~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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~England~
26th of June 1460, Dover, the English Coast.... Constance watched the water splash upon the bow of the ship below, the ship taking her away from her home and towards her destiny. An English crown. Raising a hand, her slender fingers brushed thoughtfully across the diamond pendant hanging about her neck upon a gilded chain.
Her heavy sighs were lost to the air around, swept away on the swift wings of sea air, and Constance licked her lips, tasting the beads of saltwater splashing her face, upon her tongue. She'd never taken a voyage by sea before, had never felt the steady rock of a ship beneath her feet before nor the call of the sailors as she did now.
Upon leaving Calais that morning she'd been below deck, the belief that having a woman above would bring bad luck to them all strong amongst the crew but Edward defied their superstitions for the arrival in England. Even then he stood behind her, hands protectively wound around her middle, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"See" He said, pointing far ahead of them "Home" She peered at the imposing white cliffs slowly approaching them; towering stone giants, far closer to heaven than to earth she thought, the guardians of their kingdom.
England.
The country spat out like poison on the lips of any who spoke it during her childhood, a curse, a bitter enemy - the land who'd held her Grandfather for nigh on two decades.
She wasn't sure if England would ever be her home. Already it seemed so different to France, an entire world away from all she'd ever known.
The sky appeared darker, streaked by smoke-like clouds reaching their curling fingers across the heavens. The wind was icier despite the summer sun. Just like its language, England seemed harsh and Constance knew she wasn't made for harsh things.
It certainly didn't look like there were any oranges there!
The day she'd left her home, there had been little time for goodbyes, Edward was eager to return to Calais and only James was truly interested her. John gave her a nod, a firm instruction to do her duty, her Mother gave her a small smile and for once, the cold indifference was not enough.
Constance had pushed herself into her arms, trying not hurt at Agnes' surprised gasp, pressing herself closer for a moment before she tore away and climbed into the carriage, not daring to look back. If she did and found her Mother's eyes caring, she wasn't sure if she'd manage to leave.
The last ties had been severed that morning when her Mother's ladies had dressed and bid her farewell, leaving her in the care of her husband and the Nevilles . In their going, there could be no doubt she now belonged to England.
