~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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~Balancing on a Knife's Edge~
February 1461, Baynards Castle....
Constance spent the next two months cocooned within the agony of her heart and mind, the former grieving for her baby boy and lost kin, the latter ever pained with anxiety for her husband.
He was truly York's last hope. Her last hope.
Her only distraction was caring for the broken hearted of Baynards, namely Margaret and her greif-ridden Mother. While Cecily had remained strong during the hours after the news of her kin's death - perhaps for the sake of the children, perhaps because of shock - in the days, weeks and months after - she was a shell of herself, barely human at all. Barely alive.
She was a ghost as if her husband's death had torn away her soul and ascended to heaven with his, refusing to be parted, leaving her body a lifeless doll drowned in black velvet to be cared for. That was what Constance did, care for her Mother in law, sending away her ladies in waiting apart from when she cared for Margaret.
She fed her what few spoonfuls of porridge she could ease past her chapped lips, the once soft skin now cracked and bleeding from the amount of times she'd bitten them, trying to conceal her sobs.
That was Cecily's way, the remainder of Proud Cis forcing her to lock away the brunt of her grief in the presence of others but Constance knew she wasn't the only one that heard Cecily's broken cries every night, she wasn't the only one who saw the shattered remains of vases and mirrors hurled against the wall in grieving anger; the deep cuts they left on the Duchess' hands.
She sat in her bed, or in a chair by the window and stared ahead of her, absorbed in another world or in darkness, Constance could never tell.
Margaret was less trapped in greif, still bound but able to live a little of her life. After two weeks she ventured from her chambers, after a month she began to take walks in the gardens. Constance was always with her, their arms firmly linked, listening when she mourned, comforting when she cried.
Most of all, Margaret wanted her little brothers back. She feared for their safety, that their boat would sink in the sea no matter how many times Constance showed her the letter from her sister saying the boys were safe.
"They must be so scared" She lamented daily "they must be so alone, Dickon's French is good but he is not fluent, nor is George!"
They could only wait and wonder for any scrap of news arriving from across the sea or within their own war-torn land. Each arriving missive was a piece in the game the wheel of fortune played, a never ending circle of anxiety, waiting with each cracked seal for the axe of failure to fall, bringing the hearts of those who saw it to a stop until it was opened. More often than not, that task was left to Constance.
