~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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~Bloodlines~
30th of June 1484, Westminster Palace....
After his squires had dressed him, diligently attempting to every leather buckle and the placing of each polished piece of metal, Arthur waved them away, wishing to inspect his armour without the scrutiny of others.
It would make him feel a little less of a fraud for he knew what they would think as he examined his image before the full-length bedchamber mirror: pretender, traitor, imposter.
It did not help his armour was gold.
That had been his Mother's choice.
A stunning piece of craftsmanship it possessed suns in splendour and roses upon the pauldrons, all the emblems his Father had held alongside a few Woodville ones; English lions.
He did not feel like a lion. He felt like a sheep.
Turning from side to side, he inspected every inch and looked to the small stool by the mirror upon which was placed a golden helmet - a golden crown melded atop it. Reaching forward, he picked it up, studying the piece.
In a few weeks he would mount his war horse, armoured as he was, and ride forth from London with 'his' men to fight his half brother. Would Edward fight, he wondered, it was entirely possible. From reports he'd heard, despite his half brother's youth, he was a fine swordsman, already almost standing at the height of their Father.
Arthur was tall but he'd lost almost all of the youthful glow that had once graced his face. He'd grown pale those last months and his eyes had become darkened by the ashy circles under them, sunken into his skull. He looked ill. Defeated.
He no longer looked nineteen.
If Edward had inherited their Father's personality as well as his looks and skill, then he would certainly wish to fight, Arthur thought, would wish to fight him. Even if he did not, his Uncle of Gloucester would certainly take to the field and no doubt hunt him down along with the many men - nobles - he heard were flocking to his half brother's banner each day in the North.
He did not know the exact number of men Edward had mustered, he did however know that his Uncle Anthony was working to secure five thousand men from French prisons.
They would be no warriors but they would improve his own numbers.
Sighing, he looked up at his own reflection once more, then what was behind it. He never felt alone in the King's chambers, not completely. It was always as if he was being watched by the ghosts of the men who came before him, the ghosts of Kings watching, nay, glaring at his every move, his every breath. They knew he wasn't supposed to be there, he knew he wasn't supposed to be there.
