You speak an infinite deal of nothing

“So you are no newcomer to the Court but instead a well acquainted crown jewel?” She asked, her interest piqued — though her education she had been raised among the flourish of curled tongues and trained fingers, Héléne had spent her time dancing rather than listening, her intention set on gathering selected attention rather than enjoying the moment itself. So, if he thought her an art lover or a virtuoso, he was wrong and quite against her usual sort of conquest — but there was a first for everything; and he was awfully handsome. So, she admired him without hesitation, her lips tugged into a smirk. “Do you write your own, or simply perform what others have trickled from their fingertips? If you would base my person into a character of your own, what would it resemble? A fae? A damsel in distress? An Amazon hunting its prey? Do tell… Oh. And, you may call me Héléne.”

"Do you believe me to be a jewel, my lady? Seasoned or an ingenue; what's a man to do? A diamond, is bound to shine."  Héléne's dark silk dress fitted her in such a manner, as only a French sempstress can make a dress fit; the form hinted beneath layers of fabric, kindled in his heart a warm glow of tenderness. William was deeply pleased by her superior intelligence, with the dignity and delicacy that held her chin, so loftily high in the air. Whatever ruinous consequences lay in proximity to her bed, he would make no complaint. "I claim one thing as mine in this world, and that is my work; I am lord and master of all I create. Deride my work, adore it -- it is mine, so wholly mine. Sweet Héléne, you are what I have long desired to complete my newest play; but a maiden? A damsel? Could you believe me to be so naive, as to cast you as a feeble member of your sex? For you, are Hippolyta; Queen of the Amazons." 

"I ASSUME YOU LIKE this pageantry?" Hans asked as he approached the man. Sir William was always a man who fascinated Johannes. While both artists in their own right, Shakespeare had a lot more will of himself to actually complete his projects. Hans had little of that, though he guessed that William had found the patronage of the royal family through interesting characters, something he would find hard to do. Royals were already so vain enough, it would be difficult to fail at his own job.

“I feel this would be something that you would enjoy, given your line of work. Forgive me for assumptions, Sir, it was a thought I felt must be shared.” The painter hummed as he leaned against the wall, finishing off the ale in his cup.

William was open to the charge of extravagance; he made no efforts to deny his guilt. "Yes -- it is most apt, in fact, for my latest work lays in the pursuit of beauty and love amongst the gods. But what is your greatest incentive, Master Holbein? A singular face, perhaps; whatever muse, has taken you hostage." 

master  shakespeare,

i  am  writing  to  you  with  utmost  urgency  as  i  am  in  need  of  advice.  i  apologize  beforehand  for  my  unladylike  familiarity,  as  we  are  not  properly  introduced  though  i  have  been  an  audience  to  your  work  for  as  long  as  i  have  been  at  court.  upon  finishing  your  poem  a  lover's  complaint,  i  have  decided  that  only  you  have  ownership  of  the  wisdom  that  i  seek.  i  hope  that  you  forgive  my  transgressions  and  illuminate  my  young  and  naive  mind.

i  once  believed  that  i  would  never  dally  in  matters  of  the  heart.  my  sister  oft  attributed  it  to  a  myriad  of  things:  my  preference  for  books  over  people  and  our  isolated  upbringing  near  the  english-scottish  border  among  them.  even  when  i  came  of  age  and  made  my  introduction  at  court,  i  half-expected  some  fine  courtier  to  sweep  me  off  of  my  feet,  or  at  least  ask  my  father  for  my  hand.  instead  these  two  years  have  been  filled  with  no  affection  of  the  romantic  sort,  until  now.

our  meeting  was  never  proper  and  it  previously  brought  me  much  grief.  in  fact,  he  came  upon  me  in  a  moment  of  unbearable  grief,  much  like  the  narrator  and  the  young  lady  in  the  poem.  and  yet  i  find  that  he  is  moreso  the  casanova  over  whom  the  woman  grieves  than  the  old  man  to  whom  she  grieves.  i  say  that  more  so  in  the  sense  that  he  is  beloved  by  those  who  know  him,  though  i  have  witnessed  one  too  many  a  volta  that  my  heart  breaks  with  each  step,  only  to  be  mended  if  i  might  take  the  lady's  place.  i  even  listen  intently  now  to  my  father's  eludication  of  council  meetings  to  seek  the  thrill  of  hearing  his  name;  i  peer  through  his  papers  so  i  might  see  his  hand  and  feel  close  to  him.  oh,  master  shakespeare,  i  have  been  consumed!

and  it  is  this,  precisely,  that  i  fear.  i  do  not  wish  to  become  the  pitiful  protagonist,  so  devoured  by  her  love  that  her  honor  be  shattered  irreparably.  i  do  not  believe  that  he  would  lead  me  to  such  a  trap,  for  i  believe  that  he  is  an  honorable  man.  but could  one  love  with  only  the  heart  and  not  the  body?  for  all  of  his  loveliness,  both  inside  and  out,  i  do  not  wish  to  lay  with  him,  but  i  wish  to  spend  my  life  with  him  —  are  those  two  things  not  one  in  the  same?

most  sincerely,

I accept no apology and will make no further mention on your assertions you have be intrusive or brash -- little affords me as much as receiving correspondence, founded upon admiration of my work. I care for much else, beyond being heralded with praise, or being approached, to offer tendrils of wisdom; let me afford you all that I can, to answer the questions you pose. Know this first, dear Lady - the quandaries which plague you, have been the ruin of many a man. You remind me of a woman I once knew; she did not believe she was cast in love's mould. 'I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me -- you will forgive me, for being bemused; for women of books and art are far more romantic in the eyes of any man, then self-proclaimed beauties and women of high features, who are legends but in their own minds.

I will waste no time in pondering his identity or trying to squirrel details out of you - it is of no consequence, and his name can offer as little insight into this man, as your loving descriptions. The course of true love never did run smooth; all you feel, all turmoil, is normal. You are a woman of reason - love has none. Perhaps there’s beggary in love that can be reckoned. Do you engage with him in correspondence? There will be no greater method for you to ascertain the depth of his feelings (or where is heart stands) than through writing to him; here too, may you place breadcrumbs. Write to him, Sibella; confess only what you think, and save what you feel, for true contact. I have loved more than words can wield the matter -- past letters of courtship, can be the greatest of comforts, should love break, burn, and end. 

She will die if vou love her not, and she will die ere she might make her love known -- heed my advice, sweet child of books; if this man possess an ounce of the goodness you ascribe to him, he is a man of such godly gifts, that our monarch finds a worthy rival, in assessing who is our heavenly fathers favourite. To love in secret will destroy you - - to contain your sentiments, will ruin you. It is enchanting - you love with the heart, with the mind; what could be more natural than this? You may scoff, believing me merely a child of pleasure - but it is with no organ but my heart, with which I am devoted to another creature. Should this courtier be worthy of your charms, he will love you in this very way. Our bodies will one day be shrivelled and unattractive; but our minds will remain -- how wonderful, that you place no stock in the temporary oblivion of flesh. What union could be more suitable to the ravages of time, then one such as this? If he is wise, he will find no objection --- but this is a subject most delicate, I admit. Write to him first, and bridge the gap between your minds; be known to him in all manners of the heart. And I beg of you -- write to me. I desire greatly, a friendship to blossom between us; you are a woman, most extraordinary. 

I shall close out my letter, with romantic ponderings; the opening lines, of a future poem.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind -- and therefore is winged cupid painted blind

William Shakespeare

WHILE SISI HERSELF CURATED a beautiful garden at home ( her sister and mother had not been fans of gardening, lady maria bassewitz claiming it a frivolous waste of time in one of her letters ), it did not match the size and grandeur of the Tudor one. Perhaps because her brother would rather place their funds in better places than just his sister's flower hobby. A true shame, Sisi thought of it.

"There are many beauties to the Swan Castle, sir, if I could sing the praises of the garden, I would. I do try my best to maintain them, though." Her words were far less eloquent. An ever blunt woman. "I have not been in England for long, no- Me and my family have only recently arrived in court. It seems, with your more frightful description, we have arrived in a less than favorable time. Tell me, should we return home so soon after?" Winters in Cleves were not too abhorrent, though if their Christmas celebrations were anything like those in Cleves, she might would have to ask for an excuse to leave from her brother.

"I should one day be honoured to pay my respects, and make my own judgements on its beauty; I doubt I shall be anything short of enamoured." Her countenance wore a light not un-benignant to friendliness; the sound of her voice, spoke a nature chivalric and cool, to the needy and common. "My intent was far to frighten, my dear lady; I find much romance and beauty in the winter months, though I cannot deny I may possesses a required taste. The court is all the brighter with you and your kin - what would sustain us in these long, dark days, then pleasant and becoming company?" 

She had heard him before she had seen him, and wondered little over the true talent of a somewhat lower classed bard — for the gaggle of girls she found herself perched by would not stop singing the praises of the newly supported William Shakespeare; an apparent new favourite of the Princess, a thespian and a certain flavour of the women who were often met with balding, toothless men. Who would have blamed them then once they were met with a handsome young man? Even Héléne, who rarely ever fell folly to the desire of her heat, looked at him with curiosity. Unlike the others perhaps, she approached, breaking the sea of hangers-on who thought to curry favour with a man who may, if he was so lucky, influence the court itself. The French court had always been champions of art and culture, after all, and Héléne had never been the kind of girl to turn her nose up to any loose end.

“They say that England has unearthed a new gem, would you support such rumours?”

 She was a woman of good fortune, accustomed to residency in lavish residences; William knew Héléne would drive him beyond his point of reckoning. She pursued cooling as he warmed -- William was offered a challenge of strength between opposing gifts offered in the acquisition of her good opinion. Eyes full of insolent light, brows as hard and unblushing as marble;  he desired to call home, eyes that threatened stormy weather. "The Tudor King's court has offered me many pleasures, but none as biting and wonderful, as the gift of your acquaintance - I would regard you as dismissive of thespians, if the fine breasts beneath your shift, did not not beat with entirely French faculties. For whom amongst us, if not those of your motherland, worship art and love so dearly?" He had never seen such eyes in all of England; temptation lined itself in every one of her traits. Héléne was handsome in her ball attire; but she would never look so pretty as she would undressed, twisted beneath sheets. It was cruel now, that she denied him a ray of her penetrating eyes; how his heart palpitated with delight, when she acquiesced.

kismet wondered if his playful jests held any true merit, had she truly changed in the years since they last met? it certainly felt far from it as of late, still too quiet, too young, too naïve, too many things that others seemed to look down on her for. perhaps william spoke an ounce of truth, for she'd grown a bit more coarse in the past few months, a defensive layer that had formed without her ever noticing. it was a cruel thing to wear around the other man, when he had been nothing less of a kind man to her, a charming sugar coated tongue that had whispered teasing compliments till her face bled red and he laughed as if she was the most interesting game in the world to him at that moment. it had haunted her dreams for several months after she had returned home from court, giggling to herself as she replayed every word he had said, but like most affairs of her heart it had been fleeting - gone on the next spring breeze, doomed to unravel as no letter arrived calling upon her. " you seek to fool me with guilt, as if it is only i, who has grown in your absence. as if you do not boast the sheen and pride of a man of court, himself. william, i fear that next time we meet i shall not know you from the plump bird that adorns the table in the king's feasts," she teased with a grin. 

"What act of charity have I offered the world, to be rewarded with tenderness such as this? You will forget me in time, I believe; you will marry a man of station and be merry - but I will recall you with only sweetness and misery at our parting. But I am becoming too dependent on melancholy now; I shall not spoil your niceties, nor the brilliance of your smile; further. You wish for me to act, my Hermia ; and I will."   Without time or power to deliberate, by instinct he reached for her; warm hands embraced rosy cheeks, as he pressed his lips to hers. He acted as wishful and resolute to win and conquer as a crusader; he threw all of himself, into wooing Kismet now. And, with a slight bend - careless, but as graceful as a dance, he glided to her and took charge of her person. As they ascended to the hallway, he took her harm - he wished for Kismet's natural place to be by his side; his eyes were entirely dedicated to her.  His speech was the difficulty; it revealed to him this fact that it was not they who loved in fear - it was him. This feeling fastened into his soul that fate was not made of stone, and hope was no false idol; neither blind nor bloodless. The library shrivelled into the background; having crossed the hallway, they reached the wooden door of his salle - she was ushered inside, he all the while, dazzled.

"Kismet, Kismet; sweet Kismet." William held her head with both hands once more, and kissed her; he leaned in as they kissed, his fingers now wrapped within the silken black strands of her hair. The way her body responded to his now, without inhibition, without the flattery of exaggeration -- it was the totality of their contact. The connection between their lips, and her hips against his, was but instantaneous; in his moment now, William loved her simplicity, her candour. He wished to stare into her eyes, and pronounce how long he had desired to kiss her; but devotion and reason, bade him to relax his grip, and grant her space. "I am many things, many of which are both true and unkind; but I am chiefly your admirer tonight. I wish to offer you only what you deserve, what you deserve. Do you wish me to serenade you now? Sit longingly by your feet? Command me to do your bidding - nothing shall grant me pleasure besides whatever gratifies you best." 

Mindless wanderings had prompted Madeleine on a wild goose chase throughout the labyrinth halls of Hampton Court – the so-called ‘Great Room,’ where all dined and supped to the tune of merry court dirges, which delivered her sinful soul unto the Chapel, a quiet and sunlit sanctuary purged of sullied consciences, stretching into a warren of stone-flanked corridors no different than the countless others Madeleine had strolled through.  Only, where the halls of Château de Blois overlooked the sprawling hills and sage-warmed elms of the Loire, Hampton Court commanded a view of the dank little Thames; more like a garden snake sneaking along London than a landmark, a river destitute of might or vigour, wafting a stench across the city that would cause the Saints weep in their marble tombs.

But with all hopes of returning to the Queen's side in a timely manner thoroughly aborted, Madeleine craned her neck to a patch of light leaching from beneath an arched doorway. Tiptoeing into the ostensibly empty chambers, a quicksilver shaft of lightning wresting across the skies bleached the space moon-white as she stood beneath its vaulted beams, rolling with carvings of chivalric tourneys, knighthood in bloom.  Not daring to wail out in order to discern the room’s occupancy, the lady crept toward the imposing escritoire dominating the space, and tugged open one of its sundry compartments; finding within an even greater number of secreted cavities, crammed with leaflets curling at the edges, piles upon piles of parchment, bearing the hallmark of a thumb's moistened caress, words gushing across the page.  No sooner had she plucked up one such document did the wooden floorboards creak with another’s weight, alerting her to a man's presence.  Clutching the parchment to her chest, and with movements fluid and unperturbed, Madeleine pirouetted to face him.

      The chapel was no pleasant place; it was known to be tenanted by rats and beetles in hot months. A partial darkness obscured one end, across which, as for a deeper mystery, lay in golden light. It revived him somehow; many glowing windows lit his place of worship brightly, on a soft night of the continent. No sea fog stirred, no chilling damp; England was mist-less as noon, and fresh as morning. William had endured enough pageantry - it was time for him to retire into himself, and his ordinary life. That night he was disposed to silence; the chapel on him an awing, hushing influence; and so he wrote. The play - a mere trifle besides Macbeth - ran chiefly on a brace of lovers, seeking to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover was a good and gallant man, albeit unpolished - a diamond in the rough. The other was a butterfly, a talker, a traitor - he now, was the butterfly. Turning quick upon him, large eyes under long lashes, flashed over him - the intruder. Thrilled with exasperation, which it would have been sheer folly to vent - he extinguished his flame, and met this interloper. 

Though she would not admit it, the man before her was well on his way to having her wrapped around his. Through his manner and his works she had come to see a man different than any others she had met, a man in touch with not only his own heart, but those around him. Birdie wanted him to desire her, of course, to admire her wit and beauty and rain compliments upon her...but she also wanted him to truly like her. "It is a smaller room than one might think," she commented with a small smirk, studying him carefully. "I may give my attentions freely, sir, but only a select few acquaintances make their way into my heart. If you are not careful, you may find yourself there." She considered his words regarding the king, her chin angled upward in thought. "A man who knows what he wants is to be admired, is he not?" she questioned rhetorically. Bridget did enjoy a challenge and winning the king's attentions would certainly prove one...it was not as if she had not considered it before. But no, she had no desire to be queen, to be locked in a gilded cage of sorts that would allow her no free will.

His words, once again, cast a delighted grin onto her features. She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, her eyes devouring his as she searched for deeper meaning behind flowery words. "Will you, Master Shakespeare? It should be a great honor, far beyond what I deserve. Tell me of your current project, will you? When can the court expect to hear of your most recent bout of genius?"

He was perhaps careless and proud; but for a woman, he would be kneeling at her feet, pursuing her like a shadow. William could be repulsed with insult, and in turn, implore her with infatuation. It was tales of Bridget's romances, which caused that reserve in his manner towards her; as she spoke, these tales carried with them unmixed truth. Perhaps she herself had exaggerated, or invented her myths - he sought the chance of justifying her character, for veracity. William wondered if she were not flattered by all he bestowed her - she took it all, with a strange composure. Birdie was perhaps awed by him, but not towards mutism; she conversed modestly, without effort. He was charmed with her diction -- the accent pure, the assertions correct; tinged perhaps, with a bit of unexpected sweetness. 

   And the triumphant, pretty, haughty girl laughed; William could not discern all that she meant and could not ask her - he was bemused. Seeing however, the innocence  in her countenance - combined with an air of perverseness and petulance, he said at last, "Are reports then of your charms, exaggerated? Parr women are highly regarded, as unsparing Aphrodites." Birdie's dress of deep _ relieved well her lights curls, and exaggerated her petunia-like bloom. "Do you present me with a challenge, my lady, or an offer? I will gladly accept either; I shall make my bed comfortably amongst my well-selected rivals." He had given moments to thoughts and calculations of Bridget Parr; but to judge her, would be ti infer blame. It was his, which was a readily depressed, easily deranged temperament - before an eye of equal severity, he would stand more at fault than she. "A man who knows what he desires, is wont to court a myriad of appraisals; I shall not introduce you to my many detractors, who I fear will ruin any esteem I hold in yours eyes." 

location : hampton gardens

IT WAS ON DAYS like these where Sisi understood why she had agreed to come to court with her brother. With the sun on her skin, a rarity with the recent drab weather, she felt the rare commodity of warmth, even with the chill air and breeze. So far away from home, the english court seemed odd and foreign. Which it was, odd and foreign, but she had found ways to adapt. Her accent ridden english did not seem to bother most, and she had found ways to occupy her time. Sisi had particularly found that gardens in this instance.

Pale hands held up the skirts as she walked through the garden, blue eyes scanning over almost each and every flower that was planted. While politics may be a man’s game, flowers were certainly some woman’s game. Sisi had a pension for both, but as of now she was appreciating the latter. The assortment of red roses had fascinated her so much, the German woman almost didn’t notice the person approaching.

“The gardens are quite beautiful, are they not?” Sisi hummed as she looked between the person approaching and the flowers. “I’m quite jealous of the sprawl of it all. The ones back home are quite small and they pale in comparison.”

     William noted the folded bloom of the garden as he walked; the sweet-breath of winter, with its blue sea of mist, soon to rob all greenery of its refreshment. He liked to tend and foster plants - he believed himself to have a taste for gardening. The bard moved about shrubs, favourite choice flowers, all the while his lips maintained their precious cigar; blue wreaths curled pettily enough amongst the flowers, and in the afternoon light. Gaily frisking, William alighted upon a solitary figure; akin to most ladies in Hampton Court, conversation was initiated after a startled shock, at another being present. His eyes were certainly upon her now; he followed her sensations acutely, with the penetration of instinct. 

what a fickle thing sleep had been as of late, mind running restlessly with little reprieve, her hand already ached from the arduous task of writing at length to her brother and wife. a self assigned task to inform them of the comings and goings of court in their brief absence, as well as whining childishly to amy about how she was envious that she was not able to travel with them. relieved of her duties till the sun rose once more, kismet found herself in the library, perhaps hoping that being surrounded by the novels would provide her wisdom by osmosis alone. her eyes caught on the sight on another lost soul, dark eyes that seemed to peer inside of her, as if she was laid bare beneath a gaze that spoke of fresh soil warmed beneath the rays. william had always been far too capable of unsettling kismet, not in the sense of un-comfortability, but as if he never believed any honeyed lies she spoke, the sense of knowing what laid behind her eyes despite the gentle quietness she carried. it'd been a few years since they last spoke, though kismet listened fondly to the kernels she overhead of his plays, yet she does not hasten herself to his side, for she remained uncertain if he'd grown too bright for her company. or perhaps he too sought out the comfort of silence, escaping for a moment from his own perilous mind. 

"A girl of ancient Athens - a name, I have found attractive in my recent endeavours." In some cases, William was a lavish, generous man; a worshipper, ever ready with a votive offering. He busied his mind now in devising Kismet gifts, the most delicate; ones such as only a woman, or ardent man, could have imagined. He would fasten no bracelet on her ivory arm, however pretty such a trinket would be - his favour was to pledge his very honour, and to pay in affection. Under these circumstances, how could a man build acceptance of his sweet words as favourable symptoms of earnest affection? Kismet possessed an incapacity to be swayed by sordid considerations - he could not venture, to believe the transaction of sweetness advanced him a single step. "Kismet, you have changed! You would have never regarded me with such coarseness in years past; lest this be a development of your skills as a courtier, and a well-deployed tactic to seize the attentions of a man you desire. If this is your endeavour, I compliment you on your success."