our best archers."
The Duchess shows no sign of fear, her head still high. "He was your advance guard, was he not?" She looks warily at her husband.
"Yes, and he had the best men. He has betrayed all our strategies to the commander of the Lancastrian army." Edward trails off.
Salisbury looks down at the floor, shaking his head. "It is over."
"It is over!" The Duke yells, shaking his fist.
"Over?" Warwick and the Duchess echo.
"Over?" I echo to myself quietly, eyes becoming large. Over? How can one man, albeit an import commander and his troops mean they abandon fighting? They would completely abandon their cause? They would give up? Surely, they can think of a new strategy? What does it mean if it is all over... So, there shall not be a battle? I can take a safe passage home? I watch the strange scene unfolding about me, at these five men so defeated. Why have they come here, to the castle? Do they give up, go home just at that? What of their army?
"We are to flee," Salisbury mutters; I judge him to be Salisbury, the father of Warwick, by his greying hair and the creases on his face, pained from months of warfare. Fleeing? They would completely lose hope?
The Duchess looks from one to another. What does this mean? Must I flee with them too, or will I be abandoned at the castle?
"There is no possible outcome of victory for us. It makes us seem like cowards, but by escaping and facing the penalty of treason, we can invade from abroad, with more mercenaries, stronger forces, and attack at the right moment. We are cornered here." The Duke sighs, his face still thunderous. Flee? Overseas? They are leaving at this very moment? Shall the Duchess and the children go with them? Where shall they go? How shall they ensure a safe crossing by ship? How shall I get home to Middleton? 'Tis not even exciting being in the midst of this all any longer.
"I shall go to Calais, and take Edward. Splitting up means we can attack from all points. My Lord Duke shall take Edmund to Ireland," Salisbury says, looking at his son Warwick and the Duke for confirmation, and they both nod. They have a plan; they shall not give up, but this is a strange turn of events indeed, and I am here to witness them!
The Duchess straightens herself. I think she has quite forgotten I am here, for Bessie hastily took the children from the room, their nurse, like many of the other servants, having fled themselves. I wonder if pretty Kitty is still here. Quit that, Elizabeth. What position does this castle stand in with two armies on the threshold? What of the children?
"You shall stay here," the Duke says quietly, pressing his hand on his wife's arm.
"Stay here?"
"They will not hurt you, for you are a woman, and not the children either. The King will have our heads if we stay and try to fight now, and lose. You will be safer in England than coming with me to heathen Ireland." She nods. She is baring this news exceedingly well, having been told her husband could lose his head, and she must stay here without his protection, her eldest sons gone from her, protecting her young children, unsure of her position. I would have been screaming at him for unfaithfulness and abandoning me and that he did not love me to leave me so, but the Duchess is a fortress of her own; she shows such remarkable strength and courage, I do wish I could be more like her. Indeed, none of the men seem to notice my presence, they must presume I am some grubby lady-in-waiting, and not the daughter of Lancaster, their enemy. No wonder they call her 'Proud Cis'.
She turns to Edward and Edmund. "My dear sons, are you compliant with this arrangement?"
"Yes, Lady Mother," Edward replies, taking on this burden, while Edmund grunts, ever the quieter of the two, a smaller, younger copy of his brother.
"Cis, we must tarry no longer. We must change, send the stable boy to prepare our horses; we leave now, we ride through the night, 'tis no journey for women and children," York says, touching her shoulder briefly, before striding ahead with his allies upstairs, while she hastens off, skirts all bustling, down the hall to prepare. This is all happening in such quick succession, and I am left standing here at loss. They are actually going. But what of the army? Edmund scuttles after them. Edward pauses; apparently, I am not conclusively invisible.
"Elizabeth?" He frowns, cocking his head. I nod, somewhat tongue-tied, for what should I say to this gallant young man who is at this very moment planning to flee for his life, taking on his father's cause, to another country? Who knows if he shall make it, or what fate shall befall him? But even so, he manages to say, "It was very nice to see you again, why ever you may be here," grin at me crookedly, before hurrying out the room, clanking in his armour. I blink, not too sure what to think of his actions or do now. I stand in the Hall, mustering my courage. Mayhap there is some way that I can be of aide to them? I cannot just stand here. I hurry after the Duchess.
We ensure together all the horses are quickly saddled, working side by side with the only stable boy left. My blood is pumping in my ears. Never would I expect to see her stoop so low among the straw, but she has to prepare. We have to be quick; she must act instinctively, for the army does not know their leaders have abandoned them. The men come back down attired in sober clothes and mantles without any sign of the murrey livery of the Yorks. The most important lords are about to leave this country, abandoning their cause briefly, and Warwick and Salisbury their Neville families without saying goodbye. What will happen now, shall Her Grace the Duchess stay here at Ludlow, still with the armies outside, for what will the Yorkist army do without their commanders, shall they still fight? What a turncoat this Trollope is, and now they run like cats who've had their tails burnt, and who knows how long for.
"We shall go through Mortimer's Gate, through Wales, and catch a boat to Ireland," the Duke says.
"Aye, and we shall ride through Devon to get a ship from the coast to Calais." Warwick adds in. Cecily nods and I suck in my breath. Her fists are slightly clenched, but she smiles. This is a pivotal moment, I cannot quite believe it is all happening, and I am here...
The Duke bows his head, and so do her sons to receive her blessing. "Godspeed. I pray for your safety and your return." Edward and Edmund both seem to blink a lot and are looking from their father to their Neville kinsmen, whom also Cecily nods to. They are to run from the castle they grew up in, under the wing of their tutors, now proclaimed sons of traitors. They are to be separated from one another, and they know that they must leave their lady mother and their young siblings in the castle to fend for themselves. How does the Duchess cope with the weight of all that is happening?
"Where are the children? I wish to bid them goodbye." The Duchess gestures at me, and I go and fetch them from Bessie from one of the antechambers, and the Duke crouches down to ruffle his young sons' hair and pinch Meggie on the cheek. Warwick and Salisbury shift behind them, obviously keen to get on the move, with no time for a family farewell, as Cecily hugs her two eldest sons. How can she part so quickly with them? And not shed a tear?
"Who may you be?" Warwick has walked over to me whilst the Yorks bid goodbye to one another; not knowing when they shall next be together, husband and wife, and whispering arrangements.
"Who may you be?"
"Dame Elizabeth Bourchier," I say carefully, for I am rightfully still of that name, and adhering to the name of de Scales would not improve matters. He nods with a slight sneer; he must either know who I am, mistake me for one of the other Elizabeth Bourchiers, or dismiss me as some obscure relative. He walks back, and the tightness in my chest goes away. Then with a sinking realisation, I realise my girdle with the Scales and Bourchier emblems from the sash is there for all to see. He knows who I am; the daughter of the man who back in 1450 drove away the Jack Cade rebels and protected his monarch. I should not be here...
Duchess Cecily seems to have forgotten who I am and why I am here, and sets me at a number of tasks to hurriedly complete whilst she bids them goodbye. She returns ten minutes later, with a crying George, Dick, and Meggie, and I open my arms and let the little girl clutch at my skirts sobbing, and I try to console her.
"They are gone," she says simply. Shakily, she pours herself a glass of ale and walks to the fire. I can tell she is plotting what to do next, how to ensure her safety in the castle, on her husband's orders. I hand Meggie to Bessie.
"Madam, these are the letters you requested me to get for you." I pass her the thick bundle of parchment and seals, nodding, and handing her back her key. The fact she has entrusted me enough is rather weighty. I wonder what the documents hide... "My Lady? What should we do now?" I say hesitantly, as she stares into the flickering embers. I can hear my heart pounding and I take in deep breaths, for outside, I can hear the roar of the armies. I have to do something...? I shuffle from one foot to another, twisting the cuffs of my sleeves. Bessie and I exchange a worried glance; what are we going to do? The Duchess takes a long draft, and says for us to wait until morning.
I must have fallen asleep before the fire, for I am roused the next morning by the sound of a smashing object and loud roars. Meggie wiggles from my lap as she is aroused too. I rub my eyes, pushing hair from my frowsy face, straightening my attire as I stand up. My heart quickens as I at once hear distant crashes and screams and cries, which are becoming louder at every instance.
"Lizzie," Meggie whispers, "Where are the others?" As I turn around, I do realise the Great Hall is empty.
"They must be in another room," I say, swallowing, as Bessie rushes in, face blanched white.
"Elizabeth, you are awake. You must see this." She tugs at my hand and we run up the stairs, up all three storeys and out onto the battlements. It is October, not summer anymore such as when I first arrived here, and specks of rain dampen my cheeks, howling gales tearing at my hair and tangling strands in my face. I put an arm protectively around Meggie, and let out a sharp cry. There is carnage, complete pillage in Ludlow town! Smoke is rising into the air, swarms of men can be seen charging the streets and fighting hand-to-hand combat. Townsfolk are running about with their worldly goods, screaming, jumping from windows of houses. There are crashes, bangs, horrifying screams, horses charging through rubble. My body quivers, and I begin to feel my belly turn. What... What... Is this...?
"There are forty thousand men." The Duchess, already on the battlements, turns to me, and I stare out, my eyes glazed. Forty thousand?
"Lancastrians?" I manage to say, as I watch eruptions of fire swell through alleys, pressing my hand to my mouth. All those poor townsfolk. Their homes, their possessions, their businesses all pillaged...
"Yes. They started to sack and loot as soon as they got wind from the Yorkists that the Lord my husband had fled. The York army were all pardoned, but the Lancastrians began this, even so."
Why, why would they do that? Why would the King and Queen actually demonstrate how unjust monarchs they are, by letting an army in the name of their son the Prince, hurt their own subjects and destroy one of their own towns?
"So... instead of a battle, this? My Lady, why is nothing been done about this?" I look at the horrific scenes in front of me. These people have done naught; why should Ludlow suffer? Is it because the Duke fled? I watch as the men advance through the streets, wielding weapons, shoving screaming maidens out the way. They are coming nearer to the castle. Do they mean to make an example and mockery of the Duke's hasty departure by bespoiling the town and castle of Ludlow- is this the petty Lancaster victory, for they can have no bloodthirsty battle, as they desired?
"It is not safe to remain here. They will riot my home, and I am powerless to stop them, but they will not harm us. Meggie, George, Dick. We are leaving." She turns to the children sternly, their pale faces illuminated by flames of the fire.
"Where are we going?"
"What shall we take?"
"Can I bring all four of my dolls?" The Duchess chides them down the stairs; prodding them, but their pinched faces still turn to the melee, for what can they truly understand at their age? The Duchess is right, staying here whilst they most probably lay claim to great spoils would not be best; events could become violent, and she needs to take her children to safety. But where shall she go? How will we get out?
"My Lady, what of me?" I say tentatively.
"Under my protection, no harm shall come to you."
Twenty minutes on, I am still with her and Bessie too. I had no other choice, for I could hardly stay at the castle, watching as the Lancastrians tore through all the tapestries with their weapons. Cecily is wise; last night, whilst we all slept, she went and hid the best of her jewels and plate, and sent her most trusted servants with coffers to her other manors. How must it feel for her, abandoning her home to ruination by her enemy? I guess I must stay with her- what else should I do? We walk hurriedly through the streets, watching weapons clash around us, dodging pools of blood, ducking burning thatches. The men move as the Duchess walks up, her head still high, holding the hands of Dick and George as she strides forward. How her heart must race, for mine does as I walk beside them, clutching Meggie. Here the Duchess is, an angel amongst the carnage in her ermine and draped in the least costly of her pearls. 'Tis absolute madness to walk straight into the conflict- where can we be going? I hate walking through this, seeing such horror, and we can do naught to stop this. How can she know we shall not be killed, as we walk through this destruction? She desires to get to the Market Cross, she says, where we can seek protection.
Bessie takes my sweaty palm, and the Duchess draws Meggie to her when she stumbles. I am feeling faint myself. The children's crying is painted against this stark, bleak picture of warfare, of what the Duke's quest has come to. How could he abandon his army, and let the Lancastrian enemy do this?
"Elizabeth!" Bessie shrieks, and hurls me back, as a large part of a burning roof falls in our path, men stealing away from the house just in time, common Lancaster thieves grinning toothlessly at their new silver cups. There is bile in my throat at this whole debacle; 'tis sickening to see humanity as such reduced to this. This is not a godly quest. Screams pound in my ears and I jump backwards, feeling the soaring heat and the lick of the flames as they dance closer. My breathing, as jagged as the points on the arrows raining overhead, becomes louder and louder, and my eyes dart from side to side. Dear God, am I to die? I look frantically at Bessie. Our path is obstinately blocked. I stare in absolute horror, and let out a cry. No. No! The Duchess turns around, and she casts me a fleeting look from the other side. She cannot do anything to help me. I am alone. I am alone!
"Lizzie!" I hear Meggie's scream. I gesture to the Duchess Cecily, and her Mother ushers them all on. Bessie is pulling at my own hand as tears spill down my face. I am Elizabeth de Scales, yet I am utterly, utterly alone in this. She takes me further down the street. What is to become of us- what should I do? I am separated from my salvation. I glance up at the castle and all the men streaming through the outer bailey, ready to tear York apart. I release more shaky breaths.
"Bessie, oh Bessie," I cry, as we stumble through the street. We have to keep moving; we cannot stand still. We have to find some way of getting out. Why oh, why could we not escape through Mortimer's Gate in secret as the men did so last night? Why did the Duchess have to make this brazen show through the town, that she, who men call 'Proud Cis', as she walks towards Lancaster, and humbles herself to them? In the best interests of her children... Pha...
Look at me here, as men fight all around me. When will this stop, when shall they tire? I turn my bare head, hair flowing, ignited by the rising flames. I turn from side to side, as a cavalcade of men advance. They are grabbing wenches from all sides as they scream, hoisting their skirts up against the houses as the poor girls sob. I can do nothing but feel sickened. Then, I feel my knees buckle. Flashbacks of William enter my mind, as I see an armoured man dismount from his horse and run towards me. I am frozen by my own fear. Bessie pulls my arm, her face ashen, as mine must be. I turn to run, but my boots slip on the sticky blood of one of the men lying around me and I slip to the ground, retching, sobbing, sliding. I scrabble, pressing my hand to my mouth. I feel the man's arms about me, his armour sharply piercing my heaving back. He pulls me up and I scream, kicking. Who is he? What does he intend to do with me? Is he going to...rape me? Murder me?
"Get off me, you fiend. Dare not harm me; I have royal blood in my veins. Get off me!" I yell, breaking out into a sweat, as his grip tightens. Sweet Jesu... Bessie grabs my hands, pulling me away from him, but he wrenches me down an alley.
"Sir, let go of my lady. Dare not touch her, for she is-"
"She is the Lady Elizabeth de Scales, I am aware." I whip around in his grasp, blood running cold. Who is this strange man, who dares accost me in the middle of all this, and who knows my name? "I am not going to hurt you."
"Speak, I charge you. Upon what intelligence do you know my name?" I tremble, my knees still weak.
"Because of your emblem," he says, pointing at the sash still fluttering from my girdle. Henry's sash. He releases his grip on me slightly, but his arms seem more protective now, as I continue to frown and snivel, panting as we stare each at each other.
"Pray, what be your name?" I cry, as the destruction and the roaring fire carries on about me. Mayhap he is truly a friend; mayhap he can take me to safety?
"I," he says, lifting one arm from me to pull up his visor, revealing a startled pair of deep brown eyes, "Am Anthony Wydeville."