~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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~Grief~
There was never any true belief amongst the Yorkists that their enemies would let go of the Lancastrian cause with willing hands. Despite that, it had been said often, a flippant remark spoken from lips drunk on the hope of the victory the Act of Accord did not bring.
By November of 1460, the country had already begun to rumble with rumours of Lancastrian insurgency that soon became more fact than fiction.
First, in Wales where the Duke of York's eldest son was quickly dispatched in what was to be his first true taste of the leadership he had long yearned for; a true chance to prove himself that had seen him depart the capital with no less than the most enthusiastic aura alongside his cousin, Warwick.
He'd seen his wife off merrily, with a firm kiss that made Duchess Cecily arch her eyebrows (though not entirely disapprovingly) and while Constance had done her best to seem merry too, she was all worry.
Then the ever rebellious North (now a snakes nest where the Lancastrian nobles festered in their rage) began to muster men into a new army fulled with soldiers Queen Marguerite had brought forth upon her return from Scotland. Edward had been right, she would never lay down her sword while she still drew breath.
But the Yorkists certainly meant to try and force her.
The Duke announced that he would lead his men to the North and crush the Lancastrian rebels that were growing more virile by the day. This was an uprising that could not be allowed to strengthen. He said Edmund, the Earl of Salisbury and his son, Thomas Neville, were to accompany him to the wild northlands where their enemies lay and together they would crush the Lancastrian cause underfoot.
If only they had known the extent of the danger, the strength that their enemies had managed to muster during their months void of power over England.
A bitter and hateful anger boiled relentlessly inside of the Lancastrian leaders, each of whom were eager for revenge upon the house of York to pay for the lives of the kin that had been lost during the fight.
The Duke of Somerset, Earl of Northumberland and the feared Baron Clifford had each lost their Fathers at the battle of St Albans five years prior and now took up arms once more, hellbent on revenge that would only be payed with York and Neville blood.
Blood they were willing to spill by any means to achieve their ends, and would, upon a field of crimson stained snow and broken cries of a boy deemed ready to fight but not ready to die.
There was not a soul among the families of York or Neville that would be left unscarred or untouched by the consequences of the Lancastrian's undying bloodlust.
