~Grief~

There was never any true belief amongst the Yorkists that their enemies would let go of the Lancastrian cause with willing hands. Despite that, it had been said often, a flippant remark spoken from lips drunk on the hope of the victory the Act of Accord did not bring.

By November of 1460, the country had already begun to rumble with rumours of Lancastrian insurgency that soon became more fact than fiction.

First, in Wales where the Duke of York's eldest son was quickly dispatched in what was to be his first true taste of the leadership he had long yearned for; a true chance to prove himself that had seen him depart the capital with no less than the most enthusiastic aura alongside his cousin, Warwick.

He'd seen his wife off merrily, with a firm kiss that made Duchess Cecily arch her eyebrows (though not entirely disapprovingly) and while Constance had done her best to seem merry too, she was all worry.

Then the ever rebellious North (now a snakes nest where the Lancastrian nobles festered in their rage) began to muster men into a new army fulled with soldiers Queen Marguerite had brought forth upon her return from Scotland. Edward had been right, she would never lay down her sword while she still drew breath.

But the Yorkists certainly meant to try and force her.

The Duke announced that he would lead his men to the North and crush the Lancastrian rebels that were growing more virile by the day. This was an uprising that could not be allowed to strengthen. He said Edmund, the Earl of Salisbury and his son, Thomas Neville, were to accompany him to the wild northlands where their enemies lay and together they would crush the Lancastrian cause underfoot.

If only they had known the extent of the danger, the strength that their enemies had managed to muster during their months void of power over England.

A bitter and hateful anger boiled relentlessly inside of the Lancastrian leaders, each of whom were eager for revenge upon the house of York to pay for the lives of the kin that had been lost during the fight.

The Duke of Somerset, Earl of Northumberland and the feared Baron Clifford had each lost their Fathers at the battle of St Albans five years prior and now took up arms once more, hellbent on revenge that would only be payed with York and Neville blood.

Blood they were willing to spill by any means to achieve their ends, and would, upon a field of crimson stained snow and broken cries of a boy deemed ready to fight but not ready to die.

There was not a soul among the families of York or Neville that would be left unscarred or untouched by the consequences of the Lancastrian's undying bloodlust.

༻᯽༺

December 1460, London....

"You see, Dickon" Constance said, nose pressed to the window like the little boy beside her as they watched the snowflakes fall "each one is different" She'd asked George if he'd like to join too but he'd declared their activity too childish and promptly scurried away to find Isabel who was always sure to praise his every waking move!

Dickon didn't appear to miss his older brother's company.

"As each person is different!" He replied, proud he was able to respond when he often found he understood little in the company of adults "I wonder how God has time to create them all!"

Constance chuckled, glancing down at the boy beside her. Dickon was a curious little thing, rather like a puppy, always staring at one thing or another with his great blue eyes, always silently questioning. The spirit of innocent youth.

"Will the Lord bring my Father victory?"
It was perhaps the one thing unintentionally cruel in a child's innocence, they couldn't gage the effect their little questions had on others. To Dickon, it was simply another matter to be answered, to Constance, it was a reminder of all her worry.

And what could she possibly say? As much as she sought to soothe the children when they worried for their kin, she wouldn't lie to them for the sake of their peace! She wouldn't make promises she couldn't keep despite praying to God and his Saints those forbidden vows would quickly come to fruition.

"I am sure God is with your Father" She said after a moment, turning away from the window to settle herself in the cushioned seat below "He is with all of us, loving us, guiding us, protecting us. I carry my rosary to remind me"

"I've seen it!" Dickon exclaimed, a chance to prove his knowledge having him clamber down beside her. His chubby fingers plucked the emerald rosary from where it lay on her crimson skirts, looped around a silver girdle "It's here!" She nodded with a smile, watching his small legs swing back and forth in the air. One day, her son would grow to be like dear Dickon! Curious and eager to please, questioning the world around him!

Perhaps Dickon would be the one to answer his queries?

"Connie?" Margaret's voice rang clear throughout the hallways, her hurried footsteps pounding on the passage stone "Constance!" She cried and Constance sprung to her feet, holding out a hand to stop young Dickon from doing the same. His sister's voice cried out in worry, making his little heart and one hand reach for the dagger strapped to his belt Ned had given him before he left.

'Protect them' He'd instructed, holding his shoulder while George watched on enviously 'Protect them all' Dickon was ready to do his duty but it was only Constance his older sister wanted when she burst through the door, red-cheeked; out of breath.

"Constance" She panted "Come quick it's...."
She didn't have to say it for Constance's heart to start pounding.
"Jamie..."

Skirts bunched in her fists, she fled the room, running down the corridors with her mind screaming for her son. Soon, she began to hear his cries, an echoing torture bouncing from every wall. Her eyes darted back and forth like a crazed animal searching for the helpless cub mewling in distress for her.

Her son....
Her baby boy.....

She felt her heart near break when she pushed open the nursery door, breaking the final barrier between her and her precious baby. Cecily was already there, standing by the crib with a look of knowing despair and Constance ran to her side, collapsing to her knees beside the cot.

Inside, her son tossed and turned on his back, his blankets discarded as his chubby limbs thrashed back and forth. Cecily place a tender hand on her daughter's shoulder but it was shrugged away as she thrust a hand into the crib, letting out a sob when she found her baby's skin burning.

"No....no, no no....James....no, not my little boy" She'd often heard tales of cot fever,, a merciless disease that killed many, no matter how strong the babe was. Constance shook her head, stroking the hair clinging to her son's forehead, damp with sweat. He could not die, not her boy, her sweet precious baby, Edward's only son! Her only child!

"What happened?" She screamed at the nearby nurse who trembled at the wretchedness in her voice, wringing her hands.

"I....I don't know, my Lady" She stammered, eliciting a cry of distress from Constance "I left to fetch new linens for his Lordship and when I returned...."

"Why did you leave him?" She sobbed, turning back to the crib "Why....why did you leave my boy?" Screwing her eyes shut, tears streamed down her face and James' pitiful wails echoed in her ears. It was not meant to be this way, her son was not meant to die, he was meant to grow strong, it was his destiny to be a King!

"Help him!" She cried, looking around at the others. Why were they not helping? Why were they not running to fetch a physician? Why weren't they running mad trying to find a cure? "For heaven's sake help him! Don't just stand there, please! Fetch water! Write to Edward, tell him to come back, I beg of you!"

"Connie, it will be too late...."
"Too late for what, pray tell?" She demanded of Margaret who looked at her feet "for my son's death? No...." She shook her head "No, Margaret, my son will not die....not this night nor any night soon"

"Constance...."
"No!" She cried, halting Cecily's words, the softness to the Duchess's voice a tell-tale sign of her thoughts "No! My son cannot die, he will live, I will watch him grow"

James only wailed as she drew him from his cot, holding his burning body against her chest while she sobbed, willing the illness to leave him, praying with all her might for God to save him "Please" She whispered through her tears, each of his small cries tearing her heart open, bleeding pain into her body "Please, don't leave me, please....please...."

In her pool of skirts, she sobbed, and in her arms, her little boy wailed.

༻᯽༺

By nightfall, James' wailing had stopped and his little body lay still amongst the rumpled blankets in his crib, thrashed away in his distress. The last wheezing breath had left his lips as the sun bid farewell, dipping below the horizon and his soft skin had turned cold, white like porcelain so he appeared doll-like in death.

His sixteen year old Mother sat by him, a ghost of a girl, her cheeks pale and streaked with a thousand tears crafted by the thousand pieces of her shattered heart. Her baby was dead. The little life she'd created, grown over nine long months in her belly was no more, now a mere memory in her grieving mind.

It was a cruel thing, to watch your child die, to love someone so much, swear to protect each hair on their head and then, when it truly mattered, be unable to help them at all. He'd cried, he'd wailed, little hands flailing against her skin, begging his Mother to make him better but all she'd been able to do was watch and cry; holding him tight.

Now, his little soul was ascended to heaven, it had slipped through her fingers like a veil of smoke, vanishing before her eyes. She would never feel his comforting weight in her arms again, she would never look upon him as he slept again for a permanent sleep had claimed him and his bed would now be beneath the earth.

Her husband had gone to battle and now her son to God. Perhaps Edward would die too, she thought, staring blankly at the carpeted floor. Perhaps her husband would die and then she would truly be alone in the world. Perhaps she would be sent back to France, a widow and a failed Mother.

"What will I do without you?" She whispered, stroking a finger along one icy cheek, it's rosiness vanished "Oh my baby....my sweet James...." What would Edward say? What would Edward do? Would he be angry with her? He'd professed his love but his only legitimate son had been lost in her care. Perhaps she should've kept him with her at all times, perhaps she should've watched over him night and day.....

But there had been no need to, he was healthy, he was strong!

And he was dead.

When James' nurse came to take him away to the chapel, she did not stir so deep in grief was she, she only watched, her soul tearing in two as the little bundle carrying her son was stolen from her sight. She would never be happy again, she thought, not ever. How could she be happy when her son had been ripped from her arms?

Eventually, Cecily ordered her carried to her rooms and that was there she stayed for the next two days, unable to think, unable to move, unable to feel anything but pain. She ate very little, only letting the small morsels Margaret or her Mother coaxed past her lips.

Not once did she speak.
Not even in prayer.

She couldn't if she wanted to, she'd cried and screamed herself hoarse, but she didn't want to. She didn't want anything but to have her boy again and so lay silent on her bed, trapped in a world of darkness no amount of candles could bring light to. James was her light and God had blown out his little flame in a single puff.

She was lost.

On the third day, the lithe figure of Cecily Neville glided into her rooms, garbed in flowing robes of royal purple and black, a rosary wound around her fingers. Pausing momentarily to cross herself before the small prie dieu under the window, she floated to the bed, perching gently beside Constance on the covers.

Her daughter in law lay there silently, still in the same gown she'd worn the night her son died, her hair becoming a tangled mess upon the pillow. Shards of light fell onto her pale face, highlighting the glistening trail of fresh tears streaking her cheeks, dampening the pillows below.

She looked so small, curled into herself like a babe.
'A child who's lost a child' Cecily thought sadly.

"I know it may be of little comfort, dear one" She murmured tenderly "but I thought it may bring you some solace if you knew" She drew in a sharp breath, contemplating the words on the top of her tongue for a moment "I too grieve for a child...." Constance sniffed, her green eyes flicking up to her Mother's.

"You do?"

"I do....my youngest daughter, Ursula" A sad smile flickered across Cecily's rosebud lips and she looked to the sheets, plucking at the tassels on the coverlet. The image of a little girl danced across her mind, a pretty girl bearing her golden hair and her husband's dark eyes "She was always a small thing, the softest breeze would knock the colour from her in winter and well, last winter we were in Lancastrian captivity and....that was when God decided to take her from me"

Constance pushed her head from the pillows, one hand trying to wipe away the tears marking her face.
"I'm sorry, Lady Mother"

"Hush child" Cecily replied, shaking her head "I do not come here looking for your sympathies, I come to bestow mine. I know your pain all too well and I am so very sorry for your loss" It took only a moment, a fleeting, painful moment before Constance's face crumpled and fresh tears sprung to her eyes.

"Why....why would he do this?" She whispered, leaning back against the headboard "why would be punish me so?" Cecily had no need to ask who he was.
"It is not in our power to ask why God's will is his wish but we know he tests us in our faith"

"I am willing to be tested!" Constance cried, two heavy tears dripping down her cheeks "but not....not this way, not when my own babe is ripped from me....he is in God's paradise, in his care, but he should be in mine! He should be here, Lady Mother, he should be with me! He is meant to be King!" Was her mind grieved, he was meant to be a King "what did I do? What did I do wrong, Mother? What sins have I committed?"

"Do not think that way, Constance!" It was comforting but an order all the same "Never think that way when you lose a child or you will drag yourself into madness. You have done nothing wrong, nothing. You are a dutiful wife and you were a dutiful mother, no" She corrected even firmer "You are a dutiful Mother and each babe you have will be blessed"

Constance shook her head, drawing her knees up to her chest.

"I don't want another!" She protested, the very thought the highest treason "I want Jamie!"

"I know" Cecily sighed, taking her hand "God knows I've pined and grieved for every child I've lost but we are women, Constance, while wars provide the battlefield's of men, the birthing bed provides ours. It is our duty. One day you will be Queen, you will have to wade through blood to keep your crown and you will know loss you must be stronger!"

Constance grimaced. She didn't want to wade through blood, she didn't want to lose more children!
"I knew I wasn't meant to be a Queen...."

"Yes you were" Cecily corrected instantly, as if she knew, as if she was so sure there could be no doubt "I've seen that since the first day I laid eyes on you. You appear shy and demure, the perfect wife in every way a man could hope but I also see you are strong, you possess a strength that could command a thousand men, burn a thousand kingdoms, you just have not found it yet"

Seeing the doubt in Constance's face she grabbed her hand, forcing her to look up. If she didn't believe she could be a Queen then she would show her, she would make her see what she couldn't, she would teach her all.

"You have strength and you have boldness, Constance. Cry, weep, grieve but then take that grief and let it make you stronger, let it make you indestructible so that even if you ever lost your crown, none could deny you were a Queen. Do not let this win, for Edward's sake, James' sake and your own, do not let the darkness defeat you when there is light to be found"

The girl looked to the window, casting her eyes to the glimpses of blue sky above. Her heart still grieved, her body aching with pain but somewhere, in the back of her mind, a small spark told her Cecily was perhaps right. No, she didn't want to wade through blood, she didn't want to lose more children but perhaps, if she had to then she could....

For Edward she would.
For her children she would....but all she could hear were James' pitiful cries, his mewling wails that grew weaker and weaker as his body gave out.

"I wish to sleep" She murmured and turned away into darkness once more.