~Balancing on a Knife's Edge~

February 1461, Baynards Castle....

Constance spent the next two months cocooned within the agony of her heart and mind, the former grieving for her baby boy and lost kin, the latter ever pained with anxiety for her husband.

He was truly York's last hope.
Her last hope.

Her only distraction was caring for the broken hearted of Baynards, namely Margaret and her greif-ridden Mother. While Cecily had remained strong during the hours after the news of her kin's death - perhaps for the sake of the children, perhaps because of shock - in the days, weeks and months after - she was a shell of herself, barely human at all. Barely alive.

She was a ghost as if her husband's death had torn away her soul and ascended to heaven with his, refusing to be parted, leaving her body a lifeless doll drowned in black velvet to be cared for. That was what Constance did, care for her Mother in law, sending away her ladies in waiting apart from when she cared for Margaret.

She fed her what few spoonfuls of porridge she could ease past her chapped lips, the once soft skin now cracked and bleeding from the amount of times she'd bitten them, trying to conceal her sobs.

That was Cecily's way, the remainder of Proud Cis forcing her to lock away the brunt of her grief in the presence of others but Constance knew she wasn't the only one that heard Cecily's broken cries every night, she wasn't the only one who saw the shattered remains of vases and mirrors hurled against the wall in grieving anger; the deep cuts they left on the Duchess' hands.

She sat in her bed, or in a chair by the window and stared ahead of her, absorbed in another world or in darkness, Constance could never tell.

Margaret was less trapped in greif, still bound but able to live a little of her life. After two weeks she ventured from her chambers, after a month she began to take walks in the gardens. Constance was always with her, their arms firmly linked, listening when she mourned, comforting when she cried.

Most of all, Margaret wanted her little brothers back. She feared for their safety, that their boat would sink in the sea no matter how many times Constance showed her the letter from her sister saying the boys were safe.

"They must be so scared" She lamented daily "they must be so alone, Dickon's French is good but he is not fluent, nor is George!"

They could only wait and wonder for any scrap of news arriving from across the sea or within their own war-torn land. Each arriving missive was a piece in the game the wheel of fortune played, a never ending circle of anxiety, waiting with each cracked seal for the axe of failure to fall, bringing the hearts of those who saw it to a stop until it was opened. More often than not, that task was left to Constance.

Edward was soon engaged in battle once more she found when reading Warwick's letter detailing the battle staged at Mortimer's Cross. She'd sunk to her knees and crossed herself twice over upon finding of the miracle that brightened the day, three suns blazing in the sky that made both armies cower in fear.

Not Edward.

Towering high above his men on his great white steed, he announced they should not fear, that it was a sign from God of his favour for the House of York, for its three sons: he George and Richard. Constance could only imagine how much it must've pained him to say those words but they proved worthwhile.

It was a York victory.

When she told Cecily, the woman had not smiled, not shouted with joy, she'd only nodded, slowly crossing herself before she went back to staring out of the frosted window.

Fate did not favour the Yorkists for long, however, and just two weeks later, the Second battle of St Albans was fought, a crushing defeat for the Earl of Warwick. Not only did he lose the battle he also lost King Henry to the Lancastrians, depriving the House of York of their most valuable asset! While he was no warrior, Henry was the Lancastrian leader and Lancaster now had him back.

It sent men flocking to his side and those at Baynards were once more sent flying into a stormy sea of anxiety. Defeat seemed just a hair's breadth away and so Warwick raced North to join Edward and night after night the chapel hosted Constance, kneeling at the alter, praying for God's mercy and, of course, talking to her little baby.

She was there when Margaret ran to fetch her one night, her bare feet scurrying along the cold stone, one arm clutching at the grey wollen shawl hastily wrapped around her slender shoulders.

"Connie!" She whispered, though the alarm in her voice was apparent "Connie!" She repeated and Constance looked over her shoulder, unnerved at the speed Margaret was running towards her.
"You should be resting!" She began to chide, tucking her rosary into her girdle as she stood but Margaret shook her head, taking her roughly by the shoulders.

"No!" She argued hastily "There is no time to rest, the Lancastrian Queen is here! She is at our gates Constance!"

"What?" Constance cried, her voice echoing eerily around them "What do you mean? What of Edward?"
"He is following!" Margaret grabbed her hand, beginning to drag her from the chapel "but you must come, you must come now!"
"Are we to flee? Are we to leave London?"

She ground to a halt, looking at Constance with pleading eyes that made her frown "What? What is it? Why do you look at me like that?" Suddenly her other hand was taken, clasped tight with the first and Margaret took a breath.

"You need to go to the Lord Mayor" She whispered "You need to convince him not to open the gates" Constance's stomach turned to lead, dropping down, down, down to her feet where it lay churning uncomfortably.

"No...." She shook her head "No, no no...."
"But Constance!"
"No!" She cried, breaking away back to the chapel, blood rushing through her veins, dreading the tap of Margaret's shoes behind her "How could you think I could do such a job? I'm French, I'm young I have no...."

"You have to!" The younger girl cried, grabbing her again. Her face no longer merely pleaded, it begged, streaked with fresh tears of fear rolling down flushed cheeks "Ma Mére cannot! She can hardly breathe and they would not listen to me!"
"And why would they listen to me?"
"Because you are their rightful Queen"

Constance inhaled sharply, the words pricking at her heart. Her poor sister was desperate, that was for certain and her faith was sweet but....she couldn't do it! The law declared her the rightful Queen but what use was ink on paper when compared to a crowned Queen with an army at her back?

"Margaret....."
"Please!" Margaret whispered, gripping her hands tighter "Please, Constance, you are our only hope....if Marguerite enters the city, if she and her men are allowed inside the walls" A shiver ran through her "The horrors of Ludlow will come for us tenfold....please, sister, please....what would you do if James was here?"

It was a cruel rout but one borne from desperation and Constance knew her answer immediately.

"Fetch me a horse"

༻᯽༺

Rain spattered in cold drops across her face as Constance rode across London, the soaked wool of her hood no use against the elements. Locks of hair had come free from her simple braid, the chaos of her departure leaving no time to pin it properly, the brown locks darkening to black; sticking to her forehead.

Two guards rode behind her, equally hammered by the rain which pattered in an odd melody of cold misery on their armour. Their horses whinnied, manes soaked, hooves splashing in the muddy puddles in the road, spraying dirty water up their legs.

What was she doing? Constance didn't quite know. Margaret had sent her on her way with tears and a plea to save them all but how would she do that? How could she win an impossible battle? Her heart hammered in her chest, pounding with fear of the unknown, of facing Englishmen who had no reason to listen to a French girl with not an ounce of political experience.

Why, it was more likely they would laugh at her!

If only Cecily were not so consumed in her greif. She wouldn't have to search for words, they would come to her in a fully fledged sonnet ready to woo the listener to her will. She would act as a Queen, the Queen she was meant to be; was prepared to be! It should've been her husband trying to claim the throne, not her son!

But the kind Duke was dead, Constance reminded herself sadly and the destiny she'd expected to come to pass years away, now approached at an alarming speed, on the verge of passing her by entirely if defeat found them all.

If it found her that night.

"We are here, my Lady!" One of the men shouted, his voice muffled by the weather as Constance reigned in before a guarded gatehouse leading to a courtyard.
"Who goes there at this hour?" A voice shouted and she looked down to the two soldiers, as soaked to the skin as she was.

"Lady Constance, Countess of March, here to see the Lord Mayor, Sir Richard!" 'Yes' She thought, that was the name Margaret had told her and after a second or two the men nodded, one marching under the gatehouse.

"This way, my Lady, if you please"
She nodded and steered her horse to follow, breathing a sigh of relief when she entered the courtyard to find flaming torches in their brackets, somehow withstanding the rain. Beneath her cloak she shivered, and halted at the great doors giving entry to their timber-framed house.

Immediately, her guards dismounted, one lifting her to the wet cobblestones and she nodded gratefully, listening to the clank of their armour as they followed the mayor's soldier inside. The warmth of the great hall that washed over them like a heated blanket, renewing the sensation in their frozen faces.

"Go, warm yourselves in the kitchens" Constance told them "and see if you can find something to eat, although not many will be awake at such an hour"
"Should we not stay for your protection, my Lady?"
One asked, glancing uneasily at his companion but she only smiled, well, as much as she could with lips she was sure were about to drop off like dark pink icicles, waving them away.

"You will not be much use to my protection if you catch a chill, now go! I will summon you once my errand is run!" They glanced at each other again, eventually bowing before heading away in the direction they estimated the kitchens would be. It was much the same in each great house! Moments later, a pageboy approached, also bowing when he came before her.

"This way if you please, my Lady" He said and Constance nodded to the guard, silently thanking him as he headed back to his post. Rubbing her frozen hands together to warm them, she followed the servant through the twists and turns of her house, hoping she wasn't too late, praying an order hadn't been sent to open the gates....

At last they came to the top of the stairs, to a door where muffled murmuring could be heard from the other side. The voices were deep, their tones grave. The pageboy knocked before entering.

"The Countess of March" He announced and Constance stepped inside, throwing back her hood and trying not to shiver again as her eyes fell on the four men gathered around a table in the centre of the room looked up. They each towered over her, immediately scrutinising her with their superior male gaze, she could tell, something forcing her to tilt up her chin.

"My Lady" One greeted, surprise evident in his voice, a rather lithe man with a pointed beard rather like the late Duke's and a chain of office hanging heavy on his shoulders. Sir Richard, the Lord Mayor "What are you doing here? 'Tis a dangerous night!"

"Sir Richard" She returned, knowing there was no point in answering his question, he would find out in the next moment or two "I must speak with you and I must speak now for there is little time" She tried not to let desperation seep into her voice, trying to mask it through authority. If he was set upon opening the gates and he knew her fears, there would be little she could do, she had to make him believe she wielded the most power between them or, at least, she held the most advantages for him should he side with York.

It seemed, it worked as a flicker of realisation flitted across Sir Richard's face and he gave a short nod.
"Very well, leave us"

"No" She returned, holding out a hand as the others began to move "let them stay. Let them hear" The men stuttered in their steps, looking to their Lord for an answer. He arched an unconvinced eyebrow.

"If that is what you wish"
"It is"

Slowly, the men retreated to their places and Sir Richard strode over to the hearth where a silver pitcher lay set on a small table.
"Would you care for a little wine?" He offered and Constance almost scoffed at his calm exterior, wondering how he could remain so tranquil in a time of such high stakes.

"No" She quickly refused "this night affords us no such pleasantries, I come here with but one aim" She would make him listen to her, he had to listen to her!
"And what would that be?"

"To secure the future of my family, of all of us" She saw him raise his eyebrows, clearly sceptical, and instantly knew his thoughts. He thought her nothing more than a girl come to beg and a certain defiance rose in her at that, one she'd rarely felt before but it strengthened her resolve further. She would show him, she would not beg, she would win "You were loyal to the late Duke were you not?" She asked and Sir Richard returned to the table, standing at the head of his men.

"I was"
"You were prepared to call him King?" She pressed and he nodded, twisting the ring on his little finger.
"I was" He repeated. Constance stepped forward, looking not just him in the eye but every man around him, making sure she caught their gaze and mind.

"So will you not do the same for his son?" She demanded "the rightful King of England not only by law but by the will of God?" Sir Richard tilted his head, sighing softly.

"It is all very well to speak of God, Lady Constance, but it is not God whom threatens our gates and the people it protects" Murmurs of agreement surrounded him "I cannot have this city sacked as the Northern ones have been at the hands of Lancaster. I respect Lord March, he has proven himself a great warrior, but he is a boy"

It was a fair argument she supposed, there were few who hadn't heard of how Queen Marguerite's army had sacked almost every city and town it came across, leaving the buildings burning, the men massacred, the women raped. What leader would willingly inflict that on his own people?

And yet, she heard herself reply defiant.

"Edward is a man. A man with his wits, the man you will soon call King and will be begging on your knees to for forgiveness if you open the gates to Marguerite's army. Do that and you condemn yourself, not only to the sword but to the eternal flames of hell in which you will burn. God will put Edward on the throne, he will place me beside him and while I may seem simple to you for my youth and my sex, I assure you, my Lord, I do not forget. Keep the gates barred until my husband stands before them and when he does, when he is crowned in the sight of God and man I will remind him of how loyally you defended his throne"

The room fell to silence when she finished, five pairs of eyes staring at her in surprise, none more so than Sir Richard who opened his mouth only to close it again with not a syllable passing his lips. He nodded to her.
"You speak well....I did not expect it"
Of course he hadn't.

"I speak for my husband" Constance returned "and for the future of this country. I speak as a wife, a Mother and...." She took a breath, pushing back her shoulders "your rightful Queen" The words felt foreign on her tongue, almost as if they weren't meant to be there at all and yet, when spoken, she felt the mood of the chamber spark into something anew.

The gaze of the men turned from condescending, doubting, to something akin to respect, none more so than Sir Richard's. His thin lips curled up at the corners, eyes twinkling as he began to nod slowly.

"Thomas" He called, voice laced with a new firm authority and one of the men stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
"Yes, my Lord?"

Constance's heart stopped as he paused for a moment before raising his chin.
"Send word to the gateways" He announced firmly "Marguerite of Anjou is to be barred entry from the city in the name of the House of York"

༻᯽༺

Early March 1461, London....

The fire crackled, freshly stoked by a servant, warming the room and lighting the needle and thread in Constance's hand as she worked. The linen she held would make another handkerchief for Cecily who, in her greif, had begun a habit of flinging hers into the bedchamber fire once she'd cried, trying to burn her sorrows away.

As a result the young Countess found herself stitching day and night by the hearth, making handkerchief after handkerchief for the Duchess' agony. Not that she minded - the work provided ample distraction from her own troubles and anxiety for the future; her worry for Edward.

Sighing, she lay down her needle and glanced over her shoulder to the window by the bed, watching as delicate flakes of snow settle on the frosted glass. Pain pricked at her heart, the last time she'd watched the snow fall, her baby had died, burning hotter than the flames beside her. There had been nothing she could do.

She remembered the funeral, how she'd wrapped his little body in the warmest blankets, fearing he'd be too cold beneath the ground, how she'd wept when she watched his coffin lowered out of sight. It had been so tiny, just like him. Tearing her gaze away from the window, she found her cheeks wet with tears, wiping them away with a dab of her sleeve.

"Weeping will do naught" She whispered firmly to herself "It has done naught so far and it shan't at any time" Despite that, she knew she would likely cry that night.

The door opening made her look up, expecting to see a servant but her lips parted, eyes widened, when she saw her husband stood in the doorway, clad in heavy armour, a cloak clasped to his broad shoulders with a golden chain.

He strode in with the confidence of a leader but she could see, as soon as his eyes fell on her, his brave facade faltered.

The carefree boy that had ridden away to war was dead, replaced with a vengeful man who only knew anger and sorrow; the swift skill of his sword. He now wore a tired expression and Constance was sure that his eyes, once so bright with youth, had turned a darker hue in his grief.

"Oh, Ned" She whispered "what have they done to you?"

He shook his head a little, slowly advancing and sinking into the chair opposite, looking into the fire. The orange glow lit his piercing blue eyes and revealed the unshed tears pooling there.

He was only eighteen, barely a man, yet he had so much weight upon his broad shoulders. He would bear the burden of his kingdom and crown proudly but, in that moment, Constance could see the true strain it brought him and her bruised heart ached.

"Ned? Are you well?"

He gulped a little before beginning to slowly shake his head, back and forth, back and forth until there could be no doubt of his misery. A misery solidified by the solitary tear gliding down his right cheek. There were clouds across the golden son of York's merry light, blocking out all the lightness from his voice, the kindness from his heart and the peace from his mind.

He hadn't slept in weeks.

"My Father" He whispered "My Uncle, my cousin" His breath hitched, almost forcing his voice to break, it was all too clear he didn't want to speak his next words "my brother...."

Pausing, his face crumpled and his heavy shoulders heaved as he let out a broken sob. Immediately Constance rushed from her seat, handkerchief and needle falling to the floor, forgotten, as she knelt at his feet. Tears streamed down his face, his breaths were choked and heaving, his sorrows pouring out in a river of loss. It was clear it was his first proper showing of grief, his first chance to cry and not be seen as weak.

It was raw emotion cleaving his heart in two.

"Oh, my love" Constance whispered, winding her arms around his neck, tugging him to rest against her bodice. He clung to her in return like a child, his sobs bordering on howls as the tender embrace tore his pent up greif open further.

"They slaughtered them!" He cried "They slaughtered them all like animals then stuck their heads on spikes! Even Edmund! What crime did he commit but to be born a York? By heavens it was his first battle!"
"I know" She soothed, stroking his hair "I know, Ned"

"His only sin in their eyes was the blood in his veins so they spilt it!" He continued, rage seeping into his voice like water into a blanket, stripping away its use of warmth "They slit his throat" He groaned "They put a paper crown on my Father's head to mock him....now my little brothers are in exile and I know not if they are safe!"

"Of course they are safe!" Constance assured, pulling back to cup his face "They are at my sister's court being cared for alongside her own daughter, Mary! Did you not hear?" He shook his head pitifully.
"I hear little news and what I do hear is often forgotten if it is not the plan for a battlefield...."

His voice trailed away and his eyes suddenly found hers, blue depths made bright by tears and realisation, a painful memory of when Warwick came to his tent one rainy night. Hers were dulled he realised sadly, the innocent sparkle of youth having long bled away in her tears.

And he knew why those tears were shed.

"Our son...." He whispered and her face crumpled "Our little James...."

Within moments, she was sobbing in his arms and so was he, slipping down to the floor to cradle her shaking body as she cradled him. Their little boy, their perfect son, the tiny babe they'd held the day he was born, so full of joy, so full of life, was gone.

"I'm sorry" He wept into her hair and she cried even harder "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you and our boy"
"You were" She whispered "You were protecting us, you were fighting for our boy"
"And our boy is gone...."

The young pair cried in each other's arms, the pain of their hearts melding into one great ocean of suffering. Finally after the months surrounded by people and yet never feeling more alone, they had someone, someone to understand, someone to share the depth of their sorrow with.

They cried for what seemed like an eternity, clinging to each other like two young children adrift at sea with only one another to keep afloat until their tears subsided and they sat silently by the fire, foreheads pressed together.

"When my Father died...." Edward murmured "the men were lost and found a leader in me but....when they did, I found I wanted to be lost....I want to be lost, just for a moment" He was made to lead, he was made to win, to be the King of England. The dream of a crown had filled his mind as a boy but now....now he had it it was nothing but a twisted nightmare, almost if God was laughing at him, giving him his desires while taking away those he loved.

Constance cupped his face, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. He raised his eyes, he still had her, he still had his beloved wife.

"Then be lost, Edward" She whispered "Be lost in me"

How could he say no to that? Surging forward, he pressed his lips to hers, desperation mingling with heated passion. After that moment, they were in a world of their own, cut off from all others, entrapped in a sweet paradise that was all theirs.

Slowly getting to their feet, Constance began to remove his armour, taking all physical memory of the trials he'd faced and dropping it to the floor with a clank.

Her fingers were slow on the tight buckles and clasps, inexperienced, but Edward didn't mind, watching her every move through enchanted eyes. His fingers brushed her neck, removing the golden pins from her hair to set it loose, lips catching hers for soft kisses to which her eyes would flutter shut for a moment before opening to continue with her work.

Soon he was tugging his shirt over his head, stepping out of his breeches and she was reaching to the back of her gown, gently tugging on the laces. When it was loose enough, Edward slowly pushed the sleeves from her shoulders, the heavy mass of silk slipping easily from her body.

"You are so very beautiful...." He whispered, eyeing her figure through the thin linen of her shift.
"Love me" She said, shaking out the remainder of her braids "Love me so there is only there is only room for us"

Her fingers skimmed down his arms to take his hand, slowly leading him towards the bed, about to lie down when he turned them and lay down himself, his golden hair spreading out on the pillows like a halo around his head.

She looked at him, confused, but Edward only smiled, tugging her onto the bed and on top of him so she straddled his waist, blushing when she realised. They'd never done this before. Constance held his gaze as he brushed his hands up her legs, making her shift gather at her waist, gently brushing over the soft skin of her thighs.

"I will show you" He murmured, brushing her hair over her shoulder "Let me show you...." Grasping the thin straps of her shift, he lowered the soft garment to her waist, gently cupping her breasts. His right thumb flicked over her hardened nipple and her breaths shuddered with pleasure, head tipping back, lips parting.

"Yes" She whispered, the heat between her legs growing, slowly pushing all pain from her mind "Show me Ned" He'd be damned if he didn't heed the pleading in her voice.

Amongst the silks and furs, he showed her a new avenue of pleasure, watching hungrily when he glided his fingers between her legs and her hips bucked into his hand. While he longed to be inside her, his cock hard and aching against his stomach, her pleasure was his own he found as he looked on her from below, head tossed back, slowly rocking back and forth on his fingers.

She would be his Queen.
And what a great Queen she would be.

"Edward" She whispered, placing a hand on his chest to balance herself, even such simple contact set him on fire and a small moan slipped from him lips making her smile "I want you, I want you now" Eagerly, he took hold of her hips, guiding his cock inside and watching as she slowly sank down with a moan.

Heat spread throughout her body, pleasure pumping her blood, it was the most glorious feeling in the world and when she looked down on Edward, she'd never felt more in control, more powerful, and she adored it.

Placing her other hand on his chest beside the first, she gasped as he guided her hips, smirking at her until she found a rhythm of her own. He ran his fingers up and down her sides, cupped her breasts, gripped the soft skin of her thighs when she rolled her hips in a way that made sparks fly behind his eyes.

"Fuck" He cried, sitting up and enclosing his arms around her, burying his face in her chest. Her hands wound into his golden hair, their bodies glistening in the firelight.

It was not an act of necessity, an act of duty to beget an heir as many had done before them and many would do after, it was an act of love, an act of comfort they willingly bestowed on one another in the hopes of finding a realm of peace together, even for a mere moment "I love you" He murmured, peppering her collarbone with heated kisses as she continued to roll her hips, faster and faster as the crest of pleasure approached "I swear I love you"

She nodded, words evading her as Edward's fingers slipped between her thighs, brushing against her clit and her world exploded into a universe of bright stars, dancing right before her eyes. Within seconds, he followed, the hot press of her clenching around him forcing a cry of pleasure from his lips.

Breathing heavily, the two fell onto the covers, Constance burying her head into Edwards neck, his arm winding around her waist.
"You will win" She told him, eventually rolling onto her side to escape the heat consuming them both "I know you will win"

He nodded, staring up at the canopy with eyes blown wide by pleasure.

"With you waiting in my bed I think my cock would win this war if it could hold a sword!" He panted and beside him, Constance exploded into giggles, smiling wide for the first time in months.
"I do not doubt that, my Lord!"