~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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~Banners of Black~
Westminster Abbey, London....
Bonfires burned in the streets, the people danced, ale flowed freely as the city sang of the York King's victory, but inside the impregnable walls of the Tower of London, the celebration was muted.
Edward had returned all smiles and waves, always his people's charismatic King, but when the Tower doors were closed, his tall frame became heavy and his proud shoulders slumped. He all but fell into Constance's embrace when they were alone and for hours she held him in their rooms, still covered in the dirt and blood of battle, his tears drawing murky streaks through the drying mud.
He was a man who'd had his heart torn in two, a man forced to his knees by a grief he wasn't meant to feel. Not for a traitor.
But that traitor was his oldest friend, his mentor, his brother and no matter what he'd become, the memories of their brotherhood would never fade. It was those memories that were mourned for with the death of Warwick, came the death of any chance those memories could repeat themselves.
He stared into another realm when she removed his armour and bloodied clothes, eyes dull and mouth set into a sorrowful frown. He was the same while she washed him, sitting in the steaming water with nary a word passing his lips apart from a few 'thank you's. When he was dried and dressed, he had the Prince and Princess brought to him, sitting before the fire with Marie on one knee, Edward on the other.
He gazed at his children with loving eyes, stroking their hair, speaking soft words to them, answering every question Marie had with patience - though she was clever enough not to ask of the battle.
How on earth would they tell her of Warwick's death? How would they tell her that she couldn't wear black, that she couldn't defend him from the poisonous words the court would now speak against him? Neither of her parents knew and they certainly didn't bear the strength to do it there and then.
As day fell to night, Constance invited Richard to the royal chambers to dress his wound. Barnet had been his first battle, his first true test of strength and endurance; his years of training at Middleham and, to add more weight to his young shoulders, Edward had given him command of the Yorkist vanguard, the first line of attack.
He was eighteen and knew many of the men thought the King a fool for placing him in such a high position (particularly George though his objection was borne more from jealousy) and, secretly, he doubted himself too. The fears he'd confessed to Constance in Bruges had not faded but when he'd set foot on the battlefield, when he'd heard his men cheer for him, seen them ready to fight by him, he'd been determined to do his duty.
