August 1474. East Sussex, England.
The two armies met in a large open field, the sun beating down on them in unforgivable scorch. It hadn’t rained for days, something unusual for England, and the ground beneath their horses was as hard as rocks, the tall grasses wilting under the strange heat. Edward of Lancaster, so-called Fourth of that Name, Rightful King of England and France and Lord of Ireland stared at his great enemy on the other side of the battlefield.
This was the grand finale of the Civil Wars. Only one King Edward would come out of the battle with his life, only one would cement a dynasty that could last a thousand years and Edward of Lancaster dearly hoped it would be him. He had a wife, a daughter and the legacy of his parents behind him.
He was the son of Henry VI and Marguerite de Anjou, King and Queen of England. He would not fail them, not now that they had both left him alone in this world. His mother had always had high expectations for him and he swore to Maisie that he would find a way to fix everything between them once he became king. They would fall in love again, truthfully, with careful words and tokens of affections.
They would have a son to inherit England after him and carry on the House of Lancaster through the ages. Blanche’s marriage to the Dauphin would be seen as a necessity, but with more children, his wife would show herself more amenable to parting with their firstborn, Edward was sure.
He closed his fingers tightly around the reins of his horse. He was wearing a full set of armour, like Edward of York was, though he could see the other man wore a golden crown around his helmet. Edward wanted to chuckle at his arrogance, but he couldn’t. Instead, he looked around him, at his men and his eyes met those of Edmund Beaufort through the crowd.
Edward closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to his Lord, asking that God watch over him in the battle and protect him and his men. When he was finished, he made a cross and gave the signal for his army to advance.
The horses’ hooves were thunderous as they hit against the hard ground and the sound was deafening, a sharp contrast to the clear skies over them. Shouts echoed all around him as the two armies met, the song of steel clashing with steel reverberating through him until even his teeth, few as they were, were chattering.
Edward saw as the dead began to pile on, holding tightly to his sword and horse. Although he had been trained, he had little experience on the battlefield and this translated into shock running through his veins as he moved his arm on reflex, his blade running along the throat of a poor soul who came too close to him.
Blood sprayed on his face, hot and sticky, and someone screamed out. It took at least a minute before Edward belatedly realized it was him as someone stabbed his horse and threw him off his saddle. His entire body screamed out in pain, his throat burning with the force of his voice and someone from his army helped him stand up at the same time that he was stabbed in the back of his neck.
His helper fell to the ground, blood spurting out of his mouth and Edward only stared at him, watching as the life went off his eyes. The King raised his eyes, observing the chaos of the battlefield. The men lost, the children soon to be orphaned and the wives soon to be widowed. He finally realized the crows hanging over them, perched on the branches of the trees that surrounded the field. Black ravens, harbingers of death, awaiting the battle to be over for them to pounce and feast.
Edward was so utterly distracted that he failed to notice the men who came to pounce on him, blades in hand. They held him down as the sharp metallic teeth bit his flesh, hot blood pouring out of him, blood as red as Maisie’s auburn hair. He wanted to shout at them, to cry out for his mother.
He was only twenty, not even twenty-one. This war had taken everything from him and he fell to the hard ground with a clank, his helmet falling off of him and revealing his shock of golden hair. They didn’t stop, they felt no pity. He grunted as the air rushed out of him, thinking of his little Blanche. Sweet and gentle Blanche, who would cry if a fly was swatted away before her. Blanche with her bright red hair and deep blue eyes. She would be a great beauty once she grew, he was sure.
Except he would never know it.
Edward continued to bleed for far longer than anyone would think possible. It felt like hours had passed when at last, he felt sluggish exhaustion overtake him, the corners of his vision growing dark. He thought of his family, his father and his mother, his legacy. He was only twenty.
“Margaret…” he said with his last breath. Then, there was nothing.
