~Snap~

11th of October, Tower Hill....

Dressed in a gown of cloth of gold, a cloak of purple velvet hemmed with ermine wrapped around her, Constance sat upon the royal scaffold high above the braying crowds, the edges draped with silk banners bearing the King's emblem.

She occupied a throne beside Edward - they'd decided Anne was too young to attend and this was her long awaited day after all. Hands folded in her lap, shielded from the bitter, biting air by soft woollen gloves lined with sable fur and embroidered with golden thread. Her hair was bound by a reticulated golden caul, studded with jewels and pearls and the top encircled with a crown.

Tower hill was filled to the brim, all souls in London jostling to claim a view of the gallows that awaited their offering of broken bones. Men and women sat atop walls, children clambered up into tree branches, countless numbers craned their necks and were in danger of tumbling into the nearby fortresses moat. Neither Constance nor Edward payed attention to them, their yells and shoving, their eyes were fixed solely on the noose swaying slightly in the wind, waiting for it to be filled. 

Constance had been in the tower even before dawn, peering through the little window in the door of Elizabeth's cell with a stare colder than ice as she watched her enemy readied for death. She was to walk from the tower to the gallows in nothing but her shift, hair shorn, feet bare against the rough cobbles of the street. Penance for her whoredom.

Constance sent the nuns of Aldergate Abbey to prepare her and had watched with bated breath as she was shoved to her knees, the clothes stripped unceremoniously from her strewn about the floor. Her flaxen locks were shorn from her head, chopped away in a moment, falling to the floor like spun gold and landing in a tangled heap at her knees.

It cut Edward from her in Constance's heart, set him free as well as her. She cut away her evil net and his soul would swim free into the river of heaven.

Without her golden crown, Elizabeth's age showed, she had thought, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes accentuated, the sag of her breasts no longer hidden. She didn't speak, she didn't move but Constance could feel her pain and she revelled in it. She too would revel in watching her white clad figure paraded through London's jeering crowds and dropped into hell like a pebble to the bottom of a lake, never to be seen again.

A shiver ran down her spine as the crowd began to roar, altering her to the presence of approaching evil. Edward's hand appeared on her sleeve and she placed hers atop it, squeezing his fingers. He'd long waited for this too.

Bit by bit the raging sea of people parted, shoved aside by four guards who led a skinny, white - clad figure in the centre of them. Her shorn head highlighted by the sun, it was nevertheless raised, even as rotting fruit and animal faeces were hurled at her, staining the thin linen of her shift and the ghostly pallor of her skin. Before her she carried a lit taper.

Elizabeth had come to die.

Finally, Constance thought and could barely breathe, eyes trained upon her enemy as she approached the scaffold, the insults hurled at her growing increasingly foul, the rotting fruit exchanged for jagged stones and thrown with all their might. Elizabeth stumbled as one hit her particularly hard, carving a gash in her arm. She refused to cry out, regaining her balance, raising her eyes towards the gallows and Constance would've felt sorry for her if she'd been any other.

She remembered the day she'd brought old Henry to Edward, she remembered Elizabeth standing at the top of the courtyard steps in her pretty pink dress and drowning in jewels, an armoured lion. She'd won the battle that day and now she'd won the war.

The reminder of that first victory hung around her neck, the very same golden E pendant she'd donned, her free fingers twirled about the chain and she watched Elizabeth with narrowed eyes. Gone was that gown and her sparkling jewels, leaving only a scrap of humanity in a dirty shift with a shaved head. She looked small.

Was this truly the creature she'd been afraid of all these years? This slim spider she could crush with one finger?

She remembered the babes she'd lost, each of their sweet little faces and tears of rage pricked her eyes, her hand instinctively tightening on her son's. She did not take this one, she thought fiercely, she will never take this one. Edward had won, Edward had lived and now he would avenge his brothers and sisters. Now she could see her brother's soul truly at peace.

Elizabeth stumbled again and the crowd jeered, rough hands took her by the arms and hauled her up the gallow's steps to where the noose and ladder awaited, the executioner dressed in black ready to do his duty, leaving bloody footprints behind her. Beside him was a priest and as she stood before him, he'd head dropped, out of shame or to hide tears, Constance didn't know and nor did she care.

John Howard joined them on the scaffold and unfurled the scroll tucked into his belt. Elizabeth's crimes were read aloud, she couldn't hear them over the roar of the crowd but she had no need to, each were carved into her soul, etched into the flesh of her womb where her claws had reached and torn angels from it.

"Are you well, Mother?" She heard murmured in her ear and nodded, not allowing her gaze to falter for one moment, heart beating a saltarello in her chest.

Elizabeth's hands were bound and she was lead to the ladder, refusing to look up as she reached the thin rungs. The noose was fetched, slipped around her slender throat and a cheer went up as it was tightened. She would have no last words for anyone to hear but herself. A small shove from the executioner forced her to take the first, grimacing as the wood pressed into her wounded feet.

"Silence them!" Constance suddenly ordered, almost leaping from her throne. She wanted to listen, she wanted to hear. "For God's sake silence them!" The guards waved, trumpets rang out, booming voices ordered silence and the crowds were quelled, throwing confused looks towards the dais and their dowager Queen, who was leaning further forward by the moment, but obeying all the same. They would always obey her.

Constance didn't care to notice them, watching as Elizabeth ascended the ladder bit by bit, wobbling with every push upwards then forcing herself to steady. She had to unless she wished a humiliating death choking on her own spittle with piss running down her legs.

The world seemed to slow for Constance as she reached the last rung, clearly trembling and looking about her, up to the sky then down to the waiting crowds. Up again to the dais those blue daggers went and suddenly found Constance's.

She was glad of it. Glad to look the devil in the eye one last time. Twenty years passed between them in mere moments, all others melting away into nothingness as the two women stared.

The executioner stepped forward and the ladder was snatched away. Elizabeth's eyes grew wide, fear flashing in them and then she fell like Lucifer to the hell below.

Constance heard it all, the slight rustle of her fall, a small gasp, and then the snap of her beautiful broken neck.

Elizabeth Woodville was dead and there was no order that could quell the crowds roar.

Constance shot to her feet, fingers clutching at her pendant, watching as Elizabeth's bloody feet twitched her body swaying before it fell still. She was sure a wave of lightness came over her as her rotten soul left the earth, bathing England in a new rich glow of prosperity - pure and joyful.

She looked up towards the sky, lips parted and eyes fluttering shut, feeling her heart slow and her body grounded.

"It is done." She whispered and now the joy could begin. There would not be another moment when she dwelled on Elizabeth Woodville she swore to herself and turned to Edward, unsmiling but her eyes alight with mirth.

"Come, your grace!" She said and held out a hand to him "You must return to your wife then you may process to the Tower in all the glory God, and your sister, can give!" Her grinned and laced his fingers with hers, standing.

In two days time, he would be crowned and Elizabeth's rotting body would hang upon the gallows for five more days before her head went to tower bridge.

༻᯽༺

While Edward processed forth from Westminster in an open litter draped with gold beside his little queen, Constance strode further into its gilded halls. The dawn of her son's reign had finally hit the earth and she would take her rightful place in it - King's Mother and Queen Regent both.

Inside the council chamber with its long oak table and carved chairs stood the men awaiting her, meticulously chosen to support her in the regency and keep England on a steady course; prepare it for Edward to steer to glory. Nodding to their deep bows she approached the throne that had been moved away from the head of the table and set upon a dais covered by cloth of gold.

Without an ounce of hesitance, she placed herself upon it, fingers flexing over the carved ridges of the arms, back straight, head held high. This was her throne now by Ned's instruction, her seat, her place. That day, just as upon the bleak night of his death, the lords of the council were to come before her and swear allegiance, swear to obey her word and serve England.

After Edward was crowned the other lords of the realm would do the same.

James had been the first. It was he who'd proclaimed her Queen Regent, who'd knelt at her feet and kissed her hand, swearing fealty for all to hear and prompting others to do the same. She'd never feel his soft lips upon her hand or cheek again, never hear his strong voice call out in a chorus of her name, never see him grin or make her children laugh.

But she wouldn't cry, no not that day. She would take her pain and it would mingle with her joy, it would make her strong and with a decisive wave of her hand, motioned the lords forward.

This time Richard was the first to approach, of course he was, and she greeted him with a smile, holding out her hand for him to take. He did so, lowering himself onto one knee, kissing her hand and holding it to his forehead for a moment before he looked up to her.

"I, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, do hereby swear fealty to the Queen Regent, Mother to the King and Dowager Queen of my late brother, King Edward the fourth. I swear to serve you and England faithfully and ever endeavour to secure the King's highness upon his throne."

She inclined her head to him.
"Thank you, my lord of Gloucester. Rise and take your place." His was closest to hers at the table, on the other side would sit John Neville. A fine pair to have at her hands.

John was next, swearing the same as his cousin, then John de la Pole, his son, John Howard and his son - created the Duke of Norfolk and Earl of Surrey by Edward, John Scrope, Francis, Robert Brackenbury, John Parr and last, Henry Tudor.

She eyed the man carefully as he got to his knees before her, taking her hand with his slender one - gently she noted. It was odd, he was but five years Richard's junior at twenty eight and yet in her mind was still a child. Perhaps that was because she'd only ever heard of him from Margaret's lips as the babe, the boy, she so very much missed.

Her choice of him on the council was met with raised eyebrows by both Richard and John but she'd decided to give the man a chance. A chance to prove himself loyal, to integrate himself with his kin of York and finally peruse a life of peace. He was a quiet thing, not that she'd spoken to him much, but when he stared up at her she could see intelligence in his dark eyes, a quickness she could find most valuable.

Edward had restored his title, Constance had given him a position, now the ball was in his court and she hoped he'd play it well.

In time perhaps his uncle Jasper would join them.

The men took their places at the table, but did not sit, awaiting her permission to do so.

Eleven in all including her. A small body, she admitted, but in time it would grow and better a small number to guide the regency than a large one. She needed about her those she could trust, those who were loyal and when the regency was over Edward could appoint whom he liked, whatever number he liked.

She already knew George Neville would be amongst them and had initially thought of including him but no, it would do not good to take her son's friend from him in the name of duty and he was still young with much to learn from his father. Three more seats at the table would have been filled had James, Will and Rob Percy been alive.

"Sit." She finally said and chairs scraped against stone, boots thudded then silence fell again. They looked to her. With the crown she'd worn for twenty three years upon her head, she felt queen again but perhaps now was something far greater.

She smiled.
"Let us begin."

༻᯽༺

12th of October 1484, St George's Chapel, Windsor....

Five hundred and fifty three days she'd been without her beloved.

Five hundred and fifty two nights.

One year and six months.

Two summers.

How could she bear even one more hour?

One more minute with the grief tearing her apart and the guilt whose shadow was growing greater than even that of her greatest enemy with every second that ticked by weighing on her heart and mind?

It hurt. It hurt so much.

Alone in the chapel with a single candle and the light of the moon casting its sombre rays through the strained glass windows, Constance sat huddled against the cold marble of her husband's tomb, knees drawn up to her chest, cheeks damp again.

In the dim light she reached through the arched windows, her hand running across his skeletal one, tracing the ridges of marble bones. It would've been less painful if they were sharpened blades. At least her blood would warm him.

"Oh mon amour, mon Ned, pourquoi as-tu laissé les anges te prendre loin de moi?" 'Oh my love, my Ned, why did you let the angels take you from me?' She asked "Nous avons beaucoup perdu ensemble, mais beaucoup plus quand tu n'étais plus là. James est mort, Will est mort, l'innocence de nos enfants n'est plus que cendres et vous ne pouvez même pas prendre ma main alors que je les pleure." 'We lost much together but far more when you were gone. James is dead, Will is dead, the innocence of our children is ashes and you cannot even take my hand as I grieve them.'

"Do you remember our motto?" She murmured "Maxime Felix. The most lucky. We never were though, were we?" Her wry laugh filled the chapel. Their young eyes had glowed at the golden words embroidered on banners and whispered in the night, still innocent, still naïve despite having been through war.

"Des paroles de jeunesse construites sur des rêves, parce que les rêves ne sont pas encore prouvés, seulement des rêves. Ce sont les cauchemars qui sont réels. Mais nous avons partagé des idées, nous avons partagé un cœur et une âme et il en sera ainsi jusqu'à la fin des temps, Ned. Je suis à toi et tu es à moi." 'Youthful words built upon dreams because dreams are not yet proven just that - only dreams. It is nightmares that are real. But we shared ideas, we shared a heart and soul and so shall it be until the end of time, Ned. I am yours and you are mine.'

"I would've liked to be your queen a while longer." She said "We were nearing peace and we were happy. At least happier than we'd been in a long while." A hot tear dripped down her cheek and she hung her head, fingers curling around the marble beneath.

"It makes my heart weep to know Charlie will never remember your love. He won't know your face or your voice, he won't know your embrace! His father will be a carved lump of stone. Richard will have only wisps of memory to clutch at, Aliénor too. Cecily and Isabella will have to grieve you, will be forced to remember the night their father was taken from them and Edward and Marie will spend the rest of their days wishing they'd been there to say goodbye!"

She snatched her hand away, her hot breath pooling in a misty cloud before her face then vanishing into the darkness "Je vivrai toujours sans la moitié de mon âme! Condamné à porter une plaie béante qui saigne jour et nuit, inondant ce qui reste de moi et alourdissant chacun de mes pas." 'I will forever live without half of my soul! Doomed to carry a gaping wound that bleeds day and night, drenching what's left of me and weighing down my every step.'

She sniffed, pulling the handkerchief from her sleeve and wiping her face. Why didn't he speak to her? Why didn't he reply?

"Edward was forced to kill his bastard brother - your son! The other languishes in the tower and I will not harm him, Ned, but what life can he have? What existence that does not tear him limb from limb? What nights can our Edward have of peaceful rest when he will forever be haunted by blood and blades? When he no doubt fears in his heart that you'd be angry with him for it! Et quel repos puis-je avoir en craignant, en sachant que je t'ai trahi dans la mort?" 'And what rest can I have fearing, knowing, I betrayed you in death?'

Her mind told her the opposite but she payed no heed to it and reached through the windows again.

"Could you not have at least taken me with you?" She laughed, smiling painfully through her tears "I would've liked to see our little James again. Sweet boy. To see if he'd grown in God's arms or if he remains the darling child I lost. You see him, you hold him, why can I not when I am his mother and have been so for twenty four years?" With a shake of her head and a weary sigh, she leant back upon the stone behind her, gazing at his smooth skull bathed in a flickering amber light, the empty eyes, craters of dark black that should've been filled with pure white and merry blue "I know our children need me here and I would not wish to be from their sight but they need you too, Ned. I need you."

Yet that did not matter. He wouldn't rise from his bed of stone and earth no matter how much he was needed and she wept because of it.

But still, the witch was dead, Arthur was defeated and the entire country was clamouring for the love of her son. They had peace, they had victory and she was beside her beloved again.

Standing on trembling legs, she brushed down her skirts and looked upon the sculpted face of Edward's 'living' effigy. Her fingers traced his carved golden curls, his engraved robes, the moulded hand outstretched and awaiting. Hers settled on his cheek. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to his cold brow and then his icy lips.

Constance sighed, staring into blank irises of cerulean paint.

"Now I can mourn you as I should have."