~Fallen Roses~

January 1461....

Constance awoke to the sound of hooves falling quickly upon cobble beneath her bedchamber window. It was no gentle return to the world, it was short and sharp (as was the pace of the horses below) like snapping from a trance but she had become used to such a rough ritual.

Since Edward departed London and the death of their beloved son, she'd slept fretfully, awakening at the slightest noise. Each creak she heard, each shriek of an owl or flicker of light from the dying hearth would send her from the warm safety of her covers; emerald eyes searching for her husband's youthful face.

She wished to hold him, for him to hold her, to mourn their boy alongside him instead of alone.

Every time, she was disappointed and would feel her heart sink deep into her stomach. To her it was like following a beacon of hopeful light in the darkness only for it to burn out when she came just a breath away, leaving her to drift into uneasy slumber once more. Even when sleep was achieved it was of little comfort to her because each time she closed her eyes, James' face would be there, Edward's face too.

He would smile, pearly white teeth glinting in the sunlight and flecks of gold shining within the pale blue depths of his adoring eyes, holding their darling son in his arms. When the sun set over England it was both a blessing and a torture.

Not that night, a night that she would remember for the rest of her life.

It would be burned unwillingly into her brain as surely as an iron brand would burn into her skin, melding it's searing memory to the flesh of her soul.

A distant church struck two melodic chimes into the chilling January air when Constance forced herself to sit up upon hearing the whinny returning horses. In the dark, her hands fumbled for her bed robe, curling around the blue velvet and pulling it over her nightgown.

She had almost been tempted to forget it for inside her chest, her heart had begun to pound.

'Edward, Edward, Edward!'  her mind cried, almost reeling with releif. He had come back to her, she was sure of it! For two months he'd been away, eight weeks of lonely nights spent wrapped in cold sheets without the warmth of another beside her. Oh, how she missed the comforting strength of his arms around her body!

'No more!' She thought as she padded across the wooden floorboards to the dimly lit door. One, two three, four, five....she counted the beats of her heart, feeling a hopeful thump in her chest with each number. It did little calm her. Nothing could calm her, not with her love so near as she was so sure he was!

Edward, Edward, Edward!

She couldn't take another breath before a piercing scream filled the air, one of pure anguish and despair. It was scratching, clawed from its victim who sounded like she were dying at the hands of the pain thrust into her heart.

There was no mistaking the scream of her Cecily Neville.

A young girl's cry followed, quickly muffled by being pulled against the front of her Mother's nightgown. Still, Constance heard every syllable of her cousin's tormented weeping. Her chest began to rapidly rise and fall, but no longer in anticipation, it was in fear. She felt her blood run cold within her heated veins and shivered, realising that she still stood but a foot out of her room before she forced herself to move forward.

Each step was akin to driving a new blade into her body and she grimaced as the cries of a Mother, her daughter and now her two young sons echoed through the vast castle. They seemed to grow louder with each second. She shook her head once, twice, three times when she reached the top of the winding staircase that would take her to the great hall, almost in denial of the clear despair around her.

One hand curled around the oaken banister, allowing her to steady herself slightly before she descended but when she reached the bottom and her bare feet brushed the cold stone floor, her legs began to quake.

A shaking breath ghosted past her lips, the lower of which began to tremble while her eyes were forced to take in the scene around her.

In the centre of the vast hall was Duchess Cecily but not the grand, statuesque figure Constance was used to seeing, clad in glistening jewels. She was in a heap of white silk upon the floor, her golden hair unbound; a tangled heap hiding her face which was buried against Margaret's shoulder. The fourteen year old clung desperately to her Mother, heavy tears rolling down her alabaster cheeks and sputtering cries, almost choked, escaping her throat.

Beside them York's youngest sons, George and Dickon, clung to one another in a rare embrace. Both were weeping but a moment later the youngest of the pair tore himself away from his brother and ran to the stairs, pushing past Constance with a broken-hearted sob.

"Dead" she heard the little boy sob as he stumbled up the stairs, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his nightshirt "dead, dead, dead...."

But it was not this nor the sight of such a great family brought so low that made her freeze again; it was the man standing just a few feet to the side of the weeping Yorks.

The Earl of Warwick was slumped against the wall, his boots and breeches muddied and damp from riding through nights upon nights of English winter to deliver his news. His eyes, normally so stern and all-seeing were puffy, rimmed with the type of heated redness an onslaught of relentless crying brought.

She'd never seen a man cry, not even her own Father when her sister had died, though he'd mourned her deeply.

Now Warwick did, his tired face crumpling when caught sight of her figure lingering at the foot of the winding stairs.

"Tell her" Cecily mumbled, her composed voice unusually hoarse in her anguish when she too saw Constance. Warwick only looked at his Aunt, hot tears stinging his eyes "Tell her, Richard!" She commanded but he shook his head.

"I can't, Aunt Cis...." He choked on his words like he would on poison, broad shoulders slumping in a sorrowful defeat. It was an almost pitiful sight to Constance but, in that moment, he scared her. He scared her more than he would in his anger even more than l when he took Edward into battle.

His sadness scared her more than anything else on earth, to see a man she thought of as strong, indestructible, now show weakness, made her tremble where she stood. If he had been brought so low, what would his next words reduce her to? Tears pooled in her eyes but she swallowed and forced herself to speak.

'Dead, dead, dead' Dickon's words echoed in her ears, a never ending torment that corroded her mind, her very will to remain strong. She had to know, she had to know who was dead, who was gone from the world, lost to the house of York.

"Tell me" She croaked as one hot tear escaped her eye, slowly rolling down her right cheek to drip onto her nightgown. Warwick shook his head and Constance's face crumpled just like his had done before she ran through the chamber. Her feet pounded across the floor and when she reached the Earl, she grabbed roughly onto the sleeve of his doublet and swung him around to face her, looking imploringly up at him.

It was something she'd never dreamt of doing but pure desperation had driven her to it. She had to know. She had to know "Tell me" Her voice broke slightly, each breath she took shaking, she had to know, she had to know it wasn't Edward who was slain. She wouldn't be able to bear that, not the death of her husband after her baby "Please...." Warwick hesitated yet again but she could see his lips trying to form words and soon, he spoke.

"The Duke of York is dead"

Another heartbroken scream tore from Cecily's throat and Margaret cried even harder against her Mother, pulling eleven year old George into their tight embrace. The little boy curled up in her arms, covering his head with his hands as if someone had tried to strike him.

Constance's arms dropped limply to her side, she could not think, she could barely breathe anymore; felt what little oxygen she had managed to cling to leave her lungs. All sense of strength fled her body.

It could not be true, the Duke could not be dead, he was the rightful King and one of her protectors....it couldn't be. It couldn't be....

"Who else?" She whispered for she could tell that was not the end....it was far from the end. She had to repeat herself twice before her Warwick found it in himself to reply and even then she could barely hear his words.

"My Father" he murmured, unable to look her in the eye "My brother, Tom, and" a strangled, grief filled noise escaped him, one she'd never dreamt he could conjure which only served to scared her more. A sob made his shoulders heave and a fresh wave of tears stream down his damp face "I can't...." He whispered, turning away fully "I can't...."

A stab of unknown pain drove itself into Constance's heart at that....there was only one other of significant note who had travelled with the York army to the North. Only one whom Warwick would show such grief for, only one for whom Cecily would look at her with a look of incomparable despair and heartbreak on her lovely face, as she did now, for.

It was a look of a parent, of a Mother, who'd lost a child.

And that child was Edmund.

"Tell me" She stammered, her fingers curling into trembling fists. She dug her nails into her palms until she was sure they would break the skin, hoping that the pain would wake her from this unbearable nightmare that had consumed her life "Tell me it's not true"

Cecily cocked her head to the side, stroking her daughter's dark hair with a trembling hand before shaking her head. She closed her eyes and began to weep again, her entire body shaking with grief. Her lips parted but it was an eternal moment before any words were forced to leave.

"My boy....my Edmund...." Margaret sobbed even harder than before, mumbling broken pleas for Cecily to not speak the words that had to be said "They've killed him...." Eyes of blue, bright with tears, were forced open, locking with ones of emerald green "he's dead, dear one"

She bent her golden head once more, taking to sobbing into Margaret's shoulder and her children cried, destroyed in their greif.

Without another breath, without another thought, Constance turned and ran, the desolate cries of her York kin echoing behind her. She tore up the winding steps, tripping on the skirt of her nightgown so that she had to cling firmly to the bannister until reach the floor where her chamber was.

"No" She breathed, stumbling through the door and heading towards her bed. Thomas was dead, his Father was dead, the Duke of York was dead, Edmund was dead.

The Duke: her Father in law and leader of the House; the very soul of their cause.

Edmund: sweet, kind Edmund, her brother in law she'd warmed to quicker than the sun, only a year older than she was....and slain.

Thomas: Richard's brother who could even raise a laugh from the dead, she'd wagered, bright eyed and carrying the sharpest wit God could create.

The Earl of Salisbury: Richard and Thomas' Father, Cecily's older brother, one of York's key supporters.

All were dead.

The very heart of the House of York had been ripped out, leaving trails of tears to melt the winter snow covering the hard ground.

Never again would she see their smiles or hear their jolly laughter at a feast. They were now the ghosts that little children feared, the souls that those in chapel prayed for.

They were now the legends that starred in the stories told to the young. Constance would give anything in the world to be able to say that they were not.

A sob tore through her body and one hand clutched desperately at her chest, curling into her nightgown, half greif for the dead, half fear for the living. What if Edward was next?

"Dead, dead, dead, dead" She whispered just like little Dickon had done "dead, dead, dead" At least her baby boy would now be cared for in heaven?

A small sniff alerted her to sudden attention, making her head jerk up and her eyes dart around almost wildly in her anguish. She heard another small sniff just a moment later then another. It was clear that the noises were meant to be smothered beneath a linen sleeve but the little boy they belonged to was too trapped in unhappiness to hold his trembling arm firm.

Taking a breath, Constance slowly slid downwards to the floor and peered underneath her bed where her tear-filled eyes could just make out the curled up form of the youngest York. Little Dickon's body trembled while he cried, thin legs pulled up to his chest and his face buried in his knees.

"Dead" She heard him say once more though his voice was strangled, breaking in grief at each new sound that passed his bleeding lips. He had bitten the delicate skin clean away in an effort to wake himself from this nightmare but now they simply hurt as much as his heart did.

For once she did not envy the young for she was sure her mind was able to comprehend these harrowing horrors much better than his and her heart hurt all the more for him. Death was but a single word to him, the final syllable spoken in the word of life before a definite farewell of silence.

To him, death meant loneliness and tears, the harsh truth that he would never see his Father or his brother again, yet, he did not understand, not truly. They were simply gone from the world like leaves when they fell from their branches in autumn, never to be seen again, and leaving the tree they'd grown upon bare and neglected; unprotected from the merciless elements of the chilling season to come.

"Dickon?"

The little boy raised his head and even in the darkness Constance could see the way his dark blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. His Father's eyes....ones that had been bright with joy whenever he'd held her son and affection when he'd named her his daughter.

Dickon shook his head and bent it into his knees once again. He looked so small to her in that moment, so helpless and she was filled with an urgent need to protect him.

Shuffling further to the floor, Constance was at first worried she would not fit but managed to slide comfortably under the bed, edging across the cold stone until she had reached the curled up little boy. He immediately cuddled into her as James did, his small body pressing against hers in a desperate need for the presence of another, of any other. His dark hair tickled her neck as he nuzzled gently into it.

"Dead" She heard him whisper again while her arms went around him, cradling him close just like she did for her lost son. All she could do in reply to that single word was nod and hold him closer. She could not bring herself to confirm the reason for tears with words, although, under the bed, a small world of tentative refuge, she could almost convince herself that it was not true.

The four dead would come back under banners of victory and all would be well, the Duke would be King, she and Edward would be the Prince and Princess of Wales! The House of York would be strong, it would rule....

It was a house now burning into nothing more than ashes but, unlike the Phoenix who did the same, there seemed no path or way in the world for York to rise again. No, all that was left for them to do was be engulfed by the bloodthirsty jaws of Lancaster whose teeth would tear into their flesh and tear them limb from limb without mercy; would tear Edward apart.

"They did not only kill him"

She looked down at the little boy cradled in her arms when he spoke again and realised his crying had subsided somewhat; that he was now looking up at her in earnest.

"What?" She whispered. What did he mean? What could be worse than death? She realised with a pang she did not want to know, it was enough that those she loved were dead, she did not want to know how they had suffered, how long they had suffered before the beat of their hearts dwindled away into nothingness.

But there was no stopping Dickon.

With another sniffle, he wiped his nose on his sleeve and continued to peer up at her with a hunted look no child should carry, consuming his eyes.

"They...." He trailed away then grimaced "they....threw Edmund's body into a river so it could not be buried and.... stuck his head on a spike with the others.... Father, Eddie, Tom....all of them. Like traitors, Connie" his nose scrunched up slightly in saddening confusion "are we traitors too?"

Dickon waited a moment before gently prodding her arm when she did not reply. For a moment he feared Constance had become a ghost like his Father and Brother for she stared at him without any life in her eyes, her skin paling even further.
"Spikes....the river...."

The little boy nodded at the single whispered word and curled up again, burying his damp face in her neck while she began to cry against him. Under the bed, they clung to one another as each other's only constant comfort in the world. All around them the cries of their kin echoed throughout Baynards Castle, filling each dark corner with an aura of grief that would never be removed like a stubborn stain.

꧁꧂

When the first rays of dawn finally struck the diamond shaped panes of glass set in the chamber window, filling it with light, Constance was still awake. She lay beneath the covers of her bed just as she would upon any other night but sleep did not claim her then and would not for a long time.

That day the sun did not bring hope to her heart nor joy to her mind, the golden rays brought nothing but pain to her while she stared aimlessly at the wooden beams supporting the ceiling. For hours upon hours she had been staring at the carved wood, memorising each crack, each line while her mind reeled and her heart ached.

This new day not only brought a new dawn but a new life, a life without life, filled by sable veils and heavy gowns of the same hue that would serve as armour to protect her body from any shard of happiness that dared to pierce her shroud of grief.

Constance was not sure how long she and Dickon had spent under her bed within their small world of secret refuge. All she vaguely remembered upon the fringes of her mind was that the little boy had fallen into a fitful sleep within her arms and eventually his Mother fetched him.

George clung to the hand Dickon did not and the two were quickly dressed by their nurses before being ushered to Warwick. He was charged with taking them to the docks where a ship waited to take them into exile in Burgundy, a place Constance suggested instead of the shores of Ireland Cecily initially planned.

She would write to her sister, Isabella and she would keep the two boys safe.

During those hurried hours, despite the harrowing chaos and fear, she couldn't help but feel her respect and awe for the Duchess increase, soaring high. Even in grief, she thought of her boys, even with tears streaking her face and her shattered heart hardly beating within her chest, she thought of her family.

By dawn, her sons were gone and Warwick was riding North (with King Henry to avoid Lancastrian rescue should they take London) to join Edward leaving two little boys, eight and eleven, alone in the world but for each other. She couldn't imagine how terrified they'd be.

She remained in her bed as the sun rose, its beams slowly filling her chamber with light she despised. She wished that the moon would return and fill her world with the same darkness the night carried, how could the Lord inflict sun upon England on such a dark day? At least the birds did not sing, no, they were as silent as the grave.

Dickon's words weren't. As he clung to her, the little boy had begun to mumble more and more of what he had heard Warwick tell his grieving Mother. Though he did not know it, his words would plague his family for many years to come, torturing them in dreams, their nightmares and whenever they heard the dreaded name of Wakefield.

That had been where the armies of York and Lancaster clashed, in a swirling storm of snow and sleet that stung their faces and tangled their hair. The day was cold, the frost biting and the wind chilling to the bone. Knights shivered beneath the confines of their iron armour, the white roses painted upon their pauldrons indistinguishable from the unique icy flecks around them.

The York forces were scattered outside of the castle, hurting to grab their pikes and scramble into their set ranks. Compared to the ordered Lancastrians that stood below the towering hill where Sandal Castle lay, they looked a royal rabble.

But they had not been prepared.

Since it was Christmas, a time of sacred celebration and peace, an uneasy truce between the two factions had been formed but the Lancastrians had not honoured it. On New Year's Eve they had gathered their troops from nearby Pontefract and marched to Wakefield. Unannounced, they had arrived at York's gates (a shock to all who resided inside) and panic arose within the castle walls.

The Yorkist Lords had quickly decided that they could not withstand a siege, they had not the provisions for such an undertaking, but neither could they run.

They had no choice but to fight despite not knowing the might of their enemy who lay in wait with malicious intent. Beneath the castle lay a thick woodland and there could be no telling how many troops the Lancastrians had hidden within their depths but they had no other option.

Fight and win or fight and die was the choice that faced them and so the Duke of York had issued orders for his men to prepare for battle. All had snapped to attention, gathering their weapons and armour, snapping armour into place, sliding swords and daggers into sheaths. The castle had been alive with ominous activity and the promise of a battle that loomed over them; a stormy gravestone.

In long lines of clanking metal they had marched out into the cold, the Duke and his seventeen year old son sitting proud and tall upon their armoured destriers. Their banners fluttered behind them, though the blue and murrey of York could hardly be seen amongst the swirl of snow that surrounded the two armies, trapping them in an icy standoff.

Soon the material no longer flew in the wind, lying limp against the wooden pole on which it was carried, held down by the snow that melted upon the linen.

Drawing his sword, the Duke had been the first to move, leading his forces down the hill of Sandal castle in a determined charge that ignited the fight within his men. Beneath clouds of swirling sleet grey, the two armies had clashed, staining the snow beneath their boots a deep crimson similar to the hue of their favoured wines.

But unlike wine, the smell that filled the air was not sweet, it held a bitter and metallic odour that reeked of death, mingling with the scratching screams torn from dying and injured men. The Yorkists fought valiantly but that sad day they were no match for the forces of Lancaster that soon overwhelmed them.

First Thomas Neville had been struck down along with his men and then the Duke of York and his son. Together they had fought off the relentless attacks that were sent their way, pushing away the hacking blades of bloodied metal that tried in vain to kill them where they stood.

When it became all too clear that the day was lost and at any moment he would die, York had pushed his son away, telling him to flee, to live and fight another day. Edmund had reluctantly complied, accompanied by Robert Aspall, and together they had fled the feild, stumbling blindly through drifts of snow in an attempt to reach the chapel on the other side of Wakefield bridge.

That attempt would prove in vain for as the young Earl of Rutland stumbled across the bridge, blinded by snow he was apprehended by one who would soon be known as the Butcher of England.

Lord Clifford.

His Father had been slain at St Albans and now he sought revenge, the perfect opportunity for which came when he saw Edmund Plantagenet. The Lord's brutal men struck the young Earl down without the slightest hesitance, sending him to the floor with a groan of pain before hauling him before Clifford.

"Save him!" Robert Aspall had begged when he saw the Lancastrian Lord draw his knife, a glint of murder in his eyes when he looked at Edmund who was being forced to kneel before him. The wind stung his face but still Edmund did not tear his gaze from his murderer, he was a son of York, he would not cower.

"Save him!" Robert pleaded again "for he is a Prince's son and peradventure may do you good hereafter!" His shouted words proved useless for Prince's son or not Clifford would have his revenge and, stepping forward, drove his dagger into Edmund neck, watching as he let out a strangled cry and the life drained from his eyes.

Moments later his body lay limp against the snow, limbs contorted in a pool of his own fresh blood that seeped into the ice around.

Many would think that that was enough horror for one winters day but while the battle of Wakefield may have been at an end, the aftermath proved to be just as (if not more) brutal. The next day, the Earl of Salisbury was executed at pontefract and his head, along with the heads of his son, the Duke of York and Edmund were all impaled on spikes and set upon Micklegate bar in York upon the orders of the Duke of Somerset.

It was there they were now left to fester and rot with crows picking at their eyes and hair, York's bearing a paper crown intending to mock him and his cause.

It was a fate Constance now feared for Edward. As the eldest son of York, his Father's cause was his to uptake, even in greif he would be expected to lead, expected to fight. Edward was strong, her beloved husband was strong but his dead kin had been strong, victory had been in reach when they were in London and now their heads were on spikes, what prevented the same fate befalling him?

She could only pray he would survive and as she waited for news of victory, she would comfort the broken hearts of defeat.