~𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖞𝖆𝖑 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌~
Born the youngest daughter of Charles I, Duke of Bourbon, Constance of Bourbon grows up amidst comfort and splendour on her powerful family's estates in France. A shy child, she prefers her...
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~The First York Babe~
October 1460, Baynard's Castle....
Anne de Beauchamp appeared a most intimidating figure when Constance first saw her after meeting her two daughters; long and delicate hands clasped in front of her. Eyes of deep brown swept coldly over all before her and her lips were set in a thin line almost making her look as if she were permanently displeased by what her noble gaze saw.
Her dark eyebrows were plucked fashionably thin into fine crescents and her black hair pulled back under a tall steeple hennin, erasing any softness in her face. While she was rather short, she was lithe and her slim figure was highlighted by her gown which sported a tightly buckled belt at the waist, adorned with jewels as were her neck and fingers.
When she went into her confinement two months later - Constance was certainly glad the Countess of Warwick did not accompany her.
As Summer went and Winter came, the chilling winds chased away any remanence of warmth. Days were spent in solars or bedchambers gathered around a roaring fire, shawls draped over shoulders, blankets over laps. Constance was not used to such cold and resented it bitterly, silently cursing the weather each time the her chamber windows were covered with frost or the water in the basin by her bed turned to ice!
There was no beauty in an English winter from what she'd seen, it was not filled with the sparkling crystal wonders God crafted across the waters, it was cold and wet and she hated it!
In her confinement chambers, the icy fingers of Winter rarely touched her. Her bedchamber was transformed from a room of bright comfort to a warm cave of safety. Animal pelts covered the floor, a soft blanket barring the stone beneath from touching her feet, heavy curtains lay draped over the shuttered windows, shutting out the cold and the light.
A fire always blazed in the hearth, setting the chamber aglow with dancing amber flames, each conjuring warmth. But it was not a summer warmth, it was a stifling warmth, a warmth pricked with shards of ice that made her shiver now and then.
Whenever she did, a flock of ladies swarmed around her, a tutting herd swaddling her in blankets like a babe to ensure she didn't shiver again. Every sneeze, every cough, every unordered breath was jumped on like the plague, resulting in the sent of burning incense constantly wafting about the chamber.
The ten or so ladies were always there, putting shawls around her shoulders, making her drink every drop of the odd concoctions they brought from the kitchens. Her every need was attended and anticipated, her every move watched. Constance was grateful for their care, knowing it kept her baby safe but when tiredness overcame her and they kept buzzing in her ear with their worrying, she wished them gone.
That was why she came to treasure nights.
To ensure undisturbed rest, only one stayed, either Cecily or Margaret, sleeping by her on a comfortable pallet bed. She loved their company equally.
