~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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~Where Destiny Lies~
November 1459, Château De Moulins, France....
Fifteen summers Constance had seen through eyes the colour of green sea glass, possessing a certain promising sparkle just as the ocean did.
Fifteen summers she had spent nestled in her bedchamber at the peak of one of Château De Moulin's fine red-brick towers, content to watch instead of play in the gardens her the windows overlooked, filled with wall-scaling flowers and a twisting maze.
While only one of her powerful Bourbon family's estates, the quiet château was her home and always had been. Yes, that was certainly the way to describe it, a quiet home - quiet being the only thing her short life had ever been! The second to youngest of twelve (and a girl at that) there was no cause for excitement, crafting her quiet nature.
While she'd learnt to skip ropes and move chess pieces on a board, the game she'd become most apt at playing was the one of waiting.
Waiting for destiny.
A destiny crafted by the Lord above and sent into her family's hands to see she carried it out. So far that day evaded her and she remained at Château De Moulin, a fine box for her to wait in until it was opened by the hands of fate. All of her siblings had waited there - a few still did.
The autumns and springs were quiet, the glorious summers, the winters too - particularly the winter of 1456, three long years prior when her Father, Charles, Duke of Bourbon, had died at the Château. After that, the building and its opulent grounds were not only quiet but silent apart from the murmurs of prayer.
Most of those prayers came from Constance's own lips and she couldn't count the many hours spent knelt in the family chapel, bathed in in rays of multicoloured light from the windows, praying for her Father's soul.
During the early years of her life she'd known him little, seen as he was away fighting - and a fine warrior he was, making him little more than a glowing figure of her young imagination. But when she was six he'd finally retired to the Château, to his children and the love she'd discovered for him couldn't have been greater! For all his gruffness and eagerness to fight, underneath she found he shared her love of quietness and contemplation.
They were often together in chapel, side by side, not a word being spoken between them yet their bond being strengthened each second.
On her tenth birthday, he'd given her a rosary acquired from Italy, crafted from beads of shining black onyx, nestled between links of gold leading to a crucifix of the same precious metal, studded with diamonds; emeralds at the points, matching her eyes. He'd always known she had a fondness for pretty things.
