CHAPTER ONE
August 1485

Malton Castle
Yorkshire

The Countess of Grantham and her three daughters and their ladies sat in the castle's great hall, working desultorily at their embroidery. It was a hot, muggy end-of-summer day, which would be distraction enough, in ordinary times. But these were not ordinary times, and none of them could forget it.

"Mary, do you think he could win?" asked Sybil, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb their mother.

"The Tudor?" Mary retorted, her voice filled with as much contempt as she could muster. "I think it is very unlikely." She stabbed her needle through the cloth and yanked the thread, which broke.

"But not impossible," put in Edith, from where she sat on the opposite side of the half-finished altar cloth, quiet and smug as ever.

Mary sighed heavily as she fixed her thread. "You say that as if it were a good thing!" She turned back to her youngest sister. "His Grace has far more battle experience, and twice the army."

"The Tudor's soldiers are mostly French mercenaries and Scotsmen, or so they say," Sybil said wisely.

Edith frowned. "Who says?"

"People." Sybil shrugged. She had come to resent being stuck in Yorkshire, far from anything interesting. When she could, she escaped her nurse to spend time with people she really ought not to, who could tell her what was happening elsewhere. She was very clever at it too; her sunny disposition concealed a knack for deception.

But Mary knew, of course. There was little she did not know about her youngest sister. And as she, too, wanted to know about those faraway happenings that determined the course of their lives for good or ill, Sybil would report all that she had heard.

Edith frowned, and began to say something, but Mary cut her off. "It is true. His Grace is English through and through, and commands an army of loyal Englishmen-"

"You would have a murderer for a king, then, so long as he is English?" Edith interrupted.

Mary rolled her eyes. "His Grace is a noble and good man, who has been ever kind to our family. I will not listen to wild rumors, and nor should you. Besides, the Tudor is practically French!"

Edith shot back, "So are we."

"We most certainly are not!"

That attracted the attention of their mother, at last. "Girls, s'il-vous-plaît!" the countess snapped. "Your father could be in danger and still you bicker like little children!"

At the mention of their father, the girls were immediately abashed, and murmured their apologies.

"I am going to the chapel," Clare continued. "You may either stay here and work silently, or come with me."

Edith chose to go. She was the most pious of the sisters, perhaps by necessity, for the devout countess had long ago selected this daughter to be the one to enter the Church.

Clare surveyed her remaining daughters with an almost hopeless expression on her face. "Lady O'Brien," she said finally, to her most trusted companion, "if you would please supervise Lady Mary and Lady Sybil until I return."

Lady O'Brien nodded her assent. "Certainly, madam."

Pious she might be, but Edith was also still a young girl, and she smirked at her sisters triumphantly, having evaded the noisome supervision of Lady O'Brien. But Mary simply bent over her needlework, coolly ignoring her.

"If there is any news, please tell me." And with that, the countess swept out of the hall, Edith following close behind.

Mary and Sybil returned to their embroidery as their mother had bidden them. And so the afternoon dragged on, the time passing unbearably slowly in the silence.

It had been nearly two weeks since the call had come from the king to defend against Henry Tudor's invasion. Accordingly, her father had gathered his able-bodied men and set off, leaving the women behind to wait and worry.

She shook her head, in an attempt to clear her thoughts of all but the lily she was meant to be stitching. It worked, for a moment, until a sudden chill ran down her spine. In her shock, she dropped her needle.

"Is everything all right, milady?" The question came from Anna, her father's ward and her own dearest friend.

"No, I- I do not think that it is," she answered, shaken. With trembling hands, she set her embroidery aside and stood up. "I will go rejoin my mother," she said to Lady O'Brien. "Sybil, you will come too."

Her sister nodded obediently, and although clearly curious, did not ask any questions until they were outside. The castle yard, usually a bustling and busy scene, was nearly deserted. There was only Mistress Patmore, plucking a chicken for that night's dinner, and Father Molesley, pacing as he read from his Bible. The emptiness only added to Mary's foreboding.

Sybil, at her elbow, asked, "What happened?"

"Something has gone dreadfully wrong," Mary replied softly, for Sybil's ears only. "His Grace and Father may need our prayers more than ever."

She had sufficiently composed herself by the time they reached the little chapel that neither Edith nor their mother asked any questions. In silence, she and Sybil knelt beside them at the altar rail.

It was Mary's habit to visit her grandmother after dinner, on those evenings the dowager countess did not dine with them. That evening was such a one, and Mary was grateful for the opportunity to speak with her grandmother in private.

As ever, Viola was a step ahead. "I hear you had somewhat of a turn this afternoon." Mary's eyes widened in surprise, and she hurried to add, "I have my ways. You ought to know that by now."

"Yes, I suppose so," Mary agreed. The old earl, her grandfather, was dead now these many years, and his son long married. But even so, his widow refused to cede all authority, and the servants were still somewhat distrustful of the French countess. When Mary's father was absent, Viola reigned supreme at Malton. "I was going to tell you, anyway."

"So I should hope!"

"It was the strangest thing," she went on, and shivered a little. And she voiced the question that preyed on her mind, none so confident as she had been just hours before. "Grandmother, do you think we really could lose?"

"That is always a possibility." Mary's face fell, and her grandmother softened. "My dear, you have grown up in a time of peace. But I remember when Lancaster ruled securely, too. Power is terribly transient."

"Then what will happen to us?"

Viola took her granddaughter's hand. "We Crawleys always find a way."

Malton was kept in suspense the next day, and the next, until the morning of the third day, when the pounding of hooves could be heard on the drawbridge. The household dropped what they were doing and rushed into the yard.

A young knight slid off his horse and into a bow before the countess. "My lady," he said, breathing hard, "my lord the earl has sent me ahead to tell you-"

"Dieu merci! He is safe, then?" Clare interrupted.

"He is, my lady, and he will be home this night."

There arose a flurry of noise, in exclamations and prayers of thanksgiving for the survival of the Earl. But it dropped away just as quickly, for everyone knew there was more to be told, and everyone could see the sorrowful expression on the knight's face.

The dowager countess broke the silence. "Well, Gillingham, what of the rest?"

"We lost," he said. "The king is dead."

Clare gasped and nearly collapsed, but Lady O'Brien caught her before she fell. "Dead!" the countess echoed. "Non! But how can it be?"

"His Grace fought valiantly, but in the end we were outnumbered." His exhaustion seemed to catch up to him all at once. "I beg your leave to retire, my lady."

"Of course." Viola spoke for her daughter-in-law. "We thank you for your news, and are glad to see you safe."

Gillingham bowed once more, and departed. The family retreated inside, where Mary and her sisters followed their mother to her chamber to wait.

It was a quiet, humbled party that dismounted in the courtyard that night. Despite the late hour, the women were still awake. None among them could have slept on such a night as this. Soon there were footsteps on the stairs, and then the earl appeared.

"Oh, Robert!" Clare flew to him, and he embraced her fiercely for a long moment. "What happened?"

"Treachery!" he said viciously. "His Grace fought valiantly but it was not enough. Carson, a drink, please." He sat down heavily, and the steward reappeared moments later with a goblet of wine for him. He took a long draught before resuming his tale.

"His Grace was in the thick of it and signaled for Percy to come in with the reserves, but he did not respond."

The Earl of Northumberland, their neighbor in the north, was of Lancastrian stock, and indeed, Mary now recalled, his father had been killed fighting for Lancaster at Towton. But for many years now, he had served King Edward and King Richard.

"At that, the king went to find the Tudor himself, and it was then that Stanley chose to enter the fray—on Tudor's side! The coward! Richard ought not have trusted him."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Percy's inaction was bad enough, but Stanley! He had seemed true, whatever connections his brother chose to make. And not only had he simply stood by, but he had aided the enemy.

"What of our men?" Clare asked.

"William Mason was killed, and Edward Kent, and several others from the farms. Sir Thomas was injured." He appeared to be going through a mental list. "My cousin Lord Bracebridge was injured, but not badly," he added.

"Reginald was there!" Clare exclaimed.

"He was, and so was his son."

The matter of the Lancaster cousins was a delicate one among the Grantham family, and tonight they felt less inclined than usual to speak of those others, who had supported the usurping Tudor.

So Clare said, "I am only thankful that you are safe, mon chéri."

Robert smiled wearily at that. "I cannot tell you how it gladdens my heart to see you," he replied, "all of you." He held out his arms for his daughters, and they went to him.

"We will be all right, Father," Sybil said. "I know it."

He kissed the top of her head. "I do wish I shared your confidence."

Dadlington
Leicestershire

Meanwhile, many miles to the south, Matthew Crawley rode through the little village nearest the site of the battle, and dismounted outside the inn. Inside, he found a hive of activity, the first floor having been repurposed into a hospital.

As he had suspected he would, he found his mother there, and hurried over to her. She was busy tying a bandage around a patient's arm, and did not notice him at first. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him.

"Matthew! There you are." She kissed his cheek. "I was beginning to worry."

"No need to worry, Mother," he replied. "My father is safe as well, and will be along shortly. He sent me ahead to tell you what has happened."

"What has happened?"

Her patients had brought stories, of course, and hopeful ones, but none so far could say for certain what the result had been.

"We won!" He grinned. "The usurper is dead, and Henry was declared king."

Isabel crossed herself, and said reverently, "Long live the king!"

The cry was taken up by the boy she had been tending, and a handful of others around the room. Most of the patients, however, were solemnly silent amidst yet another reminder that their cause was lost.

Matthew noticed, and could not help but feel sympathy for them in that moment. Lancaster was all too familiar with loss. And so he led his mother outside to carry on their conversation.

Isabel had seen it too, and when they were away, she asked, "What of Richard?"

"He... he will be buried in the Greyfriars' church in Leicester, two days hence," Matthew said, avoiding her eyes. "I do not think you want to hear any further details. Or rather, I do not want to tell them."

Isabel decided not to press. She knew well enough what happened in the aftermath of battles, having seen many in her lifetime. Instead, she changed the subject. "Did you see our cousin Grantham?"

"Yes, he was there. He remained with the old king almost to the very end." He stared away into the middle distance, the last chaotic moments of the battle replaying in his memory.

Isabel pursed her lips. "What happened to him?"

"He survived, and will be returning to his family, I imagine."

Matthew fell silent, his expression turned grim. In truth, the joy of the victory was already beginning to dissipate, and Lord Grantham was a reminder of the challenges King Henry would face, as he returned to his homeland after a lifetime of exile. He would have to adjust to a people he barely knew, and who barely knew him.

"Surely His Grace intends to do something about them- all the supporters of York, I mean."

"He must." Matthew nodded. "That is what he and my father were discussing when I left. So I imagine we will soon find out."

The 15th-century English name pool was quite a bit smaller than canon-era. Luckily, most of our major players are still appropriate for that time– Mary, Matthew, Edith, Sybil, Robert, Reginald. But I discovered 'Cora' didn't really exist as a name til the 19th century & of course America wasn't known to Europe yet. So I made her French, and picked a similar-sounding French name. Flower names were quite rare, but there's nothing that sounds remotely like Violet, so I went with its Latin version. Also, "Isobel" is the Scottish variant, so I've used the more common English version instead.

The chapter title is a Latin phrase- ibis redibis nunquam per bella peribis–– that is purposely not punctuated, so that it can mean either "you will go, you will return, you will never perish in battle," or "you will go, you will never return, you will perish in battle." I thought it seemed appropriate for a story covering both a winning side and a losing side.