𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑨𝑵.

RICHARD OF LANCASTER  /  𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑭𝑼𝑳 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑶𝑭 𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑫.

while  the  comforts  that  she  had  been  afforded  as  queen  of  france  had  gradually  waned  following  the  annulment,  she  had  not  been  left  without  her  favorites  and  those  in  seek  of  favor  as  her  popularity  with  the  court  and  the  people  had  remained  undeniably  infallible  throughout  the  anglo - franco  war  and  beyond  ─  aliénor  was  not  so  optimistic  as  to  believe  that  the  fidelity  shown  by  her  present  supporters  could  not  be  swayed  in  time  by  one  of  similar  or  higher  position.  many  had  already  left  to  crowd  to  the  side  of  the  newly  returned  marguerite  of  france  but  fortunately,  she  had  no  quarrel  to  pick  with  the  sister  of  her  former  husband,  no  cause  for  a  divide  within  court  that  would  only  benefit  those  that  had  displayed  their  willingness  to  turn  on  the  woman  who  had  been  their  queen  for  seventeen  years  and  it  had  only  served  to  better  her  inner  circle  with  those  that  had  remained  steadfast.  it  would  not  always  reach  such  peaceable  conclusions,  however,  and  that  was  something  she  was  well - aware  of  as  the  french  hens  flocked  around  her,  pointing  and  cooing  over  the  various  tents,  travelers  and  caravans  with  an  enthusiasm  that  would  have  been  adorable  in  a  child  but  that  had  come  off  as  more  than  a  little  grating  upon  the  nerves  when  echoed  by  a  gaggle  of  fully  grown  women.

humming  in  noncommittal  agreement  to  something  that  had  been  said,  aliénor  allowed  her  gaze  to  be  drawn  towards  the  other  strolling  guests,  the  curl  of  her  lips  holding  more  exasperation  and  mocking  amusement  rather  than  genuine  interest  until  her  eyes  locked  upon  a  familiar  face  that  both  sharpened  and  softened  the  edges  of  her  smile.  though  the  political  relationship  between  their  two  nations  seemed  doomed  to  suffer  strain  for  perpetuity,  she  had  never  felt  personally  vindictive  towards  the  house  of  lancaster.  perhaps  it  was  easier  to  view  the  english  with  no  small  amount  of  apathy  because  she  had  never  suffered  a  great  lost  at  the  hands  of  their  armies,  besides  the  unfortunate  and  sudden  death  of  her  brother  which  had,  in  turn,  bestowed  a  great  fortune  upon  her  but  he  had  been  a  fighting  man,  reckless  enough  to  go  into  war  with  no  heir  left  behind  ─  he  had  been  mourned  for  the  boy  that  he  had  been,  sticky - fingered  and  adoring  of  his  older  sister,  and  thanked  for  the  lands  he  had  left  behind  for  her  with  his  passing.  it  was  a  discredit  to  the  proper  laws  of  primogeniture  that  richard  had  not  similarly  risen  into  position  following  the  death  of  his  own  brother  and  king,  though  aliénor  had  found  great  amusement  in  the  news  that  had  floated  down  the  channel  to  her  ears  in  paris   since.

he  had  changed  very  little  since  their  last  encounter.  the  hands  of  time  had  touched  him  as  it  had  touched  her  (  though  she  preferred  to  place  the  blame  for  the  strands  of  gray  speckled  amidst  her  golden  curls  at  the  foot  of  her  ex - husband  )  but  there  was  a  dark  mischief  to  him  that  age  and  lost  had  further  emphasized.  ❝  your  highness.  ❞  the  short  distance  was  crossed  to  meet  him  in  approach,  pausing  in  step  as  she  bent  ever - so - slightly  at  the  knee  ─  behind  her,  a  wave  of  powder - blue  clad  women  followed  in  various  stages  of  willingness.  he  needn’t  hail  her  as  such  and  she  had  assumed  that  he  might  have  wielded  her  diminished  title  as  a  weapon  yet  he  had  not  and  her  pleasure  was  visible  in  the  depth  of  her  smile,  gaze  dropping  to  his  proffered  hand.  there  might  have  been  a  time  that  accepting  the  hand  of  any  man  might  have  set  tongues  to  wag  but  aliénor  was  more  matron  than  maiden  in  the  eyes  of  europe,  devalued  by  the  divorce.

❝  i  will  hold  you  to  that  vow.  ❞  his  hand  was  warm  in  a  reflection  of  the  precious  stones  upon  his  fingers  while  hers  was  cool,  unfamiliar  with  the  chill  that  persisted  throughout  the  accursed  land  of  the  rus,  and  the  metals  on  their  respective  hands  met  with  a  soft  clash  as  she  accepted  the  invitation.  ❝  the  river  is  so  close,  after  all,  and  i  might  just  be  tempted  to  push  you  in  if  you  subject  me  to  reminiscences.  ❞  the  threat  was  gentled  by  a  squeeze  of  the  hand  as  she  fell  into  step  with  him,  her  flock  of  hens  remaining  at  a  polite  distance  that  she  was  spared  their  endless  chatter  for  a  moment.  ❝  though  i  suppose  nostalgics  is  all  that  you  can  speak  of  given  your  current  circumstances.  ❞  a  polite  pause,  one  fair  brow  raised  as  she  poked  at  him,  enough  to  test  the  waters  but  not  enough  to  yet  draw  blood  ─  it  would  seem  odd  if  there  were  no  barbs  exchanged.  ❝  still,  i  must  thank  you  …  i  was  beginning  to  tire  of  my  ladies  and  their  ceaseless  excitement  over  every  new  sight.  ❞

Glances are exchanged, and pregnant pauses follow.  If Aliénor of Auvergne is cognizant of the hesitancy pouring out from her ladies, she does not allow it to display and twitch across her visage.  She is perhaps accustomed to it, and bears the intrusion with greater mercy than could be expected of Richard––these women crowd her everywhere she moves, keen to tell her anything she wants, desperate to protect themselves.  Richard correctly suspects that she retains the loyalty of her former husband, the French King; he intuits that no woman, not even Aliénor, moves with such liberty and fanfare and circumstance without it.  With one accord, her knot of virginal ladies sink into elaborate genuflections––gathering their powder-blue skirts as they fall to their knees, all glimmering eyes and magnificent smiles and expectant of praise as they crest––like a row of obedient marmots, popping up from the earth.  Richard’s hand envelopes Aliénor’s, his thumb grazing the soft cream flesh of her palm, before he competently guides her arm in the velvet-clad protection of his, looped like a kaleidoscope-scaled snake. 

“If her ladyship is not back within the hour...” the duke flicks his chin over his shoulder, his narrowed gaze scything the sombre-looking maiden amid the knot, “tell your king he can have my head.”

He darts a contemplative look in Aliénor’s direction, his lips pressed into a firm line as her words exhaust in a pleasant stream.  Up ahead, the members of their own party––French and Englishmen––reveal themselves: their pasty scalps turning a shade of mottled, freckled pink as they amble beside the Moskva’s meandering waterways, appearing to swelter in the still heat of a late-summer sun as their footprints sink and suckle into the mud of the banks.  Beside him, Aliénor continues to needle Richard for a reaction, evading agreement and harmony: she coaxes a lightheartedness out of the duke that has grown increasingly rare.  The delighted twitch of his lips surprises even him.  “You’re exceptional with them,”  Richard remarks.  “How long, I wonder, did it take to train them?  That little...”  He casts a surreptitious glance in their direction, “number, with the coordinated curtsy?  It must’ve taken weeks––nay, months––for them to pick up what my bloodhounds could master in hours.”

Lancaster opens his mouth to return Aliénor’s quip, although an urgent tug at his velvet sleeve soon diverts his attention.  His dark eyes dart to her slippered foot as it steps into a path of soft earth, shifting perilously beneath her weight.  However fleetingly, Aliénor stumbles, her measured step and elegant composure crumbling.  Richard’s hands are fast at her waist, fingertips gliding over the generous seam of her gown. 

Apathy was perhaps the only thing that tied the Duke and Emperor together — but then, there was still the sapling of a loose idea surrounding the Englishman, an idea consisting of Francois and the power he could wield if such a man suddenly disappeared. Who would miss him, Maximilian thought — for all he knew, he didn’t have a woman, though he did have a sister, but she seemed easy enough to manipulate into Francois’ favour. So, perhaps Richard ought to keep an eye on his own sentiments, weighing up the power of the Emperor who had the backing of the Empire at his heel. Hungary, one of the bolder Kingdoms beneath his grasp, were his relation by blood — and he was but one step away from inheriting the lot.

Alas, he did not rise and instead only shrugged his shoulders, the clasps of his cape ungenerously digging into the muscle. He felt the name slip between the silence cast between them, but if he did mean to suggest as such, Maximilian ignored him with a heavy blink of weighed down eyes. He was tired, exhausted by some measure — alas, he blamed the ocean they had crossed, for he had never found trust in the bow of a ship. Clearing his throat, Maximilian shook his head in a stern twist, looking at Richard with a far away gaze that beckoned him away. “You have not offended me, it takes more than that,” the lie twisting around his tongue like venom, leaving him to clear his throat of a lump that began to form in an unlikely defence. There was nothing he could say, clearly — either man had set their camp, pitching their tents in uneasy grounds. 

Alas, the mention of his brother softened the blow, leaving Maximillian to refrain from a full formed bite. No, Richard of Lancaster was yet an enemy, an agent against his family — he would have to renounce his claim for peace, and Maximillian didn’t expect him to do that, and if he did, it’d only disgust him further. He turned and watched as the bride made her entrance, Iphigenia walking towards the altar, towards the father who’d sacrifice her in favour of good winds. Or, was it out of plain misery? A hatred held between father and daughter? Maximillian had never had so much time to dwell on the stories passed from mouth to mouth; give him a sword and a crowd, that was his education. “Francois is a dreamer, a good match for Her Royal Highness, a…  compliment —” He adjusted, twisting English, French and German together before finding the right word, his hand then gesturing in front of him as if he were trying to smell the wine in Richard’s cup. 

He had never seen  a man drink so much in such a short amount of time… and, tapping the corner of his own lip, Maximilian tried to hint that Richard’s lips were stained to a blood-ish crimson. “I would give it two months, till the Pope’s affections have swayed elsewhere.” 

He’d had half-expected the Emperor to tut in response––to huck a guttural, noncommittal huff from his throat, like a wad of spittle, effectively putting the conversation to bed.  Richard’s cheek was plain, laid bare.  It was an insolence that his father could never seem to thrash out of him, try as he might to cleave and clout it out of both bone and sinew, extracted from the grit of his marrow like a hardened, calcified mass.  It lingered well-into his adulthood, swelling like a befouled half-egg lump in his chest, tarnishing the gilt of his Lancastrian blood into a muted rust; only now, his forked tongue was as much a peril as it was a trump-card.  As his son stood beside the King of the Romans, the late King of England was surely writhing in his grave––or mausoleum, rather, the his late father’s magnificent crypt forged of fine marble and smooth granite.  Apathy swaying in Maximilian’s eyes suggested he’d paid the Duke of Lancaster little mind, howbeit; for an Emperor would have far weightier matters to mull and dissect in his mind than an English peer, in near constant pursuit of guile and deceit.

“A compliment?”  The light shedding from the scones on the walls reflected in Richard’s gaze, blurring the infinitesimal––and shaved impossibly thinner––border between truth and lies into something wafer-thin.  A muscled arm moves to snatch another goblet of Gascon wine from a passing eunuch; only a drop of it splashing against the sable fabric of the duke’s tunic, staining the fabric a deep plum.  He is struck by it, Maximilian’s blindness: was he ignorant to the howls in the street, proclaiming Mary as a sorceress and François as a fabled fool, or did he deliberately turn a blind eye to it?  The latter appealed to Richard; Maximilian’s hands were bound, his wrists raw with Mary’s constant clanking.  “Tell me, Emperor, does your brother not long for a taste of power?  Is he not moved by its intoxicating stench?”  Richard’s lips form a grim line.  “Autonomy, even.  Self-governance.”  His voice thins into a hiss, audible only to the Emperor’s ears:  “you’d be hard pressed to convince me, brother, that he remains content without it.”

At the sound of her native tongue, her eyes leapt towards his and, smiling, she arched her brows.  Aragon was a flicker of memory, a splash of sunlight vibrance all swallowed in the mist-strewn cares of Britain.  Beatrice had known, well and good, the likelihood she faced the day she first left for England that she was not likely to see her homeland, again: she’d known it and willingly she’d stepped aboard the ship destined to whisk her well away from everything she’d ever known and loved…but this did nothing to banish her longing for it.  Oh, over time it cooled, a kind of a timorous whisper that gilded the underbelly of her dreaming, but it was there.  And, for all that, in this place that could not be different from the sun-steeped shores of her early youth, she laughed to think of that strange-familiar pang.

This, she thought with a sigh as she turned her gaze upon the scenery – without ever truly seeing it.  Is a fine start.

The smirk deepened, a mischievous glow in her eyes as she took in his now-relaxing posture, fists unspooling at his sides.  “You did not mark me, at first, did you?  Were you about to beat me off as a thief?” she teased.  “I must say I am glad you did not.  I confess, I should have thought such a greeting remarkably lacking in gallantry.”

As he began to answer her initial question, she sobered slightly, and wondered if he felt that strange longing, too, for a home flung so far off – or if the promise of an eventual return helped him to conquer such sentimentality.  Beatrice rolled her eyes, yet a smile softened her lips as she turned to look at him.  She ought not to be surprised, after all, despite the nature of their last conversation: pushing the envelope was a mark of his very nature: the quality that put them in this very position, as it was that which most pitted him against Maria.

Yet, her smile lingered, gilding her expression, even as she shook her head.  She could not entirely dispel her own instinct for a like-kind response and, pursing her lips, she flicked her gaze to him.  “I am all surprise, Your Grace.  I should not have imagined that it was sleep that most…excites you.”  For a moment, her look lingered, then she cast it quickly upon the scenery, once again.  “After all…there is so much here to see and do, I feel sure there is much to arouse interest.”

Richard was not, by nature, fond of dancing.  He did not skirt a blatant truth, however grim and gruesome it may be; he did not evade, with light-footed regard, confrontation and discord. Yet, when Beatrice flits and pirouettes around his words, his mouth curves into something vaguely resembling a grin––mangled and stiff.  Such a display of mirth would be, however rare, as short-lived as a flare of lightning in the midnight sky; the corners of his mouth descend, with surety, to their rightful state of neutrality, a wry angle across his face, painted with the negligent stroke of an artist’s fat brush.  It settled with a heave of dust, an ancient thud.  Richard’s return is clipped, whipped by the evening wind’s, “so it would seem.”

To any curious onlooker, the pair buffeted by the city’s evening chill would have appeared every inch the dichotomy that they were: she, bright and teeming with whimsy and exuding of pure light, and he, charred and cryptic and reclusive and cloaked in a somber sable.  Richard’s eyes regard her with suspicion, as they often did––the nature of their entanglement did not absolve Beatrice of loyalty to Mary, a woman who could offer her lady––were they companions?––far more than strangled gasps of pleasure and the curl of her pink toes.  It was, in any event, entirely out of Richard’s nature to lower his guard; with Beatrice, with anyone.  “Your words carry truth, I’ll admit.”  For a brief moment, their gaze is torn asunder.  The onyx of his irises rove to the Muscovy skyline, the crush of stone cathedrals and gangling spires and, beyond, the steaming river, opening into the mouth of the emerald-green lagoon.  “Is that how I ought to regard you? A spy, a thief?” 

As his eyes lock with hers, Lancaster inches closer, the heel of his boot falling heavily against the stone parapet.  “If gallantry is what you seek, Beatrice, I’d implore you to look elsewhere.  But if you’ve an interest in being treated like the mole that you are––you’ve come to the right place.”

𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗 for @lancastricn

Daylight snaked lazily across the palace, illuminating each solid stone like a burnished lamp.  Beatrice watched it, a kind of quiet calculation, a touch of speculation.  She thought, on occasion, of the whims of nature: the seemingly unaccountable meanderings of the wind, the belches of the earth which tore cities to sunders, and the vagaries of sunlight, and yet how there was a strange kind of order to this chaos, a kind of command over it which priests said was the direction of God’s Creation, and which the Greeks had credited to the triumph of Zeus over Kronos and the Titanomachy.

Beatrice placed both hands on the window frame before her, leaning against it, half out into the open air.  Soon enough, she was sure, it would prove a biting chill, but just now she enjoyed it – this was what it meant to be wakeful, alert to the world around.

The Queen’s ladies were all asleep.  Turning back from the window, she watched them – chests gently rising and falling – and she gave a small kind of sigh.  She stepped out from the room.  She’d not be long, she told herself, only a brisk morning walk.  The day was fair, and like to be the last of such, if talk of Russian winter proved true.  Pulling her veil around herself in its usual tidy array, she slipped out the door and into the silver sunlight as it glanced off the parapets.  The English complex was a warren of twists and turns, but she’d come to manage it with some skill, and enjoyed the puzzle of it, for all that, though she found herself wondering at times – with a quirk of ironic humor – how hospitable the Russian intentions had truly been.

As she moved from one corridor to the next, emerging out onto the parapet, she spotted another figure.  For a moment, she stopped.  Anyone could be watching…but then, half sighing, half laughing at herself, she came to join him.  Let them look.

“An engaging view over Russia, is it not?”  Beatrice quirked a brow at Richard.  “I confess, its not entirely what I’d expected, but, then…” she grinned, flicking her glance towards the green grass beyond her gaze.  “Neither was England, in the end.  Perhaps we foolish mortals are doomed, always, to find our expectations crushed.  What do you think?”  She paused.  “Do you miss home, Your Grace?”

The umbrose figure of Richard of Lancaster marshaled, ostensibly alone, through the candle-lit corridors of the Kremlin.  With fists steeled at his side, he padded through its labyrinthine halls with a swift stealth, the rumble of heavy footfalls and a rippling cape proceeding his agile steps.  Richard’s senses––honed by both inborn instinct and decades of experience––had correctly intimated that he was being followed, though instinct had also trained him not to crane his neck to the indistinct rustle of his pursuer.  Instead, he kept his dark gaze level; his shoulders, as stock-still as marble, cocksure and squared.  A faint echo of pleasure hums within him.  Was it one of Mary’s hounds of hell or, better yet, the regnant herself?  Swollen with acrid insults she spat out like Christ himself?  The corners of Richard’s lips lift as he rounds a corner.  Mary is an abscessed tooth in his mouth, churning venom in his abdomen.

His eyes move to the wall, brandished with competent frescoes.  He then eases one of the iron-wrought windows ajar, and slips onto the parapet that tiers the exterior of the stone-walled Kremlin.  Richard’s lips descend into a glower as he is greeted by a punch of nippy wind to the gut and the window shuts quietly behind him.

Lancaster’s hand rests heavily upon the crenelated limestone, the ruby heirloom adorning his digits glinting in the moribund glow of daylight that, as the minutes toil, grew dimmer; darker; morphing into shades of grey and purple.  Mary’s tanned, leathery face comes to his mind, unbidden; a dark foreboding gathering in Richard’s thoughts as dusk descends ponderously over Muscovy, over the river that flickers with the torches of foreign flotillas mooring in its banks.  Above, the sky has grown misty and engorged with leaden clouds, a slurry of rain now imminent. As before, Richard’s senses intuit that he is not alone.  Only this time, a hooded figure emerges to greet him, a sliver of yellow-scalp escaping from beneath her cloak.  Richard’s fists uncurl.

‘Mestressa.’  His greeting is slow, mediated, a thick velveteen.  ‘I was beginning to, but now––’ Richard’s eyes lower.  ‘Colder here, isn’t it?  Tell me, Lady Beatrice, does it make you long for England, or perhaps, for a warm bed?’

𝐈 𝐏𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 — annie lennox.

you know i can't stand it, you’re running around / you know better daddy, i can’ stand it ‘cause you put me down.

𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 — the weekend.  ( deffo not about mary ... )

she don’t depend on anybody, know just what to do with her own body / countin’ all that money like a hobby, she don't give a fuck about nobody.

𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐀 — the lumineers.

with my father in a casket, I had no plans ... but I was late for this, late for that.

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐍 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 — kid cudi.

i toss and turn, i keep stressing my mind / i look for peace but see I don’t attain / what i need for keeps, this silly game we play.

𝐖𝐄𝐁 — 070 shake.

hold up, wait (your favorite) / dopamine, serenade (flower?) / games that we play, don’t correlate with the things that we say (i wanna know).

𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  — the weekend.

and now i know what love is, and i know it ain’t you for sure / you’d rather something toxic / so, i’ll poison myself again, again, ‘til I feel nothing.

𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄  — flume.

i said there’s more to life than rush, not gonna leave this place with us / drop the game, it’s not enough.

𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓'𝐒 𝐋𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘 — hozier.

when I was a child, i’d sit for hours / staring into open flame, something in it had a power / could barely tear my eyes away.

𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐋  — olivia rodrigo.

and i’m so caught up in the news, of who likes me and who hates you ... ego crush is so severe, god, it’s brutal out here.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑  — tame impala.

@lancastricn​​ . * / Richard, Duke of Lancaster

           the halls of the kremlin were plain, uninspired. footsteps of the divine and those that protected her flooded the corridors. the clattering of amour drowning out the murmurs in the queen’s ear about famine, finance and religious policy. a long way from her kingdom, mary’s fear of her reign only reigniting. those around her thought to be trusted, but the regnant knew better. she wouldn’t trust these fools to run her kingdom, they would have squashed the notions of rebellions and treasonous whispers. the queen was once again drenched in blood red, a stark contrast to the oncoming frosts of rus. ( making her an easy target if left to the wolves. ) alas, she is lioness amongst sheep. she’d rip them to shreds. all of them. confined to her quarters dealing with her severed realm, acting on protocols and writing letters to her advisors in westminster. 

           male voices flooded her mind, a moment’s peace is all she craved. away from these fiends that had grasped her gown the moment she was crowned. brow raised, feigning interest about the poor being unable to feed their offspring, not even attempting to offer solutions. her father taught her to listen when needed. such trivial matters could be dealt with in the commons. all she’d have to do is sign a parchment, blessing her signature as a holy order. seen as a saint to the people who loathed her. they spoke of the usurper. the cursed brother of her late husband. the brother that threatened her very existence.

        unaware of the oncoming crowd marching through the corridor, swords clinked as they advanced. his own little faction. the illegitimate. the powerless. mediterranean orbs fixating on the pig-headed oaf that dared to spoil her existence. her mother tongue ready to sting. she executes a sharp breath, muttering inaudibly. “ gilipollas ! ” pursing her lips. the regnant stiffened her features. orbs scanning his callous frame in disgust. with each stride, his hideous features becoming more apparent. the kind that would stalk the darkest of nightmares. hand rising swiftly to motion a silence. the voice began to falter, with whispers of the duke’s arrival present in their mouth. frothing like poison. 

        her party still, she could hear the whispers of her advisors, the english loved idle gossip. anticipating the next move. her guards hands tightened their grips on their weaponry. silver swords ready to clash. mary wanted to demonstrate power, the power he was unable to wield. “ three paces back. ” commanding them, allowing air for her to speak with her late husband’s weakest brother. an icy gaze fixed on him, not daring to blink. she wanted nothing to be strike fear into the demons that lurked within him. silence bubbling as the clamouring of metal began to cease. she daren’t speak a word in his presence, merely to judge what nonsense would sprout from those treacherous lips. perhaps more treason. 

        standing dominantly. glaciated orbs still glued to his, a demonstration of her inability to be intimidated or challenged. waiting for the correct address of ‘your majesty’ to escape his venomous mouth. ( she would revel to hear those words from him. especially amongst the company. ) fingers clasped together, allowing her posture to appear straightened. correct. majestic. hair cascading down her back, strands flowing freely above her breast. the sunlight kissing the threads of gold from her scalp. a portrait of beauty and grace. tilting her head slightly to feign an interest. 

The walls of Mary’s apartments are thickened with bodies.  Richard notes this as he enters her glum quarters, shadowed by a liveried retinue of his compatriots.  Their gimlet eyes are fixed on her, on Richard, on the veins plunging in his throat as he bends a knee to her makeshift throne, his cloak of ermine caressing the cold, clean ground below.  They will inevitably launch barbs at one another, like proud children casting scraps of meat from the table, and their guests watch on in both frightful fascination and wretched anticipation.  It is not a question of if they will strike, but who would deliver the first blow?  Neither shied from the opportunity, after all –– and what they would not say in the other’s presence would be the talk of Westminster by nightfall. 

Lancaster scarcely minds the offense that pulses upon Mary’s filthy mother tongue, impulsive and delirious; for above all, her inability to gather her composure amused him.  Hatred, blessed hatred, was entrenched in her bones, in the muck of mud and horseshit from which she wields her power.  In his presence alone, the Queen becomes a maddened, frenzied beast, choking on the loathsome lump that swells in her throat.  Richard’s lips curl into a gleam; his teeth exposed with wolfish pride.

‘Sister.’  It is a greeting she despises, this Lancaster knows, so familial and insincere as it is.  It oozes from his throat with an equal dose of disdain and pleasantry.  ‘I beg you to forgive the interruption.’  He palms the dagger sheathed at his waist, his heavy footfalls reverberating about the stone chamber.  ‘I was told that you seldom leave your apartments but to receive guests.  Does the Russian air disagree with you?’  Richard’s eyes scan the crowds, rows of courtiers cornered against the walls, as the self-effacing armor he dons slides from his shoulders and clatters against the hard ground.  ‘I was also told the young Tsarevich was seen running with his tail between his leg from your chambers. Need I remind you, sister, that we are honoured guests of the tsar –– you can have your blood in London, not here.’

They, those mindless, beaked onlookers, titter at this.  Richard would snap their mouths shut if he felt that it did not cause her some modicum of embarrassment, his own seething calumny.  ‘In any event,’  Lancaster drawls,  ‘I am glad to see you are well.  This dark, sombre cave of yours suits you.  Where is that little prince of yours –– scurrying about, somewhere?’

At the banks of the Mosvka –– the narrow, dingy river flanking the Kremlin, not entirely unlike the Thames –– there was commotion.  The people of the land wrung what coin they could from the Tsar’s guest, doling furs out of caravans, offering up pheasants felled by their own arrows, whilst roving mystics tugged at the sleeves of those who’d venture a reading.  Noble children ran underfoot, eluding the rabid snatching of their governesses, as their mothers and fathers shadowed the lengthy retinue of royals meandering the watery byway, their aristocratic nostrils quavering at the stench of the river’s dank brine.  Richard, ever an elusive figure, kept to the periphery of the party, for he preferred to observe, rather than to be among those being observed, as his boots squelched in the soft, muddy banks and he absorbed the sounds and sights of the assembled guests.  Not far from him, the telltale harbingers of Frenchwomen abounded: hushed murmurs, breathy tittering, and an overpowering façade of heady perfume.  Richard cast a sidelong glance to the nest of ladies clasped around their employer and granted a genial crease of his mouth.

Lancaster had recognised her both swiftly and with ease, the woman at the crux of the knot ––  Aliénor.  More than fabled, she was an enigma.  A lesser woman might have gone to a convent, to the grave or, perhaps, to the bed of another man if the King of France had wrestled with the Pope in order to divorce them –– yet Aliénor had forged herself into a relic, rather than a pariah, as necessary to the governance of France as the church, as the King.  Although surprisingly small of stature int he flesh, she absorbed what little light had managed to coax out from beneath a shelf of heavy, leaden clouds and used it to spread radiance across her flock of loyal woman.  Richard observed as they latched onto her, this woman who was richer than Croesus and more beautiful than Helen, like a babe to a breast.  He then nodded, Aliénor’s eyes locking with his as they appeared to swiftly discern his identity in turn, the liquid glass of her irises rounded, keen.

‘Your highness,’  Richard greeted.  ‘It has been a long time –– too long, in fact –– since we last met.  Walk with me,’  he gave his hand, palm-up, the rubies encrusting his lean digits appearing ablaze, ‘for old time’s sake, and I’ll vow not to wax nostalgic.’

He ought to have called Maximillian ‘your grace’, but he overlooked it — there would be other fights to best his brother’s so-called rival. The matter of his wife, of course, was a sensitive one. It was known amongst the entirety of Eurasia that the Empress had been imprisoned due to the rumours that had coated her, that had entrapped her like a fly within a spider’s web. He knew, then, that Richard must’ve already made his decision on how to mention her, of how to use it to his best advantage — but the English were always so quick to maim, that they could’ve barely had any fun with it, so he didn’t take the opinion of a man who was thrown from his rightful place by an outsider with any seriousness. As much as he supported Mary on the throne, it was an entertainment to know that Richard could not have bested her for the opportunity beforehand. 

Or, he thought, perhaps Richard had already made a cuckold of his brother — turning his brother’s widow inside his palm, breaching an understanding that no matter what, Richard would find a future yet upon the island Maximillian refused to understand. He couldn’t care, in any case. As long as Francois was kept alive, they could do what they pleased, but he had made a promise to himself to ensure his safety, to turn over any pebble that coated their poor shorelines. So, he watched as Richard took to his cup, drowning himself in the wine as if he could not stand another minute sober. Not that he could blame him, for wasn’t Maximillian all too familiar with the numbness that came with fermented grapes? Clearing his throat, the Emperor turned away from the Duke, instead watching the crowd dance before them in waves of red, gold and purple. 

“You call the Pope openly a fool? I would watch what drops from your tongue, brother — you never know who lays in the shadows,” Maximilian mused, his eyes yet stuck upon the head of someone he did not recognise. The Muscovite court had put on a show, there was no denying it, but the cold grip of its land seeped into one’s bones, and Maximillian had to fight hard to push a shiver from his posture. Adjusting the fall of his cape, he turned finally to face Richard, eyeing how he raised a single brow — the look so cleanly cut, that it was as if he had practised it before a mirror. “From what I am told, she is fine. We travelled from Aachen to London, remember — she would be used to the long hauls by now…” With a grim, neutral glance, Maximillian forced a look towards his wife. “You come all the way to Moscow to celebrate an alliance which has nothing to do with your country, Richard. What does that mean to you?”

‘I have offended you.’  His words are spoken of surrounded by the apathetic airs of a remark, a passing observation, where perhaps an earnest apology was due.  Yet, they are accompanied by the raising of his hands; scarred palms outstretched before the emperor’s eyes, marred flesh offered in truce.  ‘I am –– we are –– loyal to Rome, certainly, but even the Pope must see what the Tsar has in store for himself,’ he utters, canting his head in the direction of the Emperor’s ear, ‘Papal sanctions are nothing more than a means to an end for Moscow, a ploy to evade another sack of the city.  What other reasons would he have to embrace our Holy See above his powerful patriarchy?  There is no alliance; the only true union is between the Muscovite prince and his ambitions and whatever God he prays to.’  Richard drowned his ideology in another long dram of wine, the seam of his mouth dyed the hue of deep merlot.  His eyes cast wistfully, intently, across the crowd, blazoned with both kings and emperors.  Within its spuming cauldron, he finds Sophia, the top of her auburn head catching the fire-glow just so as to appear ablaze.  ‘In any event, the ordeal is amusing.  The girl could not walk more than two feet without trembling.  Reminds me of...––.’  He wants to say Agnes, Maximilian’s late bride, her hands clasped in reverent prayer the entire path to the altar.  Instead, Richard coughs up: ‘God’s blood, someone, surely.’

There were few qualities in men to which Feodosia found appealing, to her they were simply one in the same, whether gilded to the hilt with charm and charisma or - as her present company exemplified - brazen almost to a fault. Their minds seldom wanted more than to dominate and fuck, the latter part one of the only things they were good at in her learned opinion and even then she had been severely disappointed in the past.  As it stood, however, Feodosia preferred the impertinent ones best, her late husband had been of a similar inclination, appreciating the fact that she was not a gentle woman by any stretch of the expression.  

“ Her name is Yalena, ” She offered, her gaze also slipping towards the young woman to whom his gaze had fallen up, “ quite the pretty little thing, until she opens her mouth. It is quite a pity that most men do not deem it prudent to educate their daughters… then again, I do not fathom you are intent on talking much with her – I can introduce you if you like? ” Had they been on more familiar terms, she may have offered a smile as an expression of her appreciation for the conversation, yet Feodosia played her cards close to her bosom, especially when it came to the opposite sex. It was the sort of conversation that she found stimulating, arousing almost, it was merely a pity that he was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things – simply a facet of a fallen dynasty, desperate to maintain any semblance of importance. Still, he may be of some use to her yet, even if it was just to scratch an itch. 

Accepting the offered chalice, she brought the drink to her lips, masking her smirk behind her healthy appetite for wine. “ That would depend on who you were to ask, my lord. To many here I am a witch, to his Majesty I was that and much more.” She did not mind the accusations, she had certainly been branded worse during her tenure at court. “ And what of yourself, Lancaster? I hear you are quite a threat to the English Queen – how is it that you are still here to lavish such pleasantries ? Is it your beauty, wit … or your incessant ability to bestow flattery? ”

He practiced an uncommon display of restraint in the Dowager’s presence, a moment elapsing before he reached for the bait that she dangled handsomely before him.  Richard returns with ease the quip she lobbed at his webbed net, chuckling:  ‘you doubt that I could make an introduction myself?’  He tsks, sniggering into his chalice –– obsidian eyes resuming briefly their adventuresome leer at the urchin, blissfully unaware of the two gazes lingering upon her.  He does not shy from being caught redhanded.  On the contrary, he is intrigued by Feodosia’s frank assertion, an amused arch of his brows following suit.  She was certainly no English rose, no well-bred dandiprat, for she lacked both the frightful pallor and the ungodly penchant to speak in circles, words mincing and cutting around a brutal truth.  Lancaster was taken by it, in any case, for few within the English court tolerated his proclivity for callous candour.  Mary, in particular, had taken to wailing treason with every vicious lash of the tongue. 

‘Any woman after you would be an easy target, I’m sure,’ Richard returns lowly, words intended for Feodosia’s heed alone.  His gaze outlines the curve of her mouth as she brings to it her chalice, sipping heartily from its scarlet contents.  ‘Too easy, almost. England lacks much, but the art of the hunt is something we know well.  The capturing of lukewarm prey can hardly be considered a sport, can it, Dowager?’

Lancaster cocks his head at that.  If the Tsarina had, indeed, been dispatched by Alexander to spy on the English, she knew well where to thrust her knife: buried in the vertex at his throat where her blade would be rewarded with copious bloodshed, urged through the soft plume of his flesh.  A gust of wind threatens Her Majesty, Richard thinks scornfully, albeit in response he merely utters a tight-lipped ‘indeed.’  Another swig of wine, another sigh of quenched relief.  ‘Although she is less enamoured with my flattery than you are.  I suspect that she would prefer me to find lodgings at the Tower than to stand here beside you in the Kremlin, so I intend to make the most of it whilst I can.  Perhaps you’ll take pity upon a dead man walking and tell me where your tsar keeps the better wine?’ 

Every time she was around Prince Richard, a bit of bile threatened to make its way up her throat and into her mouth. There was a sick feeling in her gut whenever she was around him, one that his voice surely didn’t cure.

There was something… slimy about him that she simply couldn’t name or put her finger on, though she’d rather someone else put their finger on it for her, for she wasn’t one to want to touch slimy creatures.

Needless to say, she didn’t dare trust him.

“Possibly, though you have such a stoic face I cannot be so sure.” Matilda answered with a brief smile that soon faded.

“No it does not. I have had my fill of drink currently, thank you. And I’d have thought you would enjoy the wine, it has a sweet taste at first but a bitter undertone that sneaks up on you, it creeps across the tongue and holds fast to your senses. It surprises you, much like a snake attacking its prey. Wouldn’t you agree?” She asked, easily feigning a look on innocence as she gazed upon the English Prince.

Richard’s half-hearted attempt to repress a rise of his brows proved in vain.  As his face twisted with a melding of surprise and wry amusement, the wine coating his tongue in a frangible shell did little to inhibit the rueful laughter that then reverberated within his chest.  Matilda detested him, this he knew.  He glanced sidelong at her, noting the nauseating curl of her lip, the way her white nostrils flared and quivered with disgust.

Lancaster wondered, briefly, if she knew the display she was putting on –– the trappings of revulsion that she wore nakedly, like a second skin.  But then, what did he care?  He’d grown accustomed to it, hadn’t he?  ‘You can retract your claws, empress,’ Richard said, languidly.  ‘I wasn’t going to poison your chalice, if that’s what you thought.’  I prefer my prey unsullied.  ‘Not with so many bystanders, anyway.’

Bringing his own goblet to his lips, Richard pressed: ‘will you humor me with a conversation, or must I find someone else to maim the English language?  Your choice.’ 

In sharp contrast to the splendour of the previous night, Moscow lay still this morning, bereft of the activity that had set it alight only hours before. Whilst the celebrations raged into the night, Elizabeth had no doubt many of those who had overindulged were enjoying, or enduring, a morning of rest and recuperation to soothe weak stomachs and aching heads. She did not count herself amongst those number - though her feet were blistered from a combination of new shoes and vigorous dancing, there were no other ill effects of the night to suffer through for her. What was near insufferable, however, was the boredom beginning to settle in, a side effect of the quiet, solitary morning. 

But before displeasure can truly take root, Richard strides into his chambers, unexpected, but not unwelcome. Bright smile graces her features, and Elizabeth rises to her feet to greet her brother. “Good morning, Richard,” she chirps, sweet as a lark. “I am well. Did you enjoy the festivities?” True motives for his visit revealed, she lets out a quiet groan. She should have known that he would not pass up the opportunity to tease her rotten. 

“That’s private,” her expression falls into something more solemn, though her cheeks were darkening to a vivid shade of pink. “I suppose I should thank you for not risking your eyes, but I can assure you that whatever William has to say to me, you will find nothing improper in his words. Now, may I have it?” She holds a hand out, patiently, expectantly. 

“What of you, anyway? Have you found any interesting company to keep throughout our visit?”

His thumb brushes against the scarlet seal of wax enclosing Courtenay’s letter.  Elizabeth was too holy, too chaste ––this he knew –– to romp about, even with someone as righteous as the Duke of Somerset.  William held his aversion for Queen Mary close to his chest, as most courtiers did, and yet Richard rather detested the closeness between them, the indestructible trust she bestowed to his person.  Richard had not been a quintessential brother, foisting ambition and pride above his loyalty to Elizabeth, and yet he lamented that their bond was not stronger, that they were, for all intents and purposes, strangers to one another –– the sun and moon perpetually orbiting one another.  He could almost hear their mother, whom Elizabeth had never met, spitting an oath of shame in his ear.  ‘Here, sis,’ Lancaster gives in, tossing the missive onto her bed, not wholly forgotten.  ‘Read it later.’

@lancastricn

To be called East, to the realm of Russia, was not a journey that Maximillian had factored into his trip to the small, putrid island of England. It had been long, and a wretched storm had passed over the procession of ships as a bad omen. He had spent most of the trip in his quarters, spread over parchments, maps and ink pots, planning his journey back to Aachen, where he was to meet his councillors for only the second time of his so-far, short but successful reign. When the alliance had been announced by Moscovite ambassadors, Maximillian had been somewhat confused — did the Pope not care for the King whom he had anointed? Everyone had known about his due hatred for the French, everyone knew that the Emperor sought the land that was rightfully both German and his by blood. So, then why did the Pope honour the match made between a hedonistic French King and a spoiled Byzantine Princess? 

He wouldn’t have attended if he hadn’t have been in England to keep an eye on his brother, to send his scouts wandering through the halls in search of whispers — if he had been anywhere else he would’ve simply returned to Aachen before going on his many long travels around the Empire — ignoring the alliance, that’d only end in bloodshed. But since the English court moved as soon as they could, it was assumed that the Emperor would follow, so he did — hesitantly, his whole body yearning for Hungary, where his soul remained. 

At least the match made with the Tsar and another princess was less offensive, but was still cause to the Emperor for worry — what were the Byzantines playing at?

Meeting Richard of Lancaster in the grand, decorated halls of Moscow, Maximillian paused, holding a goblet against his chest. He had been in England long enough to meet him before, but the English Kingdom was shaken by the strong wield of its current monarch, and its blood heirs seemed eager to gnash at any other foreigner who went upon their grey shores. What a fool, he thought, to think that Maximilian cared for the little isle at all. With the smallest of nods of his head, he opened his lips, and spoke perfect English — he may not have grown fond of the Duke, but he could practise formality with him. “What do you think?”

Emperor Maximilian was no stranger to Richard of Lancaster, but neither was he a friend.  The Duke would not dare to deduce him an enemy of the English queen, but certainly, Maximilian did not pay her the squelching, boot-suckling veneration she believed due her person.  In that, they found common ground –– elsewhere, in the bloody battleground of Westminster, traces of commonality diminished, chucked to the fire.  Some perceived the Emperor as a glorious autocrat; others a lowly cuck, enmeshed in hearsay blowing northerly from Bavaria.  Richard listened, for talk of Matilda’s whoring was difficult to ignore, but resisted the natural inclination to act upon hearsay; he was amused by it, rather than aggrieved.  So, when Maximilian asks after his thoughts, Richard brings a goblet to his mouth –– a gradual curve forming behind its metal rim.  ‘After I finish this,’ he reasons, ‘we’ll talk. I think better in my cups.’

Jest aside, Richard swiftly adopts the mien of a preconditioned, hardened Englishman: adverse to continental influence, to the sumptuous, lavish displays put on by eastern neighbours.  ‘I must call a spade a spade, brother,’ he says, though the appellation conferred upon the Emperor is nominal at best, a hint of irreverence.  He splashes his throat with another swig of wine, acidic as it washes over his tongue. ‘The Pope deceives himself, and all of Christendom, if he believes the Tsar will embrace our Holy Holy See through the vein of an advantageous marriage.  He’s a fool, though let us hope God’s auspices have yet to make themselves known.’ 

A knowing look stained upon his weathered countenance, Richard raises a singular brow.  ‘It would not be the first time, I should think, that the Pope misfired in his hopes for serene nuptials, anyway.  Unrelated, my lord, how does your wife fare?  Our travels were long and arduous –– an omen, naturally –– the ladies must be at pains to compose themselves.’

The halls of the Kremlin were eviscerated, starved of their usual activity and pandemonium, and all too quiet.  Courtiers were doubtlessly bewailing and attempting to numb the pounding in their fragile skulls –– the result of copious consumption of wine, ale, and feasting the evening prior.  Richard, a seasoned veteran of filling his gut with such poisons, was of a clear, limpid mind, yet agitated.  His mind itched for some diversion, some pastime that was not spent in the company of beasts, neighing mindlessly in their stables.  To his surprise, that diversion came in the form of a letter, address to his sister, Elizabeth, planted firmly upon his cypress desk.  It was thus to her apartments that he strode, trekking across the creaking wooden floors that led to her chamber.  He was granted access by a chambermaid, not much older than he, employed to guard the princess’ doors; she reddened to her ample breasts under the weight of Richard’s stare and wordlessly permitted him entrance.

location: palace of facets. tagging: anyone!

There was little in the mortal realm that could compare to the grandeur of Moscow, more specifically, the Palace of Facets – or so Feodosia was inclined to believe. For a woman whom considered herself learned and cultured, she had truly seen little of the world beyond the ever expanding borders of the kingdom. Perhaps it leant to the whispers of her commonality then, that the dowager was a little taken aback by the displays of wealth that had been exhibited by the Byzantines – had she truly been so imperceptive to Russia’s eminence within the theatre of empires that she had misjudged their prestige? Never.

To Feodosia there was more to eminence than astringent displays of wealth and no amount of glistening jewels, supple silks or alluring gold could replace the foremost crucial characteristic of fortitude.

Having quietly observed Sophia for much of the day, she had perceived that the princess was lacking just that. Her eyes foretold a fear that Feodosia could only liken to child fretting over a thunder storm, or a doe just before the hunters arrow pierces its heart. The princess presented herself to be a paradigm of sainthood, a coruscating example of a weakened kingdom whom masked their fractures beneath the only thing they had left to offer – their wealth and beautiful daughters. It may have been concerning, if it had not also present an opportunity.

There was little doubt in Feodosia’s mind that the princess would founder. The Rus court was not gentile, seldom was it even dignified, it was a cutthroat cacophony of vicious factions and it was not enough to simply survive, one needed to thrive.

Expected but seldom wanted at such joyous events, Feodosia had mostly kept to herself for the majority of the evening. Her gaze surveying the hall, alas her mind was calculating the best course for her later endeavour. The probing headache forming betwixt her eyes dulled by the chalice brought frequently to her lips. “Tell me…” she began, her gaze slipping towards figure beside her, the smallest hint of a smile curling at the corners of lips, “…have your eyes ever beheld a more beautiful bride? I fail to recall the number of unions I have witnessed under these frescos, alas none have been as magnificent as this one. Not even my own.”

The Duke of Lancaster detested seafaring; the retching, the sickness, the malady that came of it.  He, too, detested France, thus his journeys had seldom brought him further than Calais by ship and Paris by foot, making a trip to an empire as eastward as Moscow beyond the realm of  reason for his person.  Yet, Richard did not feel entirely out of his element in the Palace of Facets, where both vipers and serpents alike forged their nests, where pleasantries were laced with maledictions and where malevolent, turquoise Nazars glimmered in the face of the Tsar’s ruddy-faced subjects.  Richard was not known for being cordial, but he could get on with the best of them in Moscow, unearthing a certain kinship with Muscovite’s gelid nature, their propensity to drink until they’ve spewed ale in the furthermost corner of the reception hall, their hearty embrace of crude bluntness. At the head of the whole quixotic affair, was Feodosia.

Open starter!

Location: The Palace of Facets in the evening

Matilda was the best at playing pretend. Truth be told she didn’t want to be there, there was enough going on back in England and within The Holy Roman Empire. Though there was nothing wrong with a bit of preening and posturing… nothing wrong with showing off to all the other monarchs, especially when you’re an Empress… after all, Empresses are far more important than Queens.

She just so happened to approach someone… a smile on her face as she spoke.

“Enjoying yourself?” She asked.