𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 || 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐿𝑋𝑋

~Honour is not in Gold~

October 1475, Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland....

"Have you seen my husband?" Catherine asked Meg as she arranged her hair under a caul. The woman shook her head, selecting a golden pin from the bowl on the dressing table to secure the headdress with.
"Margery saw him this morning heading down to the beach...."

Catherine sighed and glanced out of the nearby window. Of course Richard was on the beach and she knew exactly where: on the dunes. That was where they had buried Roland.

Waving Meg away with a gentle hand, Catherine stood from her dressing table and made her way through the castle, holding on to the iron rail as she glided down the winding steps. The air was cold, even freezing with the added northern sea breeze, but she did not shiver, not once and strode through the gates.

Picking up her skirts with one hand, she used her other to shield her face from the wind; keeping her eyes from watering. The gravel beneath her satin slippers was hard but soon all was smooth and soft as the gravel turned to sand and she stepped onto the beach. Far from the sunny days that were enjoyed in summer, the sky was faded with an overhang of grey clouds that swirled like the mist on Barnet field; threatening rain.

Her gown fluttered around her ankles, swept up from the floor by the breeze that stuck sand to her stockings as she made her way along the beach. Better that Maud had secured her hair in a caul, she thought, for if she didn't the golden curls would be whipping around her head in a tangled birds nest!

Richard didn't have to worry about such things! Well, not much anyway.

Pushing onwards through the dunes, dark waves of water crashing onto the shore nearby, creating a rushing in her ears that matched the pounding in her heart as she searched for her husband. No doubt he would still be mourning his lost companion. She'd thought that in the weeks it took for them to return home after Roland's death, Richard's broken heart would've mended somewhat but it didn't.

He spent his days in a brooding shadow that could be found in one silent room or another. He often stared at the spots near the fireplace, memories of his old friend running through his mind. He'd been the last present from the late Duke, by his side when he married Cate, when he trained at Middleham, through good and bad.

Roland was the last thread of connection he held to his Father and now, it was gone. In a way it was he who he mourned and not his dear dog.

Soon, she came upon him, elbows propped up on his knees and his head bent, dark curls blowing in the wind. A heavy rock lay where Roland was buried, a large R carved into the face that Richard stared at. A chest lay to the side of him, open with gold coins bursting from their confines and flowing onto the golden grains beneath.