granadas cayendo

ab. 1545 Titian - Portrait of Settimia Jacovacci (?)

She curled her arm around his, the smell of leather and something earthy (travel, she pragmatically supposed) wafting around them. Humming in response to his words, Maria chuckled lowly. Oh, the Duchess was healthy as a horse! She had never so much as sputtered throughout her life; her finances were clear of extravagant physicians and their cabalistic tonics, each worth a King’s ransom. It was the Boleyns and their preening that caused her stomach to churn. ‘The Suffolks are the perfect hosts. I want for nothing, and my needs be but few – my ladies and I are well content.’ Well-rehearsed words slipped past her lips with practiced ease. Regardless, the depopulated halls of Chelsea Place had suited Maria’s distaste for English puffery, allowing her to relax into what was proving to be a rather tiresome visit to King William's sodden shores. ‘Do you also have a home in London, my lord, or do you prefer the openness of the countryside? I admit I am surprised that so many of the court live take residence in London… in Spain, we long for the warmth of our own cloisters when apart from the court.’

But in truth, was it not Walsingham who had been sent to Catherine of Aragon’s final place of residence at Kimbolton Castle — whom had gone through her final possessions (all but a hair shirt, the last evidence made in light of a good, gracious woman) and then followed her train to Peterborough Cathedral whilst acting as the seeing eye for Cromwell himself. Then, in one turn of his head, he had also been a key pawn in place with the retrieval of her daughter, the Lady Mary. Though, if she knew all of that, then perhaps Thomas would have found himself in a serious, complicated situation. 

And yet, he thought nothing of it, upon approaching the Spanish Mistress, his visit a courteous guise for the name of King William, Thomas asked to be announced before making his entry, his choice of fashion muted compared to the flair that embodied the Duchess of Medina, whom from one look alone was quite enough to make any grand gentleman second-guess all that had once been clear. Hampton to Chelsea had been easy alone, for without the fanfare of carriage and waiting men, Thomas only had to arrive upon his horse, a saddlebag fit with bolts of velvet for her stay in the much colder, fog-drenched climate of their country.

Finally face to face, Thomas could not help but master a smile before making his approach towards her — a bow presented in one deep sweep before rising back to his true height. “It is a pleasure to finally meet your Grace, though I must insist that you would be welcome at Hampton Court just as much,” he quipped, perhaps in jest or even mickery for as the Secretary of State, he may have already proposed as such through papers sent abroad. “I could… stay for dinner, sí — as long as you may repay the favour at a later date,” Thomas proposed, before joining her side, offering his arm in a moment’s intimacy.

“How do you find our fair Isle? I hope Chelsea has been to your immaculate taste… You have already made the place your own, I see.”

One could overcome a vulgar tongue, an unlearned mind; but never the perversion of a low-born birth. His fortitude could not disguise the fact that he was a weary man, clinging to borrowed time, grasping at dimming favour, relying on the whispers of his apprentices and acolytes who were already rapidly retreating to the white-hot heat of another master, fluttering like moths to a flame, the tips of their brown wings molten. Walsingham, she found, was nothing like his former employer. His sparkling wit and natural grace might even awe Queen Mary’s stiff – albeit grandiose – Spanish entourage, lending animation to the distinguished furrow of his English brow.

Maria bowed her head to the Secretary’s entreaty, but refused to bend to the Boleyn’s authority; averting the liquid caramel of her gaze in mock-humility. With her hands folded against the dark material of her dress, the Duchess leveled, ‘I should think the Dowager would prefer the jewels I sent.’ She bit her tongue, on which clustered most foul words of condemnation, and simpered. If Maria had it her way, she would have sent the concubine a pair of leather gloves to hide the extra digit reputedly sprouting from the mounds of her palm – a lurid tale spread across the length and breadth of Spain that she took a particularly perverse delight in. In muttered tones, Maria grumbled, though it would appear she would have my written surrender before my goodwill.

‘It would be an honour, Lord Secretary.’ The Duchess spoke evenly, her thick skirts rustling across the pavement as the sun illuminated the rubies inlaid in her hood. ‘I understand you are now one of the King’s chief ministers. If you ever think to come to Spain, I vow to provide my services in turn. Ah, but I know you are married to England, sir, and would not think to whisk you from your post.’ His pleasantries elicited a deep rumble of laughter from Maria’s breast, ringing like the chiming of a Vespers bell. ‘Oh, good sir, flatter me not. My Lady the Duchess of Suffolk is this magnificent manor’s touch of brilliance. My late husband would tell you I have the tastes of a poor man, and indeed I would be contented with bare walls and a warm bed. It is but for the generosity of my kinswoman that I live in such grand estate.’ Her sherry-hued eyes cut across the Secretary, for her words, festooned with gratitude, made her case plain: it was Lady Suffolk, her blood as thickly royal as King William himself, to whom Maria referred to as a sister, confidant, and lodestar in England.

‘And if we were in Spain, and alone, Sir Walsingham, we would eat on the floor, and consume until God himself commanded us cease, speaking only in the rich Italian tongue, for that is how it is done in Alhambra. Instead, I ask you to lay bare to me the many wonders of a true English feast.’

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡   …   maria  de  mendoza   (   @mendozaed   )   𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞   …   chelsea  house  ,  london  .

the  dowager  duchess  of  suffolk  had  always  spoken  highly  of  katherine  of  aragon  and  of  the  women  that  had  followed  their  princess  from  the  perfumed  warmth  of  the  alhambra  to  the  fever - stricken  halls  of  ludlow  and  then  to  the  foggy  dampness  of  london  ─  weaned  on  her  mother's  esteem  of  the  spanish  infanta,  katherine  brandon  had  filled  the  minds  of  her  impressionable  young  daughters  with  an  admiration  for  their  iberian  neighbours  that  only  grew  more  fierce  with  the  death  of  her  royal  namesake.  philippa  could  still  recall  the  disappointment  that  had  leaden  her  young  body  at  the  realization  that  she  was  much  too  young  to  follow  mary  tudor  from  calais  to  spain  as  part  of  her  royal  entourage,  so  it  was  with  no  small  amount  of  fascination  that  she  presented  herself  before  the  duchess  of  medina,  head  dipping  into  a  nod  of  acknowledgment  as  the  doors  parted  to  announce  her  arrival.  chelsea  house  had  hastily  been  made  available  for  the  use  of  any  spaniards  who  wished  to  elude  the  viper - infested  corridors  of  hampton  court  but  though  it  served  as  an  assembly  of  like - minded  persons,  there  was  only  so  much  that  she  could  offer  to  her  guests  and  her  visit  was  more  apologetic  than  she  would  have  preferred,  hands  folding  above  her  stomach  as  her  steps  quickened  towards  the  older  woman  to  greet  her  properly.  

❝  doña  maria  ...  i  am  certain  that  my  lady  mother  has  ensured  that  you  lack  for  nothing  but  i  would  be  a  poor  hostess  if  i  did  not  inquire  if  there  is  anything  else  we  might  offer  to  make  your  stay  in  chelsea  house  more  pleasant.  ❞  faced  with  such  a  formidable  woman,  philippa  could  not  help  but  be  reminded  of  her  mother  and  her  grandmother,  from  what  faint  memories  she  had  to  mary  tudor  brandon  before  the  queen  of  france  and  princess  of  england  had  passed  just  two  years  after  her  birth  and  the  recollection  brought  a  sense  of  attentiveness  upon  her,  softening  her  sharp  gaze  into  something  that  was  more  watchful  with  a  curiosity  to  learn.  though  her  mother  had  still  held  much  power  as  dowager  duchess,  it  was  philippa  who  served  as  the  figurehead  for  many  catholic  sympathizers  in  england  now  that  mary  of  england  had  left  to  become  mary  of  spain  and  she  wanted  her  foreign  cousins  to  know  that  she  assumed  the  role  with  the  severity  that  it  deserved  in  the  hopes  of  gaining  their  support  or  protection  should  the  boleyns  pass  the  action  to  curtail  her  rights  as  a  claimant  to  the  throne.

As Lady Suffolk and her retinue pounded past Chelsea’s iron-wrought gatehouse, Maria rose and preened with haste, adjusting the mighty hood and its velvet lapels draping her head, revealing just a sliver of the dark tresses that framed her face. The constant intrigue of the English court (and the ever-present threat of garrulous house callers) required Maria to be splendidly dressed at all hours; though at home in Spain, the Duchess preferred to don her loose habitos, flowing bolts of linen befitting of Lady Godiva; to wear her gleaming raven hair loose, and splashed with damascene roses; to traverse the countless glimmering moats snaking around the Mendozas’ castillos with feet bare, heels suckled by the wet grass, and with only a linen cap on her head – not, as her mistress preferred, these cumbersome headdresses. But a gleam soon wreathed her face as she dipped into a curtsy before Lady Suffolk, herself gloriously frosted with jewels and precious silks. ‘By St Michael’s Sword, you are a vision – a testament to your Lady Mother, I am certain.’ Eyeing the Duchess, Maria boasted, ‘but I see both your grandmother and your cousin Mary in you, for which you must be very proud, no?’

Philippa’s words caused the Duchess’ face to tighten with thought, her cheeks still flushed a deep pomegranate-blush from the pinching of her ladies. The persecution of Catholics in this heretical Realm had given both Maria and Queen Mary reason for grave concern but, as the former was wont to remind her mistress, no servant of God ever entered the Kingdom of Heaven but through trials and tribulations. Faithful believers such as Philippa Grey would be rewarded for her unwavering convictions, and with this reminder Maria’s face softened. She nodded in the direction of her groom, still looming in the doorway, his expression an alchemy of stony and sober heed, ‘Don Alcarz is an ordained chaplain, Lady Philippa, and will lead us in our Faith. But the Queen’s children are aware that the religion of our Holy Vicar the Pope is not tolerated here, and have agreed to take Mass privately. It is the price we must all pay under this Boleyn sun.’

Maria folded her hands over her brocade-cinched waist – wondrously softened by the string of babes borne by her womb – and signaled for her ladies to bring the pair refreshments. ‘Queen Mary is aware that her brother the King has inherited not only their father’s red hair, but his inconcebiblé temper. There is no length she is unwilling to go to make peace with England – even through natural fears for its salvation.’ A knowing poured out of the Duchess; a shared desire for the crown of England to adorn the head of king – or queen – who shared in the Catholic creed thrumming between the two.