~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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~The Devil and The Saint~
31st of July 1484, Middleham....
Lifting a torch from its metal bracket upon the wall, Edward ventured beneath the castle, waving away the guards that stood by the darkened set of stairs, covered by a curved roof, leading to the dungeons.
He had no need of them for the moment. His shoes tapping upon the stone, he peered into the inky blackness, nose wrinkling in disgust as a foul stench wafted across his face; a scent of sweat and stewed excrement, tinted with damp and desperation.
He had borne worse, the thought, and resisted covering his nose with the sleeve of his doublet, instead tilting his chin up; marching down the stairs with a renewed determination until he reached the bottom.
In the underground chamber, the cobweb-covered ceilings low, a row of cells constructed with dirty iron bars lay along the back wall. There was no light, no air but that which came from the stairs and Edward found himself squinting to find what he'd come to find.
His Mother did not know he was there, nor did his Uncle. He knew he ought not to be but could no longer resist the burning questions itching in his veins. Her would have them answered and he would face the first of his foes.
Richard Grey.
Walking over to the cells, he held the torch close to the bars, walking along until he caught sight of a figure, curled into himself, huddled against the wall on a thin, tattered blanket in equally tattered clothes. He wore nothing but his shirt and breeches and even in the dim light Edward could see his skin was covered in filth. Just as his soul was, the boy thought and the darkness he had spent the last weeks dwelling in.
He certainly was no welcoming sight, his broken nose crooked, one eye swollen shut, the skin around it blue and purple. Almost the York colours, Edward mused. No doubt the guards had subjected him to a beating or two since he'd been dragged underground.
"Grey?" He demanded and the figure flinched "Face me, traitor" Grey did as he was asked, his uncleaned, gaunt face turning toward the light, chin covered with a scraggly beard. His Uncle had told him of this pompous creature, woven from arrogance and bravado (which he had seen one or twice for himself) yet he found not one trace of it upon him then "Come here. I would speak to you"
Slowly, weakly, Grey unfurled himself and stood, walking to the front of his cell where Edward looked down at him from his great height, cocking his head to the side after a moment "It is customary to bow to your King"
"You are not my King" Grey hissed and Edward hummed, sighing before he glanced behind him at the small, wooden stool outside of the cell and sat.
