A Thorn In The Rose: A War Of The Roses TL

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Chapter 197: Westmorland's Dodge

March, 1468​

James looked at the man who had entered his study. Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland. The man was ageing quite rapidly. His hair was white as snow; his face was covered in lines and marks. And yet, James knew not to rule the man out. After all, he had survived a long time, and had avoided the pitfalls of many others who had pledged to the King from the Lancastrian cause.

James took a breath then spoke. "What news do you bring?" Westmorland always had news, even when James thought something was not important there was always something more lurking behind the words that the man spoke.

"Percy met with the Powlett family." Westmorland said.

"And?" James asked. As far as he knew the Powlett family were minor gentry in Yorkshire, nothing impressive.

"They've reached an agreement. In return for Percy agreeing to marry his daughter to Powlett's son, Powlett will play for Percy's interests in Parliament." Westmorland replied.

Intrigued, James leaned forward and asked. "So, what does this mean?"

Westmorland smiled. "It means that the little incident at Richmond between the Duke of Clarence and Percy's son is going to cause some long lasting trouble for King Edmund. Tax bills will be delayed, funding for the navy could be delayed, trade issues will be raised. Anything to make King Edmund's life difficult."

James raised an eyebrow. "Powlett, is that powerful?" He had not thought that the man was. As far as he knew, Powlett was only minor gentry. Nothing serious, no serious backers, nothing.

"Powlett isn't, but the men who Percy has introduced him to are." Westmorland said.

"And who are those men?" James asked.

"Wentworth, Vane, Clifford. Men who have influence and friends on committees and other such places. They've been given good incentive. Now, they're going to wreak havoc." Westmorland said.

"And what do you think King Edmund will do?" James asked.

"I think he will dismiss them at first, but as they raise their objections, he will have to take them seriously. Which could mean the removal of Clarence from his post in Richmond, which would antagonise the two brothers. Clarence will have Salisbury's support though, because that man wants his granddaughter as a Princess." Westmorland said.

"At the risk of angering his King?" James asked. Nothing he'd read about Salisbury or that he could remember of the man suggested he was like that.

"Yes, Sire, I think so. Salisbury is ambitious. If he thinks his granddaughter can become a Princess, he will do everything he can to ensure that happens. Even if it means angering the King." Westmorland said.

"How sure are you of this?" James asked. Wondering, not for the first time if Westmorland was blinded by his hatred of Salisbury.

"Very sure, Sire. My sources confirm that that is what Salisbury is angling for." Westmorland replied. "Indeed, they say that Salisbury is urging Clarence to have a runaway marriage with Lady Isabel."

James frowned. Truly, a runaway wedding, that does not sound like Salisbury. Still, James supposed he would have to take Westmorland at his word. "Very well, and where do you come into this?"

"Well, Sire, if you would permit me, I would take three hundred of the gallowglass south, to raid Salisbury's lands. They won't be tied to you, given the fee I would pay, and of course, Salisbury will be distracted." Westmorland said.

"And you are sure you will succeed?" James asked.

Westmorland nodded. "I am, Sire."

James considered this then sighed and said. "Very well, I shall tell Atholl to prepare the Gallowglass for you." He would also tell his brother to leave a trace for the English to know that he had had nothing to do with this. Westmorland was going to die, and James wanted no part in that.

Westmorland smiled. "Thank you, Sire."

James nodded and said. "Of course, you have been a most useful servant." It's just a shame that I don't really see you as one of mine own.

 

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Chapter 198: Margaret Was Right

September, 1468

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“You were right you know.” Edmund said.

Margaret put down her goblet and looked at her husband. This was the second time in as many days that her husband had told her that she was right. She was wondering whether something else was going on. “What about?” She asked.

“Allowing George and Isabel’s wedding to go ahead.” Edmund said, smiling and looking younger than he had done for months.

“How so?” Margaret asked.

“Well, since the marriage happened, Salisbury and his allies in Parliament have been very willing to go with what we want. They overrode the objections of Powlett and his lot to vote through the Road Tax, they also voted through the Naval Tax, and they’re now working on voting through the Woodwork tax.” Edmund said.

Margaret smiled. “I told you. He wants to show his loyalty to you for you giving him what he’s wanted the most since George and Isabel were children.” She’d always suspected as much. Salisbury was an ambitious man, yes, but he was also a simple man.

“I know.” Edmund said. “You were right.”

Margaret smiled again and then asked. “And how are the newlyweds doing?”

“Good.” Edmund said. “They’re enjoying Richmond to its fullest. And if John is telling the truth, the castle is getting more use than it’s gotten in years.”

Margaret burst out laughing. Then looked at her belly and said. “Well, we’d know all about that wouldn’t we, my love.”

Edmund laughed as well, and Margaret felt something relax in her chest. Her husband wasn’t as tense as he had been for some time, it seemed, and now he was fully relaxing, that was good, that was healthy. “True enough.”

Margaret hated herself for doing what she did next, but she knew she had to. Otherwise it would keep bothering her. “Did you find out what that sighting off the coast of Wales was?” Apparently, there’d been several ships seen off the coast a few days’ ago, the letter had come on the back of a harried courier. Edmund had ordered the ships under the command of Herbert to have a look, and she was worried about what it might mean. Given what Edmund planned for their eldest son.

“Yes. It seems it was some of those idiotic barbaries from Africa.” Edmund said.

“Barbaries?!” Margaret exclaimed. “How did they get this far north?”

“I do not know. It seems the weather was against them.” Edmund said.

“So, what did you decide to do with them?” Margaret asked.

“Paid them some gold and sent them on their way.” Edmund replied.

“And do you think it’s still safe to send Richard out to Caernarfon?” Margaret asked. Edmund wanted their eldest son raised in Wales so that the Welsh could get to know him better than they’d known any other Prince of Wales in recent memory. It was a sensible suggestion, but Caernarfon was so far away. And Wales wasn’t safe.

“Not to Caernarfon, no.” Edmund said and Margaret felt herself visibly relax then, her shoulders loosening. “He’ll be going to Ludlow instead.”

“Ludlow?” Margaret asked. “Why Ludlow?”

“It’s on the border with Wales, a centre point between us and there. It will make sense.” Edmund said.

Margaret considered this, she supposed that it made sense. “And who will be going with him?” She asked.

“William Bourchier will serve as his guardian and instructor. My brother Richard will accompany them as a member of the guard, and Thomas Savage, our Clerk of the Closet’s son will be going as well. Whilst the Bishop of Hereford will be serving as a spiritual advisor.” Edmund said.

Margaret nodded. “Very well, and when will Richard depart?”

“In two months’ time.” Edmund said.

“So soon?” Margaret asked.

“Indeed, there is no point delaying once everything has been finalised and sorted.” Edmund said.

Margaret nodded, she could understand that. “Then we had best ensure that he has a suitable send off.” Edmund smiled.

 

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Chapter 199: Percy and Westmorland

December, 1468

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Cockermouth was a shit hovel, but it was his, or rather it had been his until he’d bent the knee to York and his lot. Now it was just a hovel. The beer tasted like ass, and the food tasted even worse, but he still had enough respect in the place for the people in the tavern where he was to clear out the moment he’d entered.

He looked across the table at the two other men who were in this place with him. Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland, back from the dead, and looking older than ever, and Lord Clifford, a man without a cause.

He cleared his throat and spoke. “Time is of the essence gentlemen. Clarence is consolidating in the north, his marriage to the Salisbury girl has brought Salisbury and his weight firmly onto his side. We are fighting against the tide here.”

“We have Scotland’s support.” Westmorland said.

“How do you know?” Henry asked.

“He’s given us the gallowglass.” Westmorland replied.

“Are they reliable?” Henry asked. He’d heard about the gallowglass; their heyday was many years in the past now.

“Yes.” Westmorland said. “You may have heard about a little distraction off the coast of Wales a few months ago. That was them.”

“I thought that was the Barbaries?” Henry asked. He’d heard that it was at least.

“They know people.” Was all Westmorland said.

Henry was about to push, but then Clifford spoke. “Enough about the fucking gallowglass, what are we going to do to ensure that York falls?”

Clifford looked rather worse for wear. His hair was matted; his face was mottled and his eyes were bloodshot. He clearly needed a fight.

Henry took a breath and then spoke. “We’re going to cut the head off the snake.”

“Salisbury?” Westmorland asked, an almost savage glee coming over him.

“Yes.” Henry said.

“How?” Clifford asked, also leaning forward.

“We’re going to bait him.” Henry said. “My sources say he’s been nervous about Cumberland for some time, so we’re going to give him good cause to come and answer his nerves.”

“How?” Clifford asked.

Henry took a breath and then said. “We’re going to get the people to rise up. We’re going to start spreading fake news about the bread tax and other such taxes. Get them riled up, force Salisbury to choose. Does he go for a peaceful put down or forceful?”

“And what happens if they do not bite?” Clifford asked.

“I can use the gallowglass to start creating some trouble.” Westmorland suggested.

“Good.” Henry said. “Get them to create chaos in the northern part of Cumberland. Make Salisbury think it’s something to do with the Scots.” He looked at Clifford. “You will then get your men to make trouble in central Cumberland. Making Salisbury have to choose where he wants to go.”

“And where will you be?” Clifford asked.

Henry smiled. “I’ll be waiting for Salisbury with my men.”

“Where?” Clifford asked.

Henry stretched out his arms. “Why here of course. Waiting to roll him into the fray. He’ll come looking for me when he realises who has been causing all this damage. And whichever spy in my household is reporting to him will make him aware of my role when I need him to know.”

“And you’re sure he’ll bite?” Clifford asked.

“Oh yes.” Henry said. “I’m sure.” Salisbury wanted him gone, of that he was sure.

“Very well. When do you want us to start this?” Clifford asked.

“In the New Year.” Henry said. What better way to start off the new year than with a war?

 

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Chapter 200: Salisbury

February, 1469

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Cockermouth was not what Richard was expecting as he rode into the village. There was shit on the street, and a stench that would put some of the French villages he’d served in during the war to shame. The people stared at him with soulless eyes, as if searching for something they thought he could offer them.

What that might be, he did not know. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know either way. The only reason he’d come to Cockermouth was because he’d had intelligence suggesting that the chief cause of the trouble in Cumberland was here.

Henry Percy, Lord Alnwick. A man who should have been executed after his failed uprising. Richard had suspected that Percy was up to something. He’d suspected it from the moment that his oaf of a son had tried to do something with Richard’s granddaughter.

He pulled his horse to a stop as they entered the village square. Standing there, was a man dressed in armour, his head bare. Around him were other men, dressed in armour as well, they bore the Percy sigil on their breasts.

Richard dismounted, as did his brother Edward. They stopped short of the man in the square. Richard took a breath and then said. “Percy.”

“Neville.” The man replied.

“What is the meaning of all of this?” Richard asked, gesturing to the armoured men behind Percy.

“It’s time we ended our feud, Neville.” Percy said.

“Like this?” Richard asked.

“Like this.” Percy agreed.

“So, the fighting in the north and the centre of Cumberland has been your doing?” Richard asked. His son Thomas had said as much before he’d headed off to the north to handle the gallowglass who’d ventured from Scotland or the Isles or wherever they’d come from.

“Yes.” Percy replied smiling. “I figured that it would draw you out.”

Richard looked at his brother Edward, the younger man shrugged. There was nothing more to it really. They had their men, Percy had his. Percy seemed to outnumber them, at least within the square. Richard had put men around the outer rim of the village just in case.

“How do you want to sort this out then?” Richard asked.

Percy’s face didn’t change but his tone did. It became sharper. “Why the old-fashioned way of course.”

“With steel.” Richard replied.

“With steel.” Percy agreed.

Richard sighed, drew his sword and stepped closer toward Percy. “Let us sort this out then.” He just hoped it didn’t end badly.

 

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Chapter 201: Clarence

April, 1469

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George read through the letter one more time, just to make sure that he’d read that right, and then he took a breath, put the letter down and looked at his wife. Isabel was staring at him. “What is it?” She asked, her voice soft, a hand cradling her belly. She was pregnant and due by the end of the year.

George took a breath. “Word from your great uncle Edward.”

“And?” Isabel asked leaning forward.

“He had to flee the battlefield. Percy and his men outnumbered them. Clifford aided Percy.” George said. Trying to figure out how best to explain the full extent of what had happened to his wife.

“What about my grandfather? What happened to him? Uncle Edward would not have fled unless things truly were dire.” Isabel said.

George exhaled again. This was not going to be easy. “He fought Percy. Single combat. He gave as good as he could, Isabel, but he is old, and Percy is fast.”

Isabel’s hand moved from her belly to her mouth. “No.” She said, the word sounded strangled.

George took her hand in his and squeezed it. “I am afraid so, my love. Your grandfather is dead. Percy killed him.”

Isabel gasped. She tightened her grip on his hand. “What about my uncle Thomas?”

George glanced at the letter. Bad news seemed to be coming in droves now. “He was slain as well. It seems Westmorland laid a trap for him and he fell into it.”

“So, my cousin Richard is the new Earl of Salisbury?” Isabel asked.

“Yes.” George said. “But he won’t be for long unless I act.”

“What do you mean?” Isabel asked.

George sighed. The moment he’d gotten the letter and read through it the first time he’d known he would have to do this. He hadn’t wanted to-he didn’t want to leave Isabel alone in Richmond whilst she was so pregnant-but he had to. “Your uncle mentions in the letter that he suspects that Percy will move on Sheriff Hutton and its associated lands. It seems that Percy is doing this for the Lancastrian boy.”

“But surely Sheriff Hutton is strong enough to withstand a siege.” Isabel asked.

“I do not think it will be a siege.” George said.

“You think they will turn on my cousin?” Isabel asked, sounding horrified.

“I think that Lord Edward thinks they could.” George said. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he wanted to provide as much assistance as he could.

Isabel sighed. “So, what will you do?”

“I will marshal the men as King’s Lieutenant and then march off to head off Percy before he can get to Sheriff Hutton.” George said.

“Where will you do that?” Isabel asked.

“At Brough, where the ground is good and solid.” George said.

Isabel nodded, she let go of his hand then. “When will you leave?” She asked.

“It will take some time to gather the men, but Percy will need time to recuperate and marshal his army. So, in a few weeks’.” George answered. At least he hoped it would be a few weeks. Any longer and his cousin was finished.

“Very well.” Isabel said.

George took her hand in his again and kissed it. “I will be safe, I promise.” He knew he shouldn’t be making a promise like that, but he hated seeing her like this.

 

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Chapter 202: Brittany, Adieu

June, 1469

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Margaret put a hand on her son’s arm to calm him, and then waited for their host, the Duke of Brittany to speak. He’d summoned them both to his chamber, late at night, and she was worried that he was going to ask them to leave.

“Your Majesties.” The Duke said, dipping his head in acknowledgement. “My apologies for the lateness of the hour, but there is something important we must discuss.”

“What?” Her son Edward demanded, his French slightly accented.

“Word has come from Paris.” The Duke said.

Margaret immediately tensed, Paris. Nothing good ever came from Paris. “The Queen of France has given birth to a son. A healthy son.” The Duke said. Margaret closed her eyes, she was right, nothing good ever came from Paris.

“And?” Edward asked dismissively.

Margaret shot her son a look. How could he be so smart with most things, but so lacking in sense in other things? “That means that the Yorkist cause is linked with France more than ever. Opening the way for King Charles to attempt to put pressure on the Duke to have us leave.”

“He can’t do that!” Edward retorted, sounding outraged.

“He can.” The Duke said. “Whether I paid attention or not is another matter. But things with France have not been great as of late, and I have no wish to antagonise Charles further.”

Margaret felt dread begin to settle deep within her. “So, what are you going to do?” She asked, preparing herself for the worst.

The Duke didn’t answer her question, instead he turned to another topic. “I have also received word from my friends in England. It appears that Your Majesty has supporters who are willing to fight for you yet.”

She gripped her son’s arm to stop him from making an offensive remark, she knew how touchy Edward was about that. Instead she asked. “What do you mean?”

She had not had any news that an uprising was planned.

“Lord Percy and Lord Westmorland and Lord Clifford raised Your Majesty’s standard and raised a rebellion in Cumberland. It seems that they experienced success. They defeated a host raised by the Earl of Salisbury and killed that man as well as his son.” Brittany said.

“Salisbury was killed?” Margaret asked. She scarcely wanted to believe it. If Salisbury was gone that was incredible news.

“Yes. His head is currently adorning a spike in Alnwick Castle, I believe.” Brittany replied.

“So, what does this mean?” Edward asked then, sounding quite impatient.

The Duke looked at her and then at Edward and simply said. “I can have five hundred men ready and waiting to depart with Your Majesty, if Your Majesty so desires. They would land where you deem appropriate and fight alongside you till you are sat on the throne. Furthermore, I would provide you with the gold needed to pay off anyone you need to.”

“In exchange for what?” Margaret asked, knowing from experience that this offer would not come for free.

“An alliance.” The Duke said.

Margaret looked at her son. She was technically his regent until he was of age, but she also knew that he wanted to make this decision himself. She could see him weighing up the proposal in his mind, no doubt considering the pros and the cons. She wasn’t surprised when he eventually said. “I accept.”

They had the chance now, they would take it with both hands.

 

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Chapter 203: Crossroads

July, 1469

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It was damnably hot here, in Brough. The rain of the past few days had meant crossing over and closer toward Sheriff Hutton had been impossible and so they had camped here. Near the small little village that housed no more than forty people.

Those forty people were now in his army. They’d joined him simply because they wanted to avoid being killed. He could appreciate that. He’d had his cousin train them, to ensure they weren’t a liability.

Now they needed to prepare. He’d known from the moment Edward Neville had escaped that Clarence would try something, and so, here they were, discussing that very thing that Clarence was going to try.

“He has two thousand men.” Henry said looking at his commanders. Clifford looked alive, whilst Westmorland looked worse for wear, his battle with Thomas Neville had gone in certain directions.

“How many men do we have?” Clifford asked.

“1500.” Henry’s son said, the young man having left his post at Berwick to join the fighting.

“So, he’s got more men then us, but we know the terrain better. And he will be fighting to protect the road to Sheriff Hutton.” Henry said.

“And he’s inexperienced.” Clifford said. “His main commanders will be Edward Neville and that man’s son. Neither of whom have really distinguished themselves.”

“Indeed.” Henry agreed. Neville was a liability it seemed, he had neither the intelligence of his brother Salisbury nor the military capability that his nephew Warwick had had. Henry did not quite fancy Clarence’s chances. Though given who Clarence’s brothers and father were, they would be foolish to completely write him off.

“However, Clarence is himself not someone we can sniff at. Therefore, we must plan appropriately and ensure that nothing is left to chance.” Henry added.

“What do you suggest?” Clifford asked.

“Westmorland, you and the gallowglass shall take the vanguard. Given their reputation whoever commands Clarence’s vanguard will have to make a passionate stand to ensure their credibility is not destroyed.” Henry said. Westmorland nodded.

“The retainers that your brother John has brought will take up the rear of the vanguard. I do not want those units deployed until the gallowglass have broken through.” Henry said.

“Very well.” Westmorland said, though he sounded disappointed. Still, it was better to keep actual Englishmen free, then to waste them on the charge.

“Clifford,” Henry said then looking at the man. “You shall command the right. Once Westmorland and his men have broken the vanguard, you are to deploy. Sweep up their remnants and engage the right of the enemy host. Try and push them toward the trees.”

“The trees, why?” Clifford asked.

“Our archers will be waiting for them.” Henry’s son said. Their archers were no more than forty or fifty, but they’d been preparing for weeks now.

“Very well.” Clifford said. “Let us hope that your archers do not miss.”

Henry ignored the comment and instead said. “I shall command the left and ensure that anything that breaches through your walls is seen to.”

“So, we do not have a reserve?” Westmorland asked, some concern evident in his tone.

“We do not have the resources for a reserve.” Henry said bluntly. “We need to use our men in the best way possible. That means engaging in smart warfare.”

Westmorland and Clifford exchange a look, but neither said anything.

Henry decided to finish the conversation here. “Good, well we should all get some rest, we’re going to be forming up early tomorrow.” With that he rose, and nodded to his son, before walking out of the tent.

 

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Chapter 204: Battle

July, 1469

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The ground was damp underfoot. A sign of how early it was rather than the weather. It would hopefully be a hot day. George was shifting around on the ground. He’d abandoned a ploy to ride on his horse, and ordered that the vanguard do the same. They were fighting the gallowglass. That was what he thought Percy would do. Station shock troops in the van, try and spook their horses and go from there.

He’d learned from what had happened to his cousin Thomas in Cumberland. Gallowglass had terrified the horses, and many of the Neville commanders had been thrown from their beasts, to be cut down by the Gallowglass in their droves.

That would not be happening to him today. He’d made a promise to Isabel, and he fully intended to keep it.

“Your Royal Highness.” A voice said. He turned and found himself looking at James Crofts, a man he’d known his entire life.

“What is it?” George asked.

“The enemy van has been spotted. They’re moving off toward Sower’s Field.” James said.

Sower’s Field was to the right of Brough, and as such was somewhat even terrain. George knew they had to get there before the enemy did. If they didn’t want the sun in their face. He cleared his throat and then loudly said. “Get together men, we’re marching.” With that he grabbed his helm, put it on and then began marching toward the field.

The march was quick, the ground got steadily less damp as they progressed. Soon enough they were on Sower’s Field, they’d taken the spot that meant the sun would be facing the enemy. Somewhere between the centre and the left, that was good.

His men formed up. There were eight hundred of them in the van. Perhaps a few too many, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He knew how dangerous the gallowglass could be. He took a breath and then the priest came forth. George and his men knelt in prayer as the priest said what he had to. When he was done, George crossed himself and then rose.

He said nothing, merely drew his sword, and prepared for the fight.

He would make it back to Isabel. Of that he was sure. He would not abandon her or their child. He would be there for them. He would. He had promised.

The enemy appeared then, in front of them. There was a look of disappointment about them. That was good.

He took one step forward and then another and then he was running. His men followed. They were thundering toward the enemy, soon enough it would be decided.

The crash came then. George used his sword to block a swing, then turned and twisted, leveraging his height over his enemy to bring his sword down upon the foe. He heard a clang and then the tide was pushing him away toward another foe.

This foe was built like an ox, he swung his axe. George raised his sword up but missed and instead of a grating connection, the axe scraped his armour. George grunted but pushed on. The man staggered back and George followed. He twisted elbowed the man and winced. He would feel that later. Right now his heart was racing. The tide dragged him away from the ox.

Another man, wispy and turned was fighting him. They ducked and dodged, weaved. Swords scrapping against one another, then George found an opening and took it. His sword made quick work once he’d set his mind to it. The enemy staggered back, blood spurting out and hitting George. He blinked in his helm and moved on, desperately trying to move onward.

The crush was starting to get slightly overwhelming. George could barely breathe, and yet somehow he managed to find the strength to raise his sword and fight the enemy. He twisted through, slithering into gaps, and working out where to expose the weaknesses of his foes. If this was what the gallowglass were, he was disappointed. He’d expected more of a challenge, but this, this was easy. Too easy.

Almost as soon as he’d finished that thought he heard a rumble. He looked around but couldn’t spot the source of it. The ground was shaking though. He continued to look around to see if he could spot where the noise was coming from. Nothing appeared. And then there were horses coming toward him.

He would have sworn if he’d had the chance, but the foe came sweeping across like the tide. He felt himself getting buffeted and pushed. One moment he was on his feet, the next moment the ground was surging toward him, and then was on his feet again. All the while, air was slowly being removed from him. His body aching and screaming for relief.

 

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Chapter 205: Council of War

August, 1469

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“How did they manage to get passed the Royal Navy?” Edmund demanded.

“I am not sure, Sire. But I have a feeling that Arundel may have been dozing at the wheel so to speak.” Huntingdon commented.

Edmund sighed with frustration. “Where have they landed?”

“Weymouth, Sire.” Huntingdon said.

“Weymouth?” Edmund replied. “That little fishing village on the south coast?”

“Yes, Sire.” Huntingdon said.

“The wind took them there, didn’t it?” Edmund asked. That was the only possible explanation for why the ships carrying Margaret of Anjou and her son and their coterie of exiles could’ve landed up in a small village.

“I would think so, Sire.” Huntingdon said.

“And what is Arundel doing?” Edmund asked. He wondered if Arundel had turned coat.

“Trying to cover his arse, get the fleet into position to burn Brittany’s ships.” Huntingdon said.

“Very well.” Normally Edmund would want to be cautious about doing such a thing, but seeing as Brittany had provided those ships to aid an enemy, Edmund was not in the mood to be charitable.

“They’re going to try and gather as much support as they can in the Beaufort heartlands. They’ll also try and gather support from Devon and that lot.” Essex said.

“Indeed. So, what do you suggest?” Edmund asked.

“We could march out now and strike. Destroy them before they get much support.” Huntingdon suggested.

Edmund considered this. There was merit to the idea, but in the time, it would take them to raise the men, through activating the Lieutenancies and so on, Lancaster would no doubt have already raised the men anyway. “No, I think we need to wait and see what they do. See who sides with them. We can put out incentives to remain loyal.”

“Bribes?” The Lord Treasurer asked.

“Incentives.” Edmund replied.

“I will look into the books, Sire.” The man said.

Edmund nodded, and was about to say something else when the door opened.

A bloodied figure staggered into the room. Edmund’s guards moved to apprehend the figure, but before they could, the figure spoke. “I come from Brough, Sire.”

He recognised the voice. He stood up. “James? James Crofts.” Crofts had been an attendant at Ludlow, he’d sent him to serve with George in Richmond. He was supposed to be with George now as the man dealt with Percy. What was he doing here?

“Sire.” Crofts said coming to fall at Edmund’s feet. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you? For what?” Edmund asked, though something in his stomach started to knot.

Edmund looked down at Crofts-was the man crying? “I…I… could not protect him.”

“Protect who?” Edmund asked, though he already knew who Crofts meant. There was only one person who Edmund had asked him to protect.

“His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence. I am so sorry, Your Majesty.” Crofts said, his voice breaking.

“What happened?” Edmund demanded.

Crofts slowly got up and said. “The battle was engaged as planned, but then Clifford joined the fray, mounted. He and his men hacked through our lines. His Royal Highness was separated from the main body. I tried to find him, but when I got to him it was too late. Clifford had already killed him.” Crofts stuttered. “Hacked his head off.”

“No!” Edmund said. It was a lie, Crofts was lying. George wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. His brother couldn’t be dead.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I tried to get there but I couldn’t. The enemy broke through. Edward Neville and his son were slain as well.” Crofts said.

Edmund wasn’t listening, not really. All he could think about was the fact that his brother was dead. George was dead. And Edmund had sent him to command the host to defeat Percy. He felt his knees weaken and he grabbed the table for support. His brother was dead.

How was he going to tell their mother?

 

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Chapter 206: A Mother’s Grief

October, 1469

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“I’ve been wondering when you would come.” Cecily said to the person who sat down next to her in the Abbey.

Westminster Abbey was empty apart from the Dean and now the man, her son, her King, who had taken a seat next to her on the bench.

“I did not know what to do.” Edmund said.

Cecily turned and looked. Her son was dressed in armour. It was her son who was with her now, not the King. And her son, though he was twenty-six, looked scared, like a child. Though he was a father to five children, three sons and two girls. She exhaled. “You should have come sooner.”

“I did not know what to say.” Edmund said again. “It is…it is not easy.”

“I know.” Cecily said. She remembered how she had responded when Edmund had told her that George had been killed. Murdered, in battle by that Clifford bastard. She had screamed, she had cried, she had yelled, she had done anything but accept it. Edmund had looked ashen-faced, and then he’d left.

She’d hated him for that initially, but then she’d stopped. He was her son too, and he needed her. But he’d not approached her since then. Instead she’d spent time with her grandchildren and with Thomas and Richard. The two sons she had left who had not gone cold.

“Forgive me.” Edmund said then startling her.

“What is there to forgive?” Cecily asked, genuinely confused.

“I….I am the reason George is dead. I sent him to command.” Edmund said.

Cecily took her son’s hand and looked at him. “You are not the reason why George is dead. George fought for you, his King. He did so proudly and with great courage. He died fighting for you. You are not responsible for his death.” Only Clifford and the Devil were.

“But then, why do I feel as if I am?” Edmund asked. “George is dead, his wife died as did their son. Thomas’s son was killed as was his wife. All these deaths are on my conscience, Mother.” Edmund looked at her with tears in his eyes.

She pulled him to her and hugged him. She hugged her little boy and held him tight. “Nonsense.” She whispered into his hair. “They are not your fault.”

“Then why does it feel like it is?” Edmund asked.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Cecily said softly. “You are a good man; you are a good King. You feel these losses dearly because they matter to you.”

Edmund sniffled. Cecily kissed his hair and whispered. “You must put that to the side now. You must focus on winning. You must ensure that the Lancastrian cause dies.”

Only the death of Henry of Lancaster’s son would be enough to end this. It had to be. For everyone’s sake.

Edmund pulled his head away from her shoulder and looked at her, a fire burning brightly in his eyes. “I will make sure that this war ends. The Lancastrians will die this time. And they will never return.”

Cecily nodded. “Good. You must come back alive and whole. England needs her King.”

“I will come back, Mother. I promise you.” Edmund said.

Cecily smiled and kissed his cheek. “I know you will.”

She sincerely hoped that God would protect her son. She didn’t know what she’d do if he died.

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 207: A Mother’s Hope

December, 1469

​

“Remember these men are the reason for why we’re so close, be calm and kind and listen.” Margaret whispered to her son.

“I will, Mother.” Edward whispered back.

Margaret nodded, though she suspected that Edward might make a sarcastic comment here and there. He’d been making them from the entire journey from Weymouth. Initially, Margaret had been disappointed that they’d not landed closer to London, but then she’d learned of what had happened in the north. Of the death of the entire Salisbury male line, of George of York’s death, and of Northumberland and Westmorland-how was he still alive- ‘s march southwards and she’d been relieved.

They’d changed their plans, from marching straight to London, to circumventing London to link up with the northern army. They’d been lucky in that Edmund of York had sat in London as they’d marched. And now here they were, outside the small village of Kettering with the northern army joined to theirs.

They had maybe five thousand men. The northern army was about two thousand men, whilst their own forces included the five hundred men that Brittany had given them, and the one thousand men that they’d gotten from the Dorset lands. And then a surprise addition from the Earl of Devon-Powderham- who’d brought roughly one thousand men as well. And then there was a smattering of minor gentry and their men.

It was a decent army, not large, but good enough.

Her son spoke first. “Gentlemen, welcome. Thank you for your efforts thus far. They have achieved more than we could have hoped for. But now we must discuss the final push. We must see where we go from here. London is to our south. But York’s army is in the way.”

Percy spoke then. “We must use different tactics here than what we used when we dealt with Clarence’s army, Sire.” The business with Sheriff Hutton and the murder of a boy not that much younger than Margaret’s son didn’t sit well with her, but it had gotten them here.

“What do you suggest?” Margaret asked.

“We cannot deploy the gallowglass at first. We must save them for when the Yorkist army is tired and weakened. No, I would recommend deploying Devon and Clifford in the van. Get the heavy horse first.” Percy said.

Margaret looked at the two men named, and saw that both of them were nodding in agreement. “Gentlemen?” She asked.

“We agree with Lord Northumberland. It is better for us to tear down the Yorkist vanguard right from the get go than to allow them to break down our infantry.” Clifford said.

“And what about the gallowglass?” Edward asked then. “Where would they be positioned?”

Margaret saw Northumberland exchange a look with Westmorland. “In the reserve, Sire.”

“The reserve?” Margaret asked. “Why?”

“Their resources are depleted, Majesty. And besides it would not do to over expose them to the enemy.” Westmorland replied.

Margaret wasn’t sure what to make of that. But she would not argue with her son’s commanders. She grasped Edward’s arm to ensure he didn’t either. “Very well. What else?” She asked.

“Where would Your Majesty like to be stationed?” Northumberland asked Edward.

Margaret was about to answer. She wanted her son in the reserve, close enough to watch the fighting and get involved if need be, but far enough away that he wasn’t in immediate danger. But before she could, her son answered. “I will be in the right. I want to engage when the chance comes.”

Margaret exchanged a look with Somerset but said nothing. Nobody else said anything, and then Northumberland spoke. “Very well, Sire. We shall ensure that you are suitably protected.”

“Good.” Margaret said then, before she could stop herself.

Her son scoffed. “I am the blood of Henry the Great. The Yorkists need protecting from me.”

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 208: Kettering

January, 1470

​

“It’s cold.” Edward complained, trying his best not to shiver. He was the King of England and France; Kings did not shiver. His grandfather had not shivered.

His father might have done, but Edward was not his weak-willed father.

“It is winter, Sire.” Edmund Beaufort, 3rd Duke of Somerset said.

“I know that.” Edward snapped. He didn’t like Somerset, he found the man overbearing and annoying. But his mother had insisted that Somerset be with him in the right, and so, here he was.

He heard a horn sound and took a breath. “Clifford is on the go then.” Clifford was a beast. Edward had watched him in the practice yard before the battle. He’d been knocking people left and right. It was entertaining and terrifying.

Edward was glad that the man was on their side. His side.

Edward looked from left to right and frowned. “Where is Northumberland?” Northumberland was supposed to command the right, but Edward couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t see the man’s son either.

“He’s speaking with one of his captains, Sire.” Somerset said. “To the right and then behind the big man.” Somerset pointed and Edward followed his finger.

“Ah.” So, he was.

Another horn sounded somewhere and the ground beneath them began to shake. The charge had begun then. He wondered how it would go. Would there be chaos, madness, or something else? He desperately hoped there would be something.

He waited and waited, and then the first roars of battle reached him. He could hear men screaming, crying, horses neighing and whinnying. He hoped that York was in the van. That he had been crushed. If the Yorkists lost their King, then they were finished.

He’d heard that the Yorkist pretender had brought his brothers with him as well. Which was an interesting strategy given what had happened to York’s last brother to fight in a battle.

He turned as he heard a horse coming toward him. He saw that it was Northumberland and when the man was before him he asked. “News?”

“Clifford has managed to break through on the right of the van. Devon is pulling through now.” Northumberland said.

Edward nodded. He didn’t know whether he trusted Devon. The man had been rewarded the Earldom for siding with the Yorkists, but had done nothing major before that or since. His joining them had been a surprise.

Edward turned back to look at Somerset who was frowning. “What is it?” He asked.

Somerset sighed. “Nothing, Majesty.”

“Out with it.” Edward commanded. He would not have his advisors keeping things from him. That was how his father had fallen.

“It’s just, my brother John is in the van, I am worried.” Somerset said.

“I am sure he is fine. Your brother is a great fighter.” It was true. Edward had watched John Beaufort fight; he was a greatly skilled swordsman. The other brother, Thomas, not so much.

Edward turned back to look into the horizon. He could see men in the distance. They were blurred outlines for the most part. Twisting and turning, dangling and doing little else. But he could also hear them. And that was the most disconcerting part.

Listening as they snarled and bit and cried out.

He didn’t want to hear them, but God would not stop the noise.

He was about to say something when Northumberland spoke. “Majesty, it is time.”

Edward took a breath, suppressed the nerves that had fluttered into his stomach and said. “Let us begin.” Northumberland bellowed out the command and then they were charging to battle.

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 209: Kettering 2

January, 1470

​

“The right of the van has fallen, Sire. Oxford is down.” The soldier said.

“Down as in wounded or dead?” Edmund asked.

“Dead, Sire. I saw him dragged down with my own eyes. His son is trying to marshal things together.” The soldier said.

“Very well, thank you.” Edmund said. Oxford’s son was not that competent, he would need to be supported. Edmund took a breath. He looked to his right and saw that his brother Thomas was staring straight ahead. His hands were gripping the reins of his horse very tightly.

He looked to his left and saw William Bourchier rolling his shoulders. His men were ready. They knew what they needed to do. They just needed to get things going.

“Men.” He said softly. Thomas and William looked at him. “It is time.” He said. The word was passed down the right flank and then they were moving.

He put aside his concerns about having Thomas fighting in the right. Richard was in charge of the reserve. He needed to focus on what was before him, right now, and that meant drawing his weapon and preparing.

It wasn’t a crash this time, it was a spark. Edmund moved quickly. Slinging and slashing. Cutting and ducking. Turning through the craft and pushing his body to its limits. He wasn’t sure if it would succeed or not, but he hoped it would. He truly did.

This war had to end and this was the best way he could think of doing that. Edmund turned and ducked a swing, pushing with his might and watching as the foe was swept aside. He moved onward, the heat was stifling. He ignored it and moved. He looked to his right and saw Thomas engaged in a duel with some bastard. Edmund moved to aid him, but saw Thomas bring the bastard down before he could get there.

He turned his horse around and then got swept up in the fight. Shifting, turning, ducking, dodging. Doing what he could to stay afloat. He had no intention of dying. Not today. He was the King of England and he would ensure that everyone here knew that before time was done.

His horse hit something. Whether it was a stone or a rock or a person he didn’t know, but it was starting to give way. He heard a sickening crunch and then he was leveraging himself up and over the beast, rolling and then getting up and grabbing his weapon. His horse was snorting pathetically. He slit its throat, to ease its pain and then moved on.

The battle was in full flow. Edmund got swept into it. Ducking here, taking a blow there, smashing into an enemy and ending a life. He kept moving. To stop would be to spell his death, and he could not afford to die. At one point, he and Thomas were fighting back to back, dealing with enemies, and hurtling through their strength.

They were separated after that. Turning into the twist and then pushing onward.

He saw someone flying the Clifford banner, and roared. His blood heated. This was the bastard who had killed George. He would end him. He pushed aside the enemies that were in his way and moved toward where the banner was.

He found some poor little boy holding it, whilst his master went to work on some poor sod who’d volunteered to fight for Edmund. Edmund snarled at the boy. The boy dropped the banner and Edmund then attacked Clifford.

He hit his back, drawing his attention and then he pushed. Clifford stumbled, dropped his weapon, and Edmund tackled him. They both fell to the ground. Edmund took the butt of his weapon and hit Clifford’s helm, he hit it again and again until a dent started to appear. Clifford’s hands were flapping uselessly at his side. Edmund kept going.

Just as he was about to bring it down one last time, a figure barrelled into him. Edmund fell off Clifford and grunted.

Who was this bastard who’d denied him his justice?

He turned and saw a wide-eyed boy with blondish hair staring at him. Edmund snarled and moved toward the boy. He’d kill the boy and then kill Clifford.

 

[VVD0D95]

I have a feeling that either Edward or Edmund won’t come away from this battle alive. Also, unrelated, but what are Edmund and Margaret’s kids called? And when were they born?

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 210: Kettering 3

January, 1470

​

His momentum forced him into the man who was hammering away at Clifford. Edward had wanted to go the other way, but the blow he’d received from that bigger man had sent him tumbling this way.

The man got up and snarled at him. Edward slowly moved and raised his weapon. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say.

The man advanced on him, and then their dance began. They swung at one another. Sparks flying as their weapons blocked one another. The man pushed and Edward stumbled back, but he anticipated what would come next, and so quickly moved to the left, forcing the man to stumble.

Edward attacked then. His sword came and hit. He moved and pushed and snarled. Grunting with the sheer effort. It was damnably hot. He moved and twisted. The man counterattacked, and Edward tried his best to diminish the impact the man’s blows would have on him. Whether he’d succeeded or not he didn’t quite know. His body was aching.

The man pushed him away from Clifford. Which was good, he guessed. It meant that man could recover if he so desired. Edward kept stepping back, but then he tripped, and the man towered over him. The man snarled something at him. Edward didn’t understand it, so he quickly got up and swung.

The man blocked him and then their dance continued. This way and that, tooing and froing. Edward got a strike on the man, and the man got two strikes on him. Edward pushed back, and the man pushed forward. Onward they went. Swirling through the tempest. Edward desperately looking for somewhere to go. Somewhere to break the momentum.

He struggled to find it. The man snarled again and then Edward was really on the back foot. He didn’t know how to swerve through, he couldn’t find any gaps. He was scared. Was something going to go wrong? He wanted to call out for help, but he didn’t know whether he could. His voice was stuck inside. He was panting, he was scared. His heart was racing.

This wasn’t what he’d wanted.

The man started moving toward him. They were going to end this one way or another, Edward supposed. He raised his weapon, and then asked. “Who are you?” He hated that his voice sounded high pitched and thus like a child. He wanted to be a man, not a child.

“Your death.” The man snarled, he then charged at Edward.

Edward managed to block the man’s first blow, he then got a blow of his own in, forcing the man back, he stepped forward to follow and found himself caught between the man’s fist and his weapon. That was unconventional. Edward stumbled backwards.

The man followed and swung. Edward couldn’t get his weapon up in time and felt his arms scream in pain. The man attacked him again and this time it was his throat that screamed in pain. The man went for a third blow, but Edward ducked and managed to hit the man in the gut.

The man wasn’t down for long though. Instead he came right back at Edward, swinging and hurtling. Edward fell. The man towered over him and snarled. Then there was a blow, Edward winced, another blow, Edward screamed, a third blow and he saw stars. He could feel the breeze blowing.

His helmet had been removed, meaning his hair had shown through, but now he was completely exposed. The man made no comment. Instead he raised his weapon. Edward said a prayer. He hoped that someone would come and rescue him, but he had his doubts. Nobody seemed to notice what was going on.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have failed you.” Edward whispered. “Forgive me, Mother, for I have not returned to you.”

The weapon came down and Edward screamed.

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 211: Kettering-A Mother’s Breakdown

January, 1470

​

Margaret twisted the prayer beads around. Trying to find a way to calm herself, but there was nothing she could do that would calm her. She was terrified. Terrified that Edward would die, that they would lose, that everything would be for naught. She had considered sending a messenger to the Yorkist camp before the battle had begun, asking for terms. She’d decided against that.

Now she was terrified and wished she had done that. A messenger had come to tell her that the Yorkist van had broken but that Clifford had been killed alongside half their own vanguard. She’d also been told that Northumberland had died. That had made her even more nervous.

She looked up as the doors were thrown open.

Two men in armour walked toward her. She got up, something in her telling her that they brought bad news. When they stopped before her, they bowed, and she relaxed a little. “Your Majesty, the King wishes to see you.”

“The King?” Margaret asked, that gave her hope.

“Yes, Majesty, please follow us.” The guards said.

Margaret did as she was bid, following them out of the room, down a flight of steps and out into the open. She pinched her nose at the smell. Death and decay, chaos and blood, all of that assaulted her nose. She wondered why Edward had asked her to come to him instead of coming to her, but then reminded herself that he was the King now, she would do as he bid.

They walked in silence until they came to a tent that flew the Royal Standard, the lions and the fleur de lis. The tent flap was opened and she walked in.

A man was sat at a table; his wounds being treated. He had dark hair and a short nose, his eyes were dark. “You are not Edward.” Margaret said at once.

She vaguely recognised him. She’d seen him at court once before.

The man laughed. “I am not your boy, no. I am the King.”

Margaret stepped back in horror, the guards held her arms. “You are a usurper!” She snarled. “Where is Edward?”

The man sighed. “Your son is dead.”

Something in her shattered at that, but she said. “You lie! My son has not died. Where is he?”

The man sighed. “Bring in the body.”

Body?

She watched as three guards left the tent and then watched as they entered carrying a body. She let out a whimper as she saw whose body it was. Her beautiful baby’s! His head was cracked and bleeding. His eyes were closed; his hair was mottled with blood. He looked peaceful but he was gone.

The body was placed on the floor before her. Margaret touched it and then she cried.

“WHY!” She yelled at the man who looked at her without expression. “WHY!”

“It was the only way to end this war. It was him or me. My family has suffered enough, and now this war is over.” The man said.

Margaret cradled her son’s lifeless body and wailed. “This isn’t over, the Beauforts will destroy you!”

The man laughed. “They are all dead.”

“NO!” Margaret wailed, tears falling down her cheeks. Her son was dead. Her baby boy was dead; she couldn’t believe it.

The man stood and towered over her. “You have a choice. You can bend the knee, return to France or die.”

Margaret looked at the man through her tears and snarled. “Kill me. Kill me and let me be with my son!”

The man sighed. “Fine.” He drew his sword, and Margaret held her son as the end came.

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 212: Kettering-The King Enjoys His Own Again

January, 1470

​

“I want letters sent to London, to York, to Canterbury, to Winchester, to Berwick, to Caernarfon, to all the great seats and towns of England announcing what has happened. I want them sent to Ireland as well.” Edmund said. “I also want letters sent to Edinburgh, to Paris, to Nantes, to Burgundy. Let the whole damned world know what has happened.”

He might be a little drunk, he could admit that to himself, but the war was over. Edward of Lancaster was dead, his mother was dead, Northumberland and his son were dead, Somerset and his brothers were dead, Clifford had died, Devon would be executed. The Lancastrians were finished. This was it.

“What about the bodies, Sire?” Essex asked. The man had served loyally, that he was still alive was a marvel.

“Bury them here.” Edmund said. He would not give them the grace of a burial in Westminster Abbey.

“Sire.” Essex replied.

“What happens now?” Edmund’s brother Thomas asked. Thomas had fought valiantly during the battle. He’d finished off Northumberland apparently, and taken down the man’s son as well. It was quite the feat of arms.

Edmund took a breath then said. “Now we rebuild. England must heal. There will be time for the trials of those who betrayed us, but for now we must act to unify the Kingdom.”

“How will you do that?” Thomas asked.

“Parliament will pass laws that will enable the reunification to take place. We will build roads; we will stimulate the economy. We will bring about reconciliation.” Edmund said. He had detailed plans but for now he would talk in broad strokes. He was tired. He could get away with that.

Thomas looked as if he was about to ask something else, so Edmund held up a hand. “I know you have questions brother, but for the time being put them to one side. They can be addressed later, when the time is right.”

Thomas sighed. “Fine, but what are we going to do now then?”

Edmund looked at Hastings who clapped his hands. Two singers approached then, alongside someone carrying a lute. The lutist started to play a melody, and the singers sang the beginning of a song that was as old as time. “Let rogues and cheats prognosticate. Concerning king's or kingdom's fate. I think myself to be as wise. As he that gazeth on the skies. My sight goes beyond. The depth of a pond. Or rivers in the greatest rain. Whereby I can tell. That all will be well. When the King enjoys his own again.

Edmund smiled as some of the men joined in on the next few lines. “Yes, this I can tell. That all will be well. When the King enjoys his own again.”

It felt good to be alive.

 

[VVD0D95]

What ducal title has Thomas of York been given, since he's one of the king's brothers?

 

[VVD0D95]

Chapter 213: Love

February, 1470

​

“Richard stop fidgeting.” Margaret barked at her eldest son. She didn’t mean the words though; she was just as anxious and impatient to look upon Edmund. His letter had come and she’d sung her heart out at the news.

Mass had been said to say thanks, and bells had rung and the city had celebrated. And now Edmund was returning. He’d already entered the city, but was making his way to the Palace by boat. She couldn’t wait to see him, to hold him, to kiss him.

“Will Papa remember me?” Richard asked softly.

“Of course. You are his son; he will remember you.” Margaret said to their eldest.

There was a silence then as they waited. Margaret wondered what state Edmund would be in. His letters didn’t suggest he was troubled, but then he’d just killed the greatest threat to their family and the woman who’d sired that threat. That would take its toll on anyone. She’d be there for him, of course. She would not imagine doing anything else.

A guard hurried up to her and said. “His Majesty approaches, Majesty.”

Margaret nodded her thanks and straightened. She could see the boat now. The moment it stopped she had to use all her strength not to run to where it was. Slowly, very slowly, Edmund appeared and got off the board. He was accompanied by his brothers Thomas and Richard, and by Huntingdon, Essex, and countless others. Margaret sunk into a curtsey, whilst her sons and daughters bowed or curtseyed.

“Your Majesty.” Margaret said.

She saw Edmund’s finger point upwards indicating they could rise, and so she did so as did the rest of the court. Edmund smiled at her. “Your Majesty.”

He looked at their son and the rest of their children and smiled. “Children.”

“Your Majesty.” They answered solemnly.

He looked at the rest of those gathered around them. “The war is over. The Lancastrians are dead!”

That was greeted by a cheer.

Edmund then looked back at her and took her hand in his. He kissed it, and then looked at her again and said. “We are safe now. We are whole.”

Margaret smiled, she let go of their son who hugged Edmund and then ran off. Margaret laughed as did Edmund, he then pulled her close and kissed her full on the mouth, when they broke apart she whispered. “I love you and I am so proud of you, my King.” She meant it, every word she’d said.

Edmund smiled. “I love you, my Queen.”

 

[VVD0D95]

Wow. Well, after 191,000 words and 213 chapters, and a few re-writes and change of plans, we're finally here, the end.

I had a few ideas for how this could end, and it was only around January that I decided that this was how I was going to do it.

I think it's a fitting ending, the nice way to say goodbye.

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and liked the chapters on this fic. Thank you for the lively discussion afterward.

It's been a hell of a lot of fun.

I'm exhausted now, and it's sunny, so I think I'll go have a cold beer and enjoy the last of my weekend.

Cheers

VV.