[RETCONNED] Somewhere in 'le Marais Poitevin' [Lancastrians, 1481]

[Dirty Chai]

Late in the year of our lord 1481, as a wet autumn approaches.

Some sort of peace exists between the House of York and King of France, after much slaughter and maneuvering. Good King René of Naples is dead, risen to the heavens by angels in July of last year - not two months before a treaty is signed at Picquigny, giving a victory over to the usurper in the form of Aquitaine.

Edward of Lancaster - not to be confused with his enemies and counterparts, Edward of March who they call Edward IV and his son Edward of Grafton - is an ever diminishing individual. In fact it's considered a victory that King Louis did not give Lancaster over to his enemies as the treaty stipulated - for Edward's presence at the court in Paris has been nothing but undesirable since the start of war with York. Not only did 'the Clifford' - Edward's most long-standing and faithful supporter at this point, so low has he fallen - make an abrasive invasion of a feast in the palace to which he was not invited around Christmas of 1479, but Edward had nothing but outspoken, ungrateful criticisms for his host all throughout, increasing as it became more and more clear Louis would let York 'win'. Louis finally had him discharged from the capital in the summer of 1480, following word of his grandfather Rene's death.

Duke Rene left little to Edward in his will, much to his grave disappointment. The Duchy of Lorraine of course had become the property of Edward's cousins of Vaudemont long ago, but the Duchy of Anjou and County of Provence were willed over to Rene's brother's son, Charles. Edward received the seigneury of Tarascon in perpetuity, but almost immediately pawned its assets off to Duke Charles in return for payment of debts who wanted nothing but for Lancaster to disappear from his table.

With that, Lancaster went southwards - for no reason except it was a direction - crossing the Loire and into Poitou. The Clifford followed of course, along with the last of the de Veres, George. They intended originally to make for Parthenay, the patrimony of the Count of Dunois, but instead made for the dry marshlands west of Fontenay after de Clifford had heard about the place. It seemed a quiet, rural area, with rough enough terrain that the red rose could hide and lay low for a time until it could realize its next move.

If there ever was one. The House of Lancaster parked itself under the shadow of a ruined fort, west of Niort. It sat a small, wet island - why ever build something here? - hours from anything important. No wonder it had long since been abandoned and collapsed. The stone cobbles provided a dry place to sleep, at least. Edward was sitting on a collapsed pillar, slouched forwards over a fire. In his party remained only a handful of men now.

All had deserted him, but for a de Clifford and a de Vere and a handful of men wearing the faded livery of those two. He had long since shifted his pessimism, however. There was no point to feeling pity for himself - though he did it often - but the day seemed ever closer when his last two followers would desert him entirely - if not betray him so they could return home.

[Barry Goldwater]

George de Vere presently lay in slumber, his back propped up against a ruined wall that was more rubble than...well, wall. The journey from Paris, where it had been made abundantly clear that the little Lancastrian party was no longer welcome even by their former patrons, had been tiring - almost as tiring than the ceaseless cascade of failure and misery they'd been subjected to since Wallingford, in his waking estimation. In his dreams he was still haunted by his brother John, one of King Edward's original lieutenants following the abdication of Henry VI, had died exactly ten years ago near the town of Albenga, a dark day he could remember clearly even in the depths of his own drunken melancholy; hard to forget, when the scene of that Lombard halberdier slicing through John's head and helm in one forceful blow while the older knight was distracted kept replaying itself in his nightmares. Not this time, fortunately, but only because De Vere had either drank way too much or had not yet gotten drunk enough. The other day he'd seen a reflection of himself in a puddle, and found that his black curls and beard were growing wildly. John would not have approved. Aubrey probably would, I guess, he'd thought as he decided against shaving that day.

Edward himself was then captured by the Milanese two years after that, and for the first time in his life, George found himself questioning his allegiances; when he wasn't drinking until he blacked out or debating with Clifford over what they should do next, he'd privately ponder if all of this trouble was really worth it, worth his word of honor and loyalty to a king with no kingdom who was about as threatening to Edward of March as a gnat to an elephant and who seemed to have no future, save moldering away in an Italian prison until he finally died of natural causes at best. Perhaps it would not be so bad to follow in the footsteps of Butler, the man they'd all cursed for his treacherous abandonment so long ago that it felt like an eternity, and find some way to reunite with what family he had left back home. What has Lancaster ever done for me that I should remain loyal to him unto my own death? Which is probably around the corner if I stay with him like this, was a familiar refrain in his head back in those days.

And then. Louis, King of France, ransomed Lancaster from the Lombards and brought him to Paris, just in time for hostilities to erupt with England, and for a time there was hope, even optimism, that the Lancastrian cause may have gone somewhere. But alas, Louis was more concerned with defending his patrimony against the House of York than placing the House of Lancaster back on the throne of England. In the end he didn't even succeed at that, as Edward of March managed to wrest a slice of the Aquitainian coast from him after five years of bitter fighting. As of late, even he had grown weary of their mere presence at his court...well, maybe that had a little to do with Clifford's boorish interruption of one of his Christmas feasts or Edward's own mounting petulance, but point was, without France they really had no home left. Making things worse, their oldest and most generous patron the Duke of Anjou & Lorraine perished, and gave Edward almost nothing in his will (certainly nothing that'd be useful in reclaiming his birthright). And so they had spent the last year meandering across the Loire, subsisting on fish and rabbits cooked over fires and ale or boiled water like common hunters, while the colors of their livery faded like their hopes of marching back into England. Under such circumstances, even the normally hotheaded George de Vere found the inveterate fire in his soul being chilled by despair's touch, and as he slipped into sleep a few minutes ago, some small part of him (not for the first time) wondered if it would be better to just never wake at all.