The Captive Heart

Prologue

The screams of the dying men could hardly be heard the howling wind. Foe was indistinguishable from friend amid the heavily falling snow that swirled about the combatants. It was bitterly cold as only an early spring in Northumbria could be. The king and his few remaining advisers huddled on the edge of the battlefield until one, braver than the others, reached out to take the bridle of the king's horse and lead it away. Then those who were with them followed. It was the end of an era. The end of a reign.

The wiser among them knew it. Understood it. They considered now how best to retain their heads as well as their fortunes with a new king in a Yorkist regime. They thought of the enemies and the friends that they had among the now favored. Which of those men would have influence enough to save or destroy them? The loyalists, however, were painfully aware that they now faced exile. They silently prayed for the safety of their own families, whom they might never see again in this life.

"Is it over?" the king asked softly. His eyes were beginning to lose their focus. It was a sure indication that one of his attacks of madness was approaching.

"Yes, my liege, it is over" came the quiet reply.

"Have we won?" the king inquired hesitantly.

"I think not, my liege, but until the snow stops we cannot really tell," the man said candidly as they rode away.

"Where is the queen? The queen will know if we have won. The queen always knows what is happening," the king said anxiously. He was still with great effort managing to cling to his sanity.

"I am taking you to her now, my liege," the man responded, "but we must hurry lest the Yorkists catch us." And before one of us decides to turn you over to them to save his own skin, the king's companion thought to himself. He noticed three or four of their party had already disappeared. Well, good riddance to them, the traitors!

"They will kill me," the king said fatalistically. "They have to in order to justify what they have done. And they must kill my son though he be just a lad, for he is the true heir to England's throne after me. But if I know my wife, Margaret, will fight like a tigress to protect our child." Henry VI had not yet released his hold on his sanity. But the few men left to accompany him knew it was but a matter of time before he was once more hurled into his private hell. His mind was simply not strong enough to manage this terrible change in his fortunes.

They hurried through the fierce storm to reach Queen Margaret and the little prince, who were sheltering in a nearby farmhouse. They would have to get deep into the borderlands before the storm ceased. Only then would their king and his family be truly safe, and then only temporarily. Sir Udolf Watteson, who now rode with them, would give them all shelter. At least for the few days it would take for the outcome of the battle to be known down in London, where the new king resided. Until the order was given, and came north for the arrest of Henry Plantagenet, his wife, and his son. The Lancasters were done. At least for now. Perhaps forever.