Princess Eleanor of Lancaster, the daughter of Margaret of Anjou and King Henry VI, finds herself in a dire situation after her half-brother's failed rescue attempt from sanctuary. With no options left, she is forced to accept Edward's terms and mov...
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As Henry and the other squires sat atop their horses at the peak of the hill, surveying the scene before them, his heart raced with such intensity that he feared it would burst out of his chest. Henry often prayed to himself that this would be a victory, while at other times, his fist clenched the reins, his knuckles turning white, as he followed the every move of some squires who were his age, fighting in the battle. He watched them with an intense gaze, noticing that their skills were better than his. A subtle twitch in his jaw , "I'm the king's bastard son. It is my duty to fight for my father and sister."
Henry glanced at the other squires beside him. The majority of the boys were between the ages of fourteen and fifteen. However, there were some younger ones, around twelve or thirteen and the reason, from what we heard, was that the knights who were training them wanted them to experience a real battle. He noticed fear etched on the faces of the younger boys, while the older ones were scanning the battlefield, ready to assist their knights if needed.
For him, the reason why he is with them is that Sir Arthur doesn't believe he is ready for a real battle, and Henry knows that even if Sir Arthur doesn't admit it, he didn't want to be blamed if Henry got himself killed on the battlefield.
The air filled Henry's lungs with the piercing sound of swords clashing against each other, accompanied by the agonizing screams of men. Echoes of the battle reverberated across the vast field in front of the abbey, drawing Henry's gaze closer. He watched intently as the warring factions of his father's forces and the Yorkists engaged in a fierce struggle. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid scent of sweat, assaulting his nostrils. Henry clenched his teeth, tasting the metallic tinge of fear that hung in the air.
The ground trembled beneath Henry's horse's hooves, reverberating through his entire body. The vibrations resonated with the chaos of the battlefield, adding another layer of intensity to the scene. He tightened his grip on the reins, feeling the tension in his muscles mirror the tension of the battle unfolding before him.
"I can't believe I'm here," he thought to himself. Henry had often dreamt about going to England to help his father. He hadn't imagined he would encounter countless obstacles along the way. But against all odds, he and the army had finally reached the outskirts of Northumberland. With God's favor, their forces were prevailing against the Yorkists.
"When we win," he told himself, "he will be the first one to hug her." Henry's gaze looked towards the battlefield. "Every sacrifice and death will be worth it in the end, for her safety."
The once-pristine green grass, now trampled and torn, bore witness to the atrocities of war. Dead bodies lay strewn about, their lifeblood seeping into the earth, staining it crimson. Henry could hardly look for long, the nauseating stench of death overwhelming his senses. Some of the bodies belonged to men he knew, who had fought in many wars under his father's name. These men were fathers, sons, brothers, friends, and husbands. As a boy, he was taught that war was about honor, chivalry, and a chance to prove oneself worthy of knighthood. In reality, it was far harsher and more unforgiving.
