Chapter Text
It has been raining for three days, cold and lashing summer Northern rain. Edward has been kept inside during all of it, to protect his health, and it is making him fractious. Anne is tempted to scream on the third night, and just cast him adrift into the woods of Middleham, but she regrets her thoughts when the fit of temper he throws leaves him worn out, and he creeps to her lap to rest.
"When is my Lord Father coming home?" he whispers, eyes closed and dark eyelashes resting against always pale cheeks.
(They remind her of Richard. He too was a sickly child, and he is strong and well now; save the back pain that plagues him on days such as this.)
"Soon," she smoothes his hair down and croons to her precious boy. "He will be home soon."
"And will he have killed lots of Scots?" Anne had been reluctant for Edward to learn to fight, so young and fragile, but she was no match for Edward's cajoling and Richard's quiet sense. Even now, the glory of battle never fails to excite him.
Like father, like son. "He will," she confirms with a nod. "Now, if you sleep, he will be home sooner."
"Will he?" Edward looks at her with his young eyes full of doubt. "How will my Lord Father know whether I am sleeping?"
She merely smiles and strokes his hair again, full of maternal wisdom that Edward will trust despite himself, and her boy soon falls into a deep sleep.
"Is there no word?" she asks a passing manservant, catches his arm. "Of my husband and his men?"
The only answer she gets is a shake of the head. Richard is strong, and fierce, and skilled. His men are loyal and almost as skilled, and he has Francis at his side, who would rather die himself than let a blade come to Richard.
And if she keeps telling herself this, she will one day believe it.
("I will keep him safe," Francis calls out, his voice muffled by his helmet, but clear enough. "I will stop him from wandering into the clutches of the will-o'-the-wisps!" He yelps as Richard swings around and smacks the rump of his horse with the blunt end of his axe, and, much to Edward's amusement, the horse nearly bolts.
"I will keep myself safe," her Duke snorts, shaking his dark hair out of his face. "'Else you will ride your horse into a tree, Francis."
(The again is merely implied, but it makes them all smile anyway.)
Richard touches her cheek gently, and leans down to kiss her once more. "I will be home before you know it," he promises to Edward. The boy is glaring mulishly at the horses, already wishing to be joining his father on glorious conquests. "Be good for your Lady Mother, now."
"Watch out for each other," Anne whispers so no one can hear her. "I would not lose you again."
Her husband gives her an intense look that makes a shiver run up her spine. "You never lost me, Annie," he says in a low voice, and then rears his horse around. "Come, we burn daylight!"
"For Ned and England?" Francis winks at her, and the two of them ride out of the courtyard.)
"Bring him back," she tells the dark sky, "Bring him home."
Anne is woken by horse hooves clattering against the wet stone, and a familar voice singing quietly. The sky is a dusky red, not yet full daylight. "I should have you hired as a jester," another voice - one she would recognise in her sleep - remarks in a quieter tone. "Do you mean to wake the whole house, Lovell?"
"That's Sir Lovell to you!"
"A noble jester," Richard sounds weary - Anne is already dressing as fast as she can, skipping any clothing that she can without looking indecent. "You would be pride of place at Ned's court, then."
Francis' snickers ring in her ears as she takes the stairs two at a time, like she used to do when she was small and heard the sound of her father coming in from yet another triumphant battle. He is home, her thundering footsteps sing out. He is home and safe and well and he is come back to me!
"Dickon!" she gasps out, stepping straight into the sodden outside. "Dickon, you are home!"
"We were intending not to rise you," Richard glares at his most favoured officer, but he is already swinging off his horse and sweeping his wet hair out of his face. "Oh, Anne, it is good to see you again," he whispers, cupping her face in his leather-gloved hands. "I have missed you."
"And I you," she gasps out, finally in his arms. His lips are soft against hers, the scrub of his beard a welcome coarseness, and his hands rub circles along her jaw and against her ears. He is soaked through, and she is getting wetter by the minute, but Dickon is home and in her arms again.
"My Lord Father!" she tenses slightly at the shriek that Edward lets out as he races across the cobbles in his nightwear. "Lady Mother said - she said you would be home, soon, if I slept, and she was right!"
Richard laughs and takes a step back as their son flings himself at his midriff. "Hello my boy," he says fondly. "And have you been good for your mother?" He seems somewhat reluctant to let go of Anne, keeping a hand on her shoulder even as he moves the other to ruffle Edward's fine hair.
"Ye-es," Edward says with a frown that clearly suggests the opposite.
"No greeting for me, young one?" Francis must have stabled the horses, for he comes around the corner on foot. Edward is happy enough to fling himself at his surrogate uncle, leaving Dickon to take Anne in his arms again. "Come, do you think Cook will be up?" For a man with no sons - that Anne is aware of, anyhow - Francis has always been perfectly at ease with Edward.
"But - my Lord Father -"
"They will be along in a minute," their friend laughs, allowing the boy to lead the way. "Dickon, don't take too long, now?" Richard flushes a light red at the implication of his bawdy commander, and sends a rude gesture in his direction.
"I have missed you, Annie," he says again, as soon as they are alone. "Scotland is - not home."
He kisses her again, deeper now they're alone, and the rain beats down on them entwined, his cloak around her shoulders and her cold hands against his hips. He is home.