Grace FitzRoy and Cecily Neville were two sides of one deal. On Loveday in the year 1458, when York and Lancaster came together ceremonially to reconcile their two warring factions, the Duke of York and King of England struck a deal. A daughter for...
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THE ROUT OF LUDFORD BRIDGE
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October, 1459
The soldiers surrendered before dawn the next day. The massacre that followed was something Grace had never anticipated, even though something in her mind whispered that she should have. Margaret of Anjou had allowed her soldiers to run rampant as they pleased, and the town of Ludlow paid for it in blood, gold and everything else.
The Duchess had deemed it fit to go into the streets to greet the victorious Lancastrian troops. Or rather, their Queen, whose banner could be seen flying not far from them. Grace had never inhaled the scent of death before that moment, and she wished she never had. Blood and human entrails littered the streets, doors to homes were torn of the hinges by greedy hands, wanting to find whatever riches the common folk may hold dear to their hearts. And then there was the horrors the soldiers committed on people still alive. Grace could only watch with horror as an old man's skull was split open, simply for the crime of trying to save his granddaughter from being raped. The girl he was trying to save screamed, and then she was pulled away from Grace's sight and all that could be heard was her begging and the cruel laughing of the soldiers.
Grace was sick to the stomach.
The hem of her dress was dirtied in blood and mud, the redness seeping into the previously yellow gown. The Market Cross was perhaps the worst of it, and Grace forced herself to look straight ahead and away from the horrors. The banner of Margaret Anjou was moving closer, presumably with her in tow. A warm hand slipped into her own, and she quickly squeezed it. She did not know what was going on in George's head at that moment, but it was probably much of the same.
The Duchess stopped walking at the market cross, her shoulders sagging for a moment as she exhaled before she quickly rightened herself. This was where they were to wait, then. Grace wished it wasn't. The sound of horse hooves approaching them came from the main road leading out of the town, and Grace immediately stared down the man on horseback that trotted in their direction.
Although his armor was only a chainmail covered gambeson and steel bracers, it was clear he was not just some back-water soldier. There was an expensive looking ring glittering on his finger, a heavy insignia etched onto it. Grace had to wonder if he had planned to wear it to battle, or if he had only put it on now that victory was assured. His dark hair was lined with silver, as was the carefully trimmed beard on his face. He pulled the horse to a stop in front of the, turning it so he could look down at the Duchess.
"Duchess Cecily," he greeted the woman before him, face looking rather grim as he took in the scene around him. "I am here on the orders of the Queen. The Lady Grace FitzRoy is to be brought to her mother." The Duchess merely stared at him for a moment, her eyes assessing him sharply. The man, as if remembering himself just then, perked up and reached into the saddle bag attached to his horse. When he pulled his hand out, a rolled up letter rested between his fingers.
