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The battle is lost.
His wife is dead. His mother fled. All around him are dying, doomed men. Andrew lets his sword fall, blood pouring out of his mouth.
The battle is won.
There is a sword at his neck, and he closes his eyes. Here falls Andrew of Warwick, son to Richard Neville, he thinks. Here falls the Kingmaker's Son, on the battle field like his father before him.
And then – Isabel shall have to bear a son.
The blade cuts in at his throat, sharp and pure. At least it shall be a quick death, and a noble one at that.
"Stay your weapons!" a girl's voice breaks through the hubbub of battle aftermath, footsteps crashing through the grass. "I order you to stay your weapons!"
"Funny that," a wry someone mutters, and Andrew finds his eyes opening of their own accord. "Methinks Her Grace had her own orders to attend to."
"Hold your tongue, Sir Francis." It's not a girl, not anymore at least. He raises his gaze as much as he dares, to rest on the delicate shoes of Lady Ricarda, Royal Duchess of Gloucester and last unmarried of the Daughters of York. "I will do as I wish. As did the Pretender of Lancaster. I will not have people say that I am not her equal."
"Your Grace," Andrew inclines his head. "I am pleased to see that you are well."
"And you not yet dead," she retorts coldly. "Although I hear you have been both ennobled and attainted in one breath. I am not sure whether to offer my congratulations or commiserations.”
He dares to raise his eyes, aware that the blade so recently pressed against his neck has been lowered, not stowed. “Whichever Your Grace feels appropriate,” he says. “Although, considering that I am now a widower, perhaps it should be commiserations.”
Andrew has known Ricarda of Gloucester since she was a girl, quiet and plain. His sister was one of the Duchess’ ladies-in-waiting. Once, he was counted amongst the few that called her Rica.
He knew the girl, but he doesn’t know the woman. Unmarried, he knows that. He knows his father’s gaze had fallen upon her when he began his descent towards the banners of Lancaster, but Edward was always wily: Ricarda was always guarded well. Even with a duchy of her own, and a dower that would surpass almost all women in Christendom.
But yet, unmarried.
A cold hand rests on his shoulder, a thumb pressing into the rough skin of his jaw. Her dark eyes are calculating and expressionless: one he knows all too well from years with his father. “My commiserations for your losses, Master Neville.”
The insultingly low title makes some around them gasp.
“I thank my lady for the sentiment,” and he expects to be struck down. No return is forthwith.
“If Your Grace –”
“I said, stow them,” Ricarda cuts across the foot soldier. “Stow your weapons!”
“But Your Grace –” the soldier looks most bemused. If he did not hold Andrew’s life in his hands, then he would find it entertaining. As such, he curses the fates for protecting him so; as he ran through Bloody Meadow and away from those who would run him through. “His Grace, the King, he has ordered all –”
“Stow your weapons!” It comes out like a shriek, but he hears the rasp of steel as the soldiers finally – finally – do as bidden. “I know what His Grace has ordered, but here you will listen to me.”
Francis Lovell stands behind her, silently backing up her words.
“Arise, Sir Andrew,” she says, her voice so quiet and still now in comparison with moments ago. “Unless, perhaps, you would rather stay here?”
Here is treated to a disdainful flicker of her dark eyes as they roam over the bloodstained grass outside the desecrated abbey. Ricarda has seen her fair share of battles, and Andrew thinks he would presume as much anyway, even if he didn’t know the stories of Lady Cecily standing in the market square at St Albans clutching her children’s hands.
“I am Your Grace’s loyal servant,” he murmurs, and means it.
Rica’s plain, sallow face lights up with a smile.