#bd.event003

Bloody Days Plot Drop ‘The Death Knell’

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝟏𝟓𝟓𝟗: At the tip of everyone’s tongue is the blackened name of the Lady Talbot.  

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

Upon the ramparts, where the King’s army stationed themselves en guard for any sort of trickery sent by the King of Spain, Thomas met the son — a handsome, broad Prince who seemingly adopted nothing of his mother whom Thomas had always wagered was quite plain, if not too sober for his attitude. Rising to his grossly tall height compared to the others bar his step-son, Thomas could not help but welcome Felipe into his inner sanctum where the birds passed over their heads in search for warmer climates. Wrapped up in velvet and furs which had long been a gift from the Dowager, the Earl of Allington bowed formally before inviting him with a single gesture. “I see you, too, have grown tired of the constant meetings. Though I am a faithful servant, and would do as much as I can if asked, I have always found happiness among the wilds. Will you join me before the eve grows too cold?”

@felipaed

Where most of the courtiers were nothing but sons of Dukes, or if you were lucky, some distant relation of the King himself, none stood out more than the son of Spain. He glimmered as if caught by the sun, causing every single person who lingered to turn their necks in order to catch just a glimpse. Héléne, who was no more special than any other, saw him as soon as he entered — for he radiated something magnificent; not that there was any question or riddle why he did. He was the son of Mary Tudor, the usurped true Queen of England, and the King of Spain. Both as Holy and zealous as a good Catholic came. And so in that order, Héléne respected him in the same way she had been when first presented before the rulers of France in her first years at court. 

Though most of the maid of honour’s life was kept behind warped rumours and tattle-tales, most of the rumours that surrounded her were indeed one of truths. She had laid with the King of France as soon as she was able, henceforth sent to a convent where she had one of the many illegitimate children to be educated and taken by someone in the country. By that, she had proved herself a loyal French servant, thereafter installed as part of the de Medici court where she used her womanly vices to twist the knives of her Queen deep into unsuspecting backs. She had been married, that was known to almost anyone, and had been blessed with a son. But, both had died quickly, and so the slate was once again wiped clean to instead present Héléne as a piece upon the chess board. 

Bloody Days ‘A Rose With Thorns’

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓𝟓𝟗: The English court must wage a war for the soul of their nation on two fronts.

The Grey siblings had always been held at arm’s length, but that was not simply due to the blood that flowed through either woman’s blood. No, what seemed to sink deeper beneath her skin was the reality that her father had once thought his sister’s grandchildren a good choice of successor (for even though Henry Tudor never believed that his heirs would ever be so unfortunate to die childless, or the strength that came with his only true son was anything but secure, there was always a silent conversation on the what ifs posed by his council — whispers, then heightened by the rumoured legitimacy of the Prince and Princess), a favouritism that only relit a sense of fury in the late King’s second daughter. So, she kept the Grey daughters from her, often averting her eyes if they entered a room or purposely avoided conversation when found in a large mass of people. But with a large number of the court split apart en route to Dover, there was little to be done, and so when found face to face Elizabeth could only muster the calmness evoked by pretending that all had never been better. 

As Lady Regent, Elizabeth had taken to her role with diligence. With her mother’s soaring ambition and father’s hubris, she sat upon her brother’s throne as if she had been made to sit within its cradle. She embodied England in its entirety, adorned in crimson and gold with her hair cast down her back in a purposeful display of her unapologetic lack of modesty, coyness or any other traditional feminine value once ordained just how a daughter or wife ought to be when before the audience of court. Finally, met alone but for a handful of ladies in the last few hours of public court, Elizabeth greeted her cousin with a modest display, a tapestry of the Virgin Mary hung beneath her head in the same manner once put on for her mother at the time of her coronation — everything had meaning, even if the largest parts of her soul yearned for something and someone else entirely. 

In the feasting hall he kept to himself whilst provoking an audience with the coaxing call of his poetry, there he waxed lyrical upon the history of the castle and the romantic overture of Eleanor of Aquitaine — so, perhaps it was not solitude he was after but rather a quieter, less serious means of attentions. With his words he drew a vision of jealousy piqued with one ruling king and a lover in tow (for the idea of a menage á trois was not something that Thomas had been a stranger to, for had he not watched Anne’s own envy whenever Henry looked at another woman? When the very thought of either Mary Tudor or Jane Seymour came to taunt her?), leaning back in his chair like a slovenly Roman Emperor awaiting a fresh bunch of grapes before he met the eyes of one he knew by all but name. Rising to his feet, the crowd dispersing for the change of tune, the Earl of Allington then lowered himself to a respectful bow — for she was the daughter of Mary Tudor, a daughter of Spain and by blood right even a claimant of the throne itself. She was a beautiful thing, but much too young and too late for Thomas’ wandering eye. 

“Your Grace, I hope you find Dover to your taste. It is a far stretch from Spain, for that I am certain, but it is always a pleasure to diverge from the solemn routine of Hampton’s everyday routine, am I not right?” @lainfanta