blood and butter

Though it may have seemed rowdy or raucous, Thomas was far from calm enough to enjoy the plight of Florentine wonder. No, his mind instead raced to all possibilities, to try pre-plan scenarios that had yet to even take place. Whether the Italians truly claimed the righteous existence of a boy who had once been rushed across the country by his own two hands or not was beyond any importance, and so what remained was what to do with the information of which was about to come. To have a spare Catholic heir roaming the continent was far from ideal, if anything it was one of the worst things that could’ve happened — for the entire world could turn on England to seat this illegitimate son of Henry VIII, that and William, who’s father had made the job of hiding the infant Thomas’ priority, had the right to blame Walsingham how he saw fit. 

sibella  does  not  linger  in  the  doorway  and  crosses  the  room  in  quick  strides.  "i  require  nothing,"  she  replies  gently,  descending  into  the  lone  chair  left  at  the  table.  lithe  fingers  reach  for  the  cup  filled  for  her  and  yet  she  could  not  pick  it  up.  "i  only  come  forth  with  information  i  discovered  whilst  giving  alms  this  afternoon  at  il  convento  di  san  marco,"  she  paused  a  moment,  glancing  at  their  faces.  "regarding  edward  seymour."  sibella  would've  preferred  they  believed  that  she  happened  upon  this  knowledge  than  sought  it  under  pretense.  she saw no point in seeking glory at a time like this. initially she'd planned on  withholding such damning information  from  all  three  of  them. an  adherent  to  the  true  faith  herself,  the  news  of  a  living  catholic  heir  to  the  english  throne  should  have  sent  waves  a  joy  through  her  person.  she'd be declared a saint and history would revere her for her steadfastness and devotion.

Fiercely accomplished was Sibella in the art of surveillance; she spoke low in the words she dropped to them, yet the hum of woman's voice pervaded, through the whole conventual ground. James had not been inspired to think of her as more than an academic; but she caught all imitation of things transpiring. Sibella had caught a glimpse of something remote and deceptive, of Thomas' transactions; his pulse quickened at the potential suspicion busy in her mind. "God help us." He had occasion to smile - nay to laugh - at incredulity as the madame continued. "I wish you sought us in some feeble matter; the transgressions of the heart, would be better than this - but continue my lady, and let us bear your findings with as much grace as possible. 

As the world continued to move around them in waves of small talk, joyous whispers and loud exclamations, Alice sought only James, her eyes searching for his in some manner to coax his silent thoughts from him, to try and understand what had happened during their voyage across the wine-dark sea. Carefully, she shifted closer, her hand finding his between lappings of velvet, twisting her fingers against his own as the court began its slow return into murmur, Alice pressed just close enough to whisper beneath the hard shell of his ear, her index finger crooked around his in some lurid hope to tie herself to him before all of those people. “Dare I confess my ache?” Her voice all but a whisper, before she loosened herself from him, falling into a step just inches ahead of his person, her stature as if she were but a young girl, akin to when they had first met. @jamescecils

His love was alien to his whole life and views - its grave was well dug, and well heaped; each winter there was a resurrection, much to his soul's consolation. James was much changed in form and feeling - he rose not for earth, but for heaven. Thomas would believe him too infatuated, where he ought to be as cool as his name; but he would willingly laid out his neck, for her pleasure. In Florence, his heart had smote him; his temperament was nervous, morose. His temerity perhaps, met the punishment it deserved; but he mourned her presence, for no artful Italian speeches, could inspire pleasanter content than Alice's wordless presence. But now at last he had Alice; there she was, the very beauty herself - curling from her lips, the pale blue breath of the words darling, beloved. James was provoked by these particulars, and could not contradict her sentiments. He was happiest with her kindness, the manner in which she spoke and listened, more impressive than the impetuosity of her nature. For she too, there was content; the deepest happiness filled her blue eyes. 

when  they  first  arrived  in  the  gilded  walls  of  mightly  florence,  the  sun  shone  ever  so  brightly  that  the  city  seemed  seemed  to  shimmer  in  its  wake.  yet  by  midweek  the  gods  reared  their  disapproval  by  placing  bloated  clouds  in  the  sky.  rain,  thunder,  and  lightning  had  become  their  sudden  companions,  knocking  on  every  door  they  seemed  to  enter.  sibella  and  julian  hurried  to  return  to  their  humble  lodgings  in  a  brief  moment  of  respite,  before  rainfall  entraped  them  once  more.  as  they  parted  ways  to  their  separate  rooms,  she  watched  the  trail  of  droplets  they  left  behind diverge,  her  eyes  following  upwards  until  they  landed  on  the  drenched  satin  ribbon  that  was  tied  around  his  wrist  until  it  was  hidden  behind  his  closed  door.  sibella  spent  the  rest  of  her  night  in  solemn  silence.  her  mind  volleyed  between  the  damning  information  she'd  learned  that  day  and  the  man  with  whom  she  spent  the  day.  she  picked  up  a  quill  to  sort  out her  thoughts  yet  for  once  she  did  not  know  where  to  begin.

 It was a fine, frosty Florentine afternoon; the autumn sun, already setting, gleamed pale on the tops of garden shrubs. A great pear tree - that of a nun - stood tall like a dry skeleton, grey, gaunt and stripped; much like James, subjected to Italian air. He had spent his day with Thomas; he was much in the habit of consulting him with matters he broached with no one else - his truest confidant. Thomas, a model gentleman, was the essence of what was discreet. James was no judge of what expression crossed his face, at being greeted by Sibella upon arrival; but it was one which provoked her, into speaking. 

bloody days muses + taylor swift lyrics (pt 2/?)

When Edward Seymour had been given to the world in some last laugh of the Tudor’s want for another son, Thomas had been given the role of guardian. It had been his first proper role after the fall of his old mentor Cromwell, and had been given with great importance. But, Walsingham was not a wet nurse, and still sore from an infant loss of his own, Thomas had decided to extend the babe at arm’s length. Instead, he gave him away to another in some seclusion within Boleyn focused land — of course, he had met Edward on occasion, when he would not be missed beside the backdrop of Henrician court life. He had grown plump from over-indulgence, and wore such a look that once belonged to his natural father that Walsingham was forced to look twice — but, he left most of the care to his surrounding maids that had been plucked from both obscurity and desperate nature to do what the Spymaster would insist upon. It was only his fault of misjudgment that all had blown up in his face.

He had been eager, then, to split their group of four into two groups. Though he felt he could trust de Vere, he did not know Lady Percy well enough to be alone with her — or to indeed confide with her for the mistakes already made, Thomas was only in need of Cecil and his confidence, and so caught his company in some effort to walk along the Arno before the council would reunite to witness the matron who claimed the youth of the illegitimate Tudor. “To think that our first European tour is spent in such mockery. I do hope de Vere does not fool the gentleness of that young lady, though better he than yourself,” he added, his smile playing upon his lips before he lead the way into their suited apartments, already rushing to inspect the security, pulling back sheets and wooden slats in order to banish any looming spy. Once their isolated was confirmed, Thomas mood shifted into paranoia.

“Do not ask me how a Seymour has found himself in Florence, I do not know, I do not understand myself. Someone has sought to undermine me and it has worked… Gods, if William does not see my neck upon the block then I would be a lucky man. You must promise me, Cecil, to make sure Penelope and Cecily are out of the city, that they are deep in English countryside and you must, you must swear to keep them safe." @jamescecils

Both men had been pained with the terrible unerring penetration of instinct - discerning under florid veiling, the bare, barren place of truth; no calamity so accursed could be felt by they two, but the affects of this tour's grand failure. They attempted to do justice; for James' part, he doubted whether they, mere men, had the right to do such justice - it was difficult still, to shake the firm conviction the work they did was righteous and needed. Perhaps he was tired to death of a life of seduction and mindless labours; that he longed to have the means and leisure for a good life, such as Thomas had built. Thomas had made peace with his fate somehow - too readily perhaps; he ought to have stood out longer, but he looked so kind and good. Thomas held out his hand with amity, good memories reproducing sorrows in James mind - a mandate to care for Thomas' family should he expire, was issued; in James' soul, rankled a chronic suspicion he would not survive the loss of the man dearest to him in this world. 

"It was never a task you should have been assigned - we are reminded so oft we are beneath the monarchy, yet they desire us to smote or contrive to wipe out those deemed our superiors; Thomas, William shall not have your head. I love our king, as I have loved his father before him - but the Tudor dynasty is a wriggling worm beneath my foot, if placed beside my love for you, in direct comparison. I will not entertain notions of your death - but I swear to you, that I make the protection and care of Penelope and dear Cecily, my life's work. My own life will be placed in harms way, to protect theirs; I swear to you, my dear friend."

So, she was different then. A new face, a new layer of skin to protect both herself and the children born from within. Arthur, with his dark hair and handsome inheritance. Catherine, pale and flame-haired. Even if they were of different loins, Alice could not help but love them all the same, and in turn James must love all of them — for they were her, and she was of them. She commanded it in the same way the Queen Dowager commanded her ladies, she pushed and pulled at his hair and skin in the same way an old ancient King would ask the tides to stop at his feet. Never did she think herself unworthy of his love or his promise, and perhaps that was where the fault lay, in her unbridled hubris.

If he thought to really and truly impress her, then it had already been as such, and so Alice thought little of the girlhood nerves that had once plagued her whenever she caught a moment alone with the aspiring politician — gone were those days of coy glances, happy smiles and breathless stances. Now, she could meet him on the playing field as the King would a friendly spar, there she could hold his face and kiss him with as much dire need as he had first shown her as an adolescent. Holding his face, it seemed that the power of his embrace was all that she was in need for, even as he whispered poems that trickled off his tongue like freshly cut honey from the comb. With her lids heavy, her breast heightening with each breath, the Viscountess pawed her fingers through the thick curls upon his crown, neatly cut nails pathing a way already stepped before. How could she have been away from him? Was it only to secure a lucid, almost unthinkable future for her kin? Born to the tainted Seymour brood, there was little faith in their salvation — she had begun the rekindling of Wulfhall, for-going her own father’s lack of care over the Parr estate that thus lay in uncelebrated ruin. She thought to create a home for them to hide among if the wheel of Fortuna spun in a different and sudden direction — there, perhaps she could lure James, if he could bid the court a sober goodbye.

Her words were laced with something else, belladonna soaked upon the wetness of her tongue as she pushed herself up to kiss him, as he waxed lyrical of sirens and sea salt, she could think of nothing but him and perhaps the indiscreet ploy made towards his chambers. “No? Will you not?” Alice whispered, her voice cut with the rumbling hurt of her throat, the warm cusp of her palm cradling the back of James’ neck. “James, James…” she echoed, her hips rising then falling, her own eyes rolled to the dark escape of her sockets as he nurtured her body with the same care due the most treasured object, her hand releasing the bow of his neck to search the bed for the excess of sheets, to fist the material into her grasp before she buckled towards him with the same vigour cast all those years ago. If only she could speak, if only she could make some cheerful and sarcastic comment upon her cunt and the cock she wanted above all else — then, perhaps, there would be something to break her uneven, luxurious breathing that left her cheeks to turn a pink-ish red. “God,” she blasphemed, holding herself up then to look at him, to admire as he lay his tongue against her sex, as he held her thus with her thighs against the broad curve of his shoulders. “I would have the entire Court hear me come by your tongue,” her gluttonous nature already picking at him, her slick sea salt coating her thighs and perhaps even his chin as she yearned for him in all, knowing very well that within hours she would be expected back in the quarters arranged by her children.

" perhaps i seek to test your resolve, my lord. if i were to allow you residency in my heart and beside my hearth, the most sacred place a lady may offer. well then i must assure that you shall not leave as soon as the summer draws near, yes?" the words drip from her lips, full of amusement and a bit of gentle reprimand before she may stop herself from speaking. as if his presence and good nature embolden her in ways that she previously had not felt, her heart racing in her chest as a grin appears on her cheeks without her noticing. a slip in her demure act that she so easily had worn since the beginnings of her girlhood, a reveal of the jovial nature that she hid so as to not embarrass her kin on accident. her body shivered at his promise, unable to help herself from briefly imagining james truly indulging in her pleasure, the wicked thoughts that it created which flushed her features. " if you dedicate to my pleasure, then indulge me, my lord. will you recount the grandest of your tales for me? please?" she pleaded, resting her cheek against his arm as she gazed up at him with wide eyes. as if they were daringly closer to lovers which the level of comfort that she granted him as they walked, arms intertwined, steps easily matched with one another. 

  "Clever girl; beautiful girl. What pledge of loyalty do you wish of me? That I shall not taste you, then tell you later, that I feel different? I will never look at your face, and feel different." In his eyes, she was a glacial prodigy; beautiful, proud, and pre-natural. Kismet was a little proud perhaps, with her naive delicacy and beauty; she squeezed the arm of which she had now obtained full possession - she coaxed and conjured 'til James was obliged to pause, and laugh. Throughout their time, she poured up him most fanciful changes on the theme of love - he was unusually perturbed by a sudden reflex to force bravado to champion veracity in its place. "Will you give me a thousand and one nights to craft my tales? I promise you, you shall not be in want of leisure or pleasure; I will fill your nights with the demonstration of my oral abilities, however you best see fit." His heart smote him - he was stirring up contents, but with a gentle and caring hand. James wished to do her what good he could; Kismet was not a child, whom one should not speak of the truths that exist - yet her goodness, her innocence, was alien to his whole life and views. 

england's  nobility  possessed  more  land  and  riches  than  the  layman  could  even  imagine.  yet  they  did  not  have  the  simple  freedom  of  protecting  their  peace.  but  what  was  one  man's  peace  to  a  kingdom  of  muzzled  men  under  the  guise  of  peace?  sibella  imagined  it  was  a  widely  held  belief  that  such  bloody  spectacles  were  especially  engineered  to  squash  dissident  and  to  inspire  fear  and  obedience  in  the  hearts  of  the  king's  subjects.  and  if  it  was  indeed  a  widely  held  belief,  one  would  be  oblivious  to  it  if  they  saw  king  william's  court  on  this  balmy  september  morning.

only  an  hour  prior  did  all  of  these  merry  faces  bear  witness  to  the  slaughter  of  her  aunt's  loyal  servants.  sibella,  of  course,  was  among  them.  she  followed  the  crowd  into  the  great  hall  where  a  feast  that  rivaled  christmastime  was  set  for  the  guests.  what  a  perverse  display;  they  may  as  well  have  stuffed  the  freshly  harvested  head  of  poor  margry  hallows  with  an  apple  and  roasted  her  upon  an  open  fire.  a  greusome  if  not  apt  thought.

sibella  could  not  dare  face  the  dukes  of  northumberland  and  norfolk,  who  likely  conspired  to  do  away  with  their  kin  as  they  filled  their  bellies  with  venison  and  ale.  she  sulked  among  the  wallflowers,  eager  to  take  leave  as  soon  as  it  was  appropriate.  yet  at  present  she  was  trapped  in  conversation  with  a  member  of  the  king's  council.  despite  her  sour  mood  sibella  decided  that  she  would  be  as  courteous  as  possible,  lest  she  hear  from  her  father  afterward.  "you  must  forgive  me,  lord  burghley,"  she  offered  apologetically,  "my  mind  —  and  my  ears  —  have  apparently  been  absent  by  cause  of  today's  events.  what  is  it  you  were  saying?"

    "I would not fault you for being absent; least of all, wishing to be so in conversation with me. I remarked upon the weather, but you are much to intelligent, to be plied with niceties - do you wish to rail against me for the actions of the council? I would accept your blows; should you wish for an ear to bear your grief, I would lovingly service you now with equal zeal." Sibeall's demeanour under his attentions at first excited a smile - it was not puerile, rather patient and firm. She addressed him with such suddnesss and sharpness; James saw her large eyes contrived to give him pain - he wished to work with extreme care and gentleness, spairing her what pain he could. The English wind owned a terrific influence upon the day, making all the pain more poignant, all sorrow sadder. Under their weight and warmth, all energy died. As the moments passed, a resetleness and fear beyond the average, assiled him. 

   Dudley smiled; he was quite satisfied with James' English phrase. The difference was marked, between his countenance now, and that he wore astride a stead. It was a marvel, to witness the smile of pleasure round his full lips, or in his eyes. The sarcastic, passionately exultant man he had witnessed hundreds' of times before, was illuminated by a wholly new sign of warmer feeling in his visage. That dark brow which spoke his Dudley blood, was displaced by a lighter hue. In a pretty humour in turn, was James - he found now the advantage of proximity. "Your good wife reminds me of my own mother; at times, it caused her great offense to hear my father partake in his evening meals. Does the court of our new King please her? The Princess would readily adopt her into her harem, if she did disobey her beloved commandment of piety, in possessing a husband." 

The gallantry of fine ladies present were of hazardous splendour and luxury; they possessed means of leisure and relaxation; left at liberty, to taste pleasures. Still, they were a pretty spectacle to be presented; each bearing in her countenance, a bounty of felicitation. James like to see these flowers growing, but once picked, they ceased to please. Presently seeking to prostrate on the sad state of future wilting, James was jostled with the force of a sweet church mouse; this interloper begged for her pardon, with eyes calculated to impress upon another imagination and admiration. 

"The scene of a crime?" A brow lifted in amusement and Meg granted him a light chuckle. "Do you imagine me a criminal, my lord? Capable of such dastardly deeds that I might run from?" Recovered from her blunder, Meg smoothed her skirts and gave the statesman her full attention. "I fear my answer may disappoint you," she answered, only then a bit of embarrassment creeping back in. "I must admit that I am, more often than not, distracted by those around us. With so many people in one place, it is nearly impossible to hear oneself think." The deepest of secrets were, no doubt, whispered behind locked doors or in the corners of corridors, but there was much to be gleaned from public conversation. "Though one does hear the most interesting things, especially after the wine has been flowing. Would you not agree?"

    "The ripped cuff of a rivals sleeve, perhaps? Or a horrible blotted stain upon the dress of a maiden who stole your lovers attentions?" The whole hall was a stir; clouds of gentlemen broke into fragments, mingling with the rainbow gathering of ladies; Marguerite glowed all over with satisfaction, as children of pleasure were apt to do. "You are an Englishwoman, are you not? Save for your French blood; I know your sex to be capable of presenting a handsome visage, whilst partaking in nefarious deeds which could exceed my own." He found her pleasant; a prospect more redolent of pleasure and comfort than what was offered by his companions unlovely visages. "I find no disappointment in your answer, though I believed you to contain more multitudes than you would like me to believe you possess. Does the splendour of the court still enrapture you so, after a lifetime sleeping besides the Princess? If so, treasure this; it is a gift, to return to the same scenes and still derive joy." A gleam flickered in James' eye - a derisive, playful sparkle. If she were to allow it, James would wholly enjoy be absorbed in discourse and mirth. "My own tongue is all the more pliant, after a glass of spirits; will you indulge me, dear lady, with a taste of what you have heard?"

Alongside James, Thomas drew up with the shake of his head, his gaze low as he looked between the thick tree trunks for what bounty would please their treasured chess piece. “You should be glad that there are no Medici maidens at our English court, dear James, or you will go cross eyed by their beauty. I have my own tales about the Habsburgs and their jarring jaws. I should show you a portrait, now that is the kind of woman to keep at bay,” he teased, before dropping back to Julian’s side, walking with some pomp to his step. To entertain a King was normally a frightful, tense affair. But himself and James had known him since his infancy, and so, Thomas himself sometimes found it hard to see him as anything other than a boy donned in pretty furs. 

The King's ambassadors clustering around him fell into a natural, unspoken order – the youngest, de Vere, to the back, and Cecil, his most senior advisor, spearheading the band – as Wills plucked a brow at Walsingham. ‘Our royal niece and nephew are Habsburgs – half, anyway,’ he remarked, feigning a sudden and morose seriousness: a volatility in emotion that too closely resembled his father’s to prove amusing for any man who’d survived that turbulent reign. Then, suddenly, his face ruptures with a blissful wickedness, a flask of wine palmed out of his breeches and driven to his wry lips. ‘And for those poor souls and their wretched jaws, I raise you gentlemen a toast. Are you dry, Walsingham?’ He queried, not waiting for an answer before he tossed the spymaster a vessel of his own. An avid hunter, but also a shameless hedonist, Wills would have drinking and merriment or he would have death.

He cocks his head, recognizing the name on de Vere’s lips – Mendoza. One of his sister’s hounds, who, despite her buxom beauty, was rather becoming an irritant to the King. ‘Does Cecil not already have a fine rack of antlers to grace his walls?’ Wills gallantly importuned. ‘I daresay we ought to consider our dear de Vere, and show pity upon a man with as little skill at the hunt as he has in his prick. What say you, Cecil, Walsingham? Do you not marvel at your King’s generosity?’

  A depressing and difficult passage has prefaced every triumphant page James had turned in life. He wanted love and confession; he could find none of these in a church or confessional. To Alice he found prayer; he knew what he was willing to give up if only to rewind back to his first dosage of her beauty. Tall of stature and made of full grace, she was but a nun in all but name. His heart had almost died with him in their separation; miserable longings of Alice strained its chords.A sorrowful indifference to exist often pressed upon him - without Alice, the dumb future spoke no comfort. Months were drawn heavy black curtains; grey down with the dust of a town since departed. The conviction Alice would be another man's bride would grasp him that love, his permanent foe, was never to be conciliated. A vague malevolence gripped his mind, and mischief made itself dispensable; so mortally did James fear the sin and weakness of longing. 

Trembling, James lay above her in a strange fever of nerves; he wished to impress upon her the depths of his feelings. In his vision crystal moons rose above their window, but he could not live in their light, nor yield them his affection. It was Alice who was empowered to give others strength and offer shelter with her bending form - she became a heroine to him. She was grateful in secret; a separation of a hundred leagues could not cut through the electric chord of love between them; bound by a fine chain of a sustaining union. He made her lips his own once more, as he ventured to speak. ""Kiss me, and I will show you how you have always been mine. I do not wish to be conscious of where my form begins and yours ends; my seraph, my siren, it is you who devours, and rises with your red hair. I am yours, Alice; the noise that surrounds us means little to me. I am but yours, and will make no quick work of my demonstrating my feilty." He paid his dues by awarding her lips, then each breast, a molten kiss - before he dipped his head, to obey her trembling commands.