Kate is holding herself together very tightly as she leaves the Douglas' war tent. Oh, she knows well enough when she is being condescended to -- that brash, smirking, weather-bitten, brawling usurer--

The men-at-arms escorting her give warning glares to the Scottish soldiers, but it's hardly necessary. They might grin at her fury, but none seem inclined to have it directed at them.

Anger is much preferable to the dread threatening to creep into her heart, at least. She'll certainly not let anyone think the Douglas frightened her. She clings to that resolve as they ride back to the castle, where Margaret waits.

It has been several days since Harry Percy came riding up to Hereford and turned Elizabeth's life into a storm of confused emotions -- and only a day or two since he actually proposed marriage, and she accepted, just to confuse everything even further. And that has set off a whole new storm of preparations in an astonishingly short time. The wedding won't actually take place for some months, but from her parents' urgency, you would think it was happening tomorrow.

Harry is not, of course, allowed anywhere near her quarters, as is proper, and they both take the walk from the great hall to the staircase as their last chance to talk alone for the day. (Not terrifically alone, of course; still chaperoned, even more than when they were properly courting, to both of their annoyance.) At the parting of ways, Harry kissed her hand and bade her good night, repairing some (only some) of the damage he'd wrought at dinner by unwittingly comparing one of the Mortimers' allies, by means of an unfortunate extended metaphor, to a badger.

"I'll wish thee good morrow soon enough, Kate," he murmured, and she nudged him away, as hard as she could in the sight of her mother's lady.

When the bar appears through her bedroom door, she barely hesitates before slipping through and shutting the door behind her. Someone opens it immediately and she steps out of the way--

And stares at Harry Percy.

"My lord?"

"--My lady!" he says, recovering quickly, as he starts to laugh.

[ooc: Two pups, two muns! Tag one or both -- slowtimes welcomed.]

The coronation is done -- and quite an event that was -- and true to his word, the new king Henry, the fifth of that name, provided all that the Percys needed for their journey north. In truth, they needed little; they came from Warkworth with hardly anything in tow, and return the same way.

But they do carry with them the security of the King's pardon, intangible (and if Kate is honest with herself, still somewhat dubious. Henry is sincere in wishing them to be allies, she is certain, but his subjects may not forgive so easily).

It's a few days ride to Warkworth. Kate has spent much of it in thoughtful silence. As they ride up to the castle gate, though, she lets out an audible sigh of relief.

The day of the battle dawns cloudy and cold. The men on both sides form up as the sun rises behind the clouds, facing each other across a field of gray snow in orderly ranks.

When battle is joined, most semblance of that order disintegrates. The leaders of each army range here and there about the field, directing their troops, and soon the snow is churned and brown with mud and blood.

Most of the soldiers are too busy fighting for their lives to notice the gray wolf creeping around the edges of the battlefield, crouched low to the ground, her hackles raised and lips pulled back in a snarl. Kate has never seen a battle. It's not exactly what she was expecting.