~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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~Hush Little Doves~
November 1483, the Tower of London....
The chamber was small and bare, one little bed in the farthest corner and a rickety chair next to the door. On the outer wall, which was curved, there was a small window where Cecily liked to sit, staring out of it; cheeks tear-stained.
The mattress on their bed was thin, filled with straw instead of feathers and carried a musty smell which (over the two months of their imprisonment at the Tower) the three girls had become used to.
No one ever visited them, no one asked how they fared. The cuffs of their dresses were fraying and Isabella's hem was above an inch from the ground. They were fed on a diet consisting of bread and water, porridge; sometimes a thin stew and it had been so long since they'd felt the sun on their skin they couldn't think of any greater joy - apart from seeing their Mother of course.
Or Kate. She was kept from them, though they could sometimes hear her screams. Thumbscrews they'd heard a guard say when their dinner was brought, to discover their Mothers plans.
Aliénor cried that night. After that, she didn't speak. Not one word.
The only company they held were one another and a nun, named as their nurse, older than the Earth and cross, her face as wrinkled as a prune; fingers like spider legs and sharp as a whip.
Sister Agatha she was called.
In her dark robes, she was an ever present shadow during daylight hours and a feared demon if she checked upon them at night. Her chamber was only a few paces away.
A strict, stern woman, she harshly drilled the girls in their prayers, morning noon and night, lecturing them on their sinful souls and the damned soul of their Mother. No doubt she was loyal to the Woodvilles. Either that or a fanatical creature that deemed every living thing that breathed as sinful as the Devil himself.
She often took a fancy to hitting the little girls when they got underfoot. Twice Aliénor had been sent to bed with a bruised cheek and once Cecily with a cut lip. By morning it was an ugly purple, the blood dry, crusting at the edges of the wound and twice the size it was normally.
It took over a week to settle and by that time she carried a bruised forehead to nurse.
While the nun was their carer, there was not an ounce of care within her. She sat in her chair, eyes narrowed, watching, or closed in prayer, hands clasped and unless she was to bestow one of her punishments, she did not move.
