~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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~Did None of it Matter?~
August 1470, London....
Baby Edward grizzled as his Mother rocked him back and forth, her gaze flicking down as her heart was once more overwhelmed by her need to protect him. Nuzzling into the golden curls crowning his head, she inhaled their sweet scent. He was so innocent, so utterly helpless without her! Why, he couldn't even lift his head by himself!
"I will never let anyone hurt you, sweet boy" She swore under her breath "Or your sister. You are mine, Edward and I will keep you safe"
"Your grace? Constance?" Dickon rushed through the nursery doors at the speed of light, out of breath and his dark hair tousled like he'd been running in the wind "Constance!" He called again when he saw her and baby Edward began to wail, little mewls escaping his small mouth. He hated being woken up.
"News from our sister, Margaret" His uncle said and the little Prince was suddenly being whisked through the palace halls. The Queen tried to shush him with gentle coos and the steady bounce her arms provided but he felt the worry bubbling inside of her, like a sixth sense binding them together. He would not be quiet.
In the King's study, Edward, James and Hastings crowded around the King's desk, the older man stroking the thick ginger beard curling on his chin. John Neville stood with them; head bent over a map with one finger tracking a path across a piece of land while James watched, murmuring something.
All looked up at the Queen's entry and Dickon quickly joined his brother. "What is it, my Lords?" She asked, spotting the crumpled letter in her husband's hand "What does Margaret say?"
"It seems Warwick has stumbled from his shipwreck straight into the arms of Marguerite of Anjou and now Anne Neville is to marry Edward of Lancaster"
Her eyes flicked sharply to Hastings, who'd spoken, disbelief clouding their green depths, so much so she spoke nary a word of the first piece of news. Perhaps she had heard wrong? 'He would not do such a thing' Her mind told her stoutly, it's assertive reaction sprung from love 'Richard would never do such a thing! Not after Wakefield!'
"Anne? But she is not yet fourteen! She's young and fragile and...." He nodded in grim agreement, jerking his head towards Margaret's letter.
"Tis all in there, your grace. That is how the traitor is going to cement his alliance with Henry's Queen!" She shook her head. No, it was not possible, it was wrong! It had to be wrong! Margaret had to have misheard the news, it had to be a rumour, it had to be nothing more than the poisonous tales spun by nobles....
