~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 Queen in the Tower~
Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire....
She began to count the small things. That is what you had to do if you wanted to live or, at least, survive.
If you waited upon great rays of light to give you hope instead of counting each drop of sun, you'd either fall to madness or wither away.
So Constance smiled each time she received a particular food she liked (a berry tart or slice of beef with a rich sauce), she made sure to sit at the window of her room every day the sun shone and the sky was cornflower blue like Cecily Neville's eyes; clouds nowhere to be seen. She made a note of each good thing, however small, and dedicated herself to her act, just as Richard told her to do.
After all, no one would suspect a peaceful, penitent widow of any treachery, at least not at Middleham where not a soul apart from Richard knew her well enough to believe any different if she behaved consistently in a certain manner.
Life at Middleham was hard but not as hard as it could've been, as hard as she feared it was for her darling daughters and Katherine in the Tower.
She had four gowns now, each simple, each plain. Two in black velvet, one in deep blue velvet, one in black silk. They had no adornments and tight sleeves, not the hanging ones she favoured but it was something new all the same and that was a good thing. Just as in Burgundy, the only jewels she owned were her wedding ring and the onyx rosary her Father had given her a full twenty years ago with its bejewelled crucifix.
Apart from Richard it was her greatest source of comfort. Holding it in her hands, smoothing her fingers over the beads, she felt slim strands of solace and when her dreams were not nightmares, she was often with her Father again, knelt in the chapel at the Château de Moulins, or walking in its vibrant gardens.
They were good dreams. Safe dreams.
As were her dreams of Edward - the happy ones at least.
Then they became dangerous.
She also had one necklace - a golden cross on a black velvet ribbon given to her by Richard.
It had been Anne's he'd said.
Two ladies from the village had been brought to attend her - Alice and Martha they were called - and they did so with relative competence. They pinned her hair beneath either of the two truncated hennins she had been given with black veils, helped her dress and undress and accompanied her to the chapel and back (the only place she was regularly allowed other than her room) though she was trusted to pray alone or with Richard.
