𝐸𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 || 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑊𝐻𝐼𝑇𝐸 𝑄𝑈𝐸𝐸𝑁

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐶𝑋𝐼𝐼

~Death to the Traitors, Life to the Loyal~

Margaret Beaufort's thin frame shook, rattling the chains that bound her hands as she stood in the high tower cell of Middleham Castle. She could hardly breathe, her mind reeled so, she was sure she had not drawn a true breath for at least half an hour, ever since the Yorkists had stormed the Tudor encampment.

Four high Lords had torn into the tent where she had been sat, anxiously awaiting news of her son's divine victory, and for a moment she had feared she would be ravaged as most women of the enemy were after battle. But they had simply swarmed forward, yanking her roughly from her seat and binding her in chains that cut into the skin of her wrists they were so tight.

'Tis the Queens orders that she be brought to the castle' one of the Lords had said and at that most would find it in themselves to let their lungs draw breath again, but not Margaret. No, in that moment she had rather the soldiers had run her through with their bloody blades there and then for she knew what was to come.

This order to be brought back to the Queen was no sign of a reprieve or anything like it, it was more a death sentence, a promise of pain that would be drawn out as long as her body had strength to bear it. Margaret knew Eleanor, had done for fifteen years, ever since she had comforted her at Westminster when her daughter, Jaquetta, had passed.

Yes she knew her mercy, her gentleness, her kindness, she had seen with her own eyes. Eleanor had been the one to reunite her with her Henry, risking her very portion and that of her family so that a mother and son could be together. She had seen how she helped the poor and the sick and cared for her people as diligently as she did her own children!

But she has also seen Eleanor's hatred.
She knew her anger.
She knew that it was not in her nature to forgive those who had harmed her loved ones.

And Margaret had harmed more than she cared to count during her quest to make her son King. A quest that she had clung too since she had been a mere thirteen year old girl, screaming as she gave birth to her son, had failed.

Now all that there was left to do was die, her sole purpose in life unfulfilled.

As Margaret stood in her muddied and torn gown, loose strands of ebony hair falling loose around her thin face, she knew she was a dead woman. She pulled fretfully at the chains locked securely to the cell floor and winced at the searing pain that cut through her wrists, there would be no escape.

Her lower lip began to tremble with fear, a cold gripping fear that she had never known before but spread throughout her like a corrosive disease, flooding her body, burning her spirit to ashes.