~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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~Times of Great and Sudden Change~
June 1460, Château de Moulins....
Hands resting daintily atop her gown, Constance looked over the courtyard from the window of Jame's rooms, eager to see a flash of Edward's golden head crossing under the gatehouse.
It had been five months since Constance laid eyes on her husband, five months since he'd taken her to bed and loved her until dawn. She still remembered that night, how wonderful she'd felt, how adored he'd made her feel. He'd left for Calais the next day with his cousins and there he'd remained, planning for the future - their future in a sense.
To her surprise, he wrote diligently. At least twice a week a courier would appear with a letter and Constance adored each one. His words weren't cold, his sentences short, they were sweet and spun into many pages at a time, always adorned with his token endearments of 'sweetheart' or 'my sweet wife' as he'd taken to calling her.
He wrote, not as if she were a stranger but someone he'd known his whole life, detailing every aspect of his plans to her, though she understood little. His sweet trust of her in turn made her trust him and with every letter that came, her heart warmed.
Day after day she yearned for his return but he wasn't truly gone, a part of him was always there, taking root in the small bump rounding her belly. His child slept snugly in her young womb, growing by the hour, a little babe all her own she would one day cradle close.
While some girls were terrified when they found themselves with child, Constance could say she'd never felt one ounce of fear thus far, only joy. Each day she visited the chapel, thanking God for his blessing. She knew she was young, that her body was not the strongest on earth but the Lord above had chosen her for this task and she was determined to do it well!
More than that, she was determined to prove a good Mother. She would lavish the love she desired from her own on her babe each day, embroider little blankets for them and gowns or doublets too, kiss them goodnight, take walks with them in the garden! Son or daughter she would adore her baby and she hoped Edward would too - though he undoubtedly wished for a son, all men did!
When she'd written to him, telling him of their good fortune, his ecstatic reply made her grin all day! His neat handwriting turned into spirals of boyish excitement at times, dancing across the page as he asked after her health and their child's whom he referred to as he or him.
Her Mother had borne twelve children through the years, there was no reason she couldn't do the same, so if this child was not to be a boy, the next one perhaps would be! That particular thought made her shiver with delight now she knew what it took to conceive.
