~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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~A Marriage of Fortune~
14th of January 1460, Moulins Cathedral, France....
The morn of January the fourteenth was a chilly one, one of ice where delicate snowflakes kissed the frozen ground but not once did Constance shiver.
Not as she was readied, not as she rode through the streets of Nevers on a pristine white pony, her saddle bearing the white roses of York on its brown leather. Not even as John took her arm outside the great stone building in which she was to be married.
Just seven days after she and Edward had been stood by the lake, she walked down the isle of Moulins Cathedral on a carpet of deep blue velvet emblazoned with Fleur de Lis; the heavy chimes of the church bells still ringing in her ears. She kept her eyes fixed on the great windows set above the stone arches protecting the shadowed cloisters, each a scene from the bible crafted in a myriad of coloured glass.
She dared not look down, knowing she fast approached the noble crowd stood from wooden pews; the spectators of her marriage.
The Earl of Warwick and Sir Thomas, a variety of French nobles, her Mother, her ladies, each of her living brothers and sisters, including Archbishop Charles, the man who would marry her, and Isabella, the great Duchess of Burgundy who'd arrived just the day before with her fine Burgundian retinue.
Constance was sure she'd never seen a woman so grand (apart from her Mother) but Isabella possessed a warmth Agnes did not, making her shine all the more.
It was their Father's warmth. A comforting warmth.
Although she didn't need to, she'd come to her little sister's chambers that morn to help her prepare, bringing with her sprigs of lavender to scent the bath water when it was drawn. It had been almost six years since the two had seen one another but Isabella made it seem as if no time had passed at all with her easy manner which was as kind as it was charming.
She brushed out her sister's hair, slid many rings onto her fingers, helped lace her dress all the while smiling, laughing; effortlessly untying the knots of tension in the air.
Constance glanced down now at her garments, eyes trailing over the fine cloth of silver crafting her gown, the fine feathered cut of her heavy hanging sleeves that almost made it appear she were donning angel wings. A silk belt cinched in waist, embroidered with the emblems of her house, the same ones decorating her white, silk kirtle.
While her gowns were always pretty, she'd never owned one of such loveliness but its ethereal beauty was lost on her in that moment, overwhelmed by the nerves rushing through her veins; twisting her stomach into knots. A part of her wished her sleeves would truly transform into wings, great wings that would carry her back in time to the calm summer months of the year before when she'd only been waiting for destiny - not living it.
