𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 || 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑋𝐿𝑉𝐼𝐼𝐼

~Come Home to Me~

April 1471, The Tower of London....

Again it rained, again heavy droplets poured down from the sky unto the earth like a deluge, marring the line of the sky with an ashen blur. The sound became a melody, a pounding crescendo that rose above the evening before thunder rumbled in the sky and all fell to silence.

The air became still, coated with a thick layer of mist rising from the Thames, encasing the city in a murky cloud hardly any could see through. It swirled about the Tower, curving like floating fingers around the tall turrets and sturdy stone buildings, creeping over the walls in rolling waves.

By the time the sun set, all was trapped in a gauzy veil and when Catherine put her son to bed, the green below was barely visible from the garden tower window. Beneath the blankets of heavy linen and wool Henry's eyelids grew heavy with sleep, causing fair lashes to fan rosy cheeks as tiredness conquered his will to play.

He'd been eager for his Mother to read to him that night, cuddling close to her side while she told him the tales of dashing knights and heroic Kings. During his months in the Tower, he had become most enthralled by them, another trait he shared with his Father, and made Catherine grin each time little Henry begged for one more tale, one more story.

Three she had told him that night, promising to read until he fell asleep and he had fought the tide of tiredness that tried to claim him with the strength of a warrior! Rubbing his eyes, he'd tried to stay awake but his Mother's voice was gentle, her embrace tender and his battle had become a losing one.

Tucking the blankets of their bed more securely about him, Catherine finally lay the book she held aside, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his hair. He was soft and warm beneath her lips, so very real and she felt the urge to join him beneath the covers so that she could cuddle him close.

Her son, her boy. Richard's boy.

How long now would she have to wait for her love to return to her? It had been two weeks since King Henry's last visit and that told her more than the courtly gossip she once craved could. It told her his attentions had been taken elsewhere so that there was no longer room for a captive and her son in the long, drawn out days of hefty politics.

While he disliked them, she knew Henry would not sway from his duties as King when there was a rival upon England's shores. And what a rival he was. Beloved by the people with the speed of many men, the strength of an ox and the luck of the devil, Edward of York was no foe to be cast aside with one wave of the royal hand. Nor was the little brother who rode with him.

Did the second son of York accompany them, she wondered as Thomas had told her?

With one last lingering kiss to her son's forehead, Catherine slipped away to the second chamber of the garden tower to undress, her slow movements lit by the candles who's flames danced upon the stone mantelpiece. Deft fingers unlaced the cords of her heavy gown, allowing the material to pool with a rustle at her feet, closely followed by her kirtle and stockings so that she stood only in her shift.