May 25, 2023
NEW LOCATION : greenwich palace, december 1559.
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NEW LOCATION : greenwich palace, december 1559.
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Bloody Days ‘Harps of Gold’
𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓𝟓𝟗: It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old; from angels bending near the earth, to touch their harps of gold.
starter for @truedevotions
The journey from Hampton to Greenwich had been easy enough, for Jane was given a seat with her Leicester siblings, her head long lost to dreams of what was to come. For the previous month spent at the fortune of her good luck had been a month far greater and more cherished than any other in her entire lifetime. Having met the King, and danced with a great number of beautiful people, Jane felt almost entirely out of her depth — for she struggled and strained to keep her head above water between serving her cousin’s pregnant wife with her head so full of fantasy. The arrival itself was as easily led, and though she did not present herself glittering in splendour as many others did upon that first Yuletide night, Jane thought herself as giddy as a girl, her cheeks blushed as she held her cup, her eyes sparkling as she looked around that splendid room. Though she was not as well versed on who was who, Jane did her best to treat everyone with the same smile and tilt of her head, thus meeting the other whom she did not know in a modest sense. “Good evening,” she called, a sigh spilling from her lips, her cup pressed against her chest. “How glorious this is…” Jane commented absently to whomever it was whom had crossed her path.
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Another month had been survived, and wasn’t that cause for celebration? Donned in velvet and trimmed with golden thread, he had rode by his wife’s side, his dark eyes surveying the road for any sign of highwaymen or any such animal that may wander into their path. Still, the journey had been easily made, and so Thomas had guided his wife to their chambers which were not unlike the ones kept at Hampton, but which seemed riddled with the ghosts of her past life. Everywhere he turned were echoes of Henry Tudor and his father, everywhere he went he saw people he knew back when he had been but an ambassador and supporter of the ascension of the Boleyn family.
But Thomas had never been the type of man to linger in the past, and so instead he indulged in spiced wine and sweet almond pastries, making merry with the councillors who were also award a fine break from the atmosphere of serious conversation and the shadow of the legitimacy of that de Medici token. Sipping at his cup, he made merry with all around him, including the Percy fold who had long since supped at the position previously taken by his wife’s brood. Having met then and again through Anne, Thomas bowed his head and gestured for someone to approach in order to fill Isabel Percy’s up, his good cheer plainly coloured upon his face. “Ah, we are so lucky to have two Percy daughters find comfort in these walls. Where would we be without them? How did you find the journey?”
starter for @fitzrxyal
Eleanor Fitzroy was a strange creature of olden times, for within the War of the Roses, were there not illegitimate children of illegitimate children at every turn? Indeed, even she was off extramarital stock by the bounty of some claimed grandfather — and so, it was not right for Elizabeth to look down on her niece’s place, even if they remained so close to age. For she was the only child of the long passed half-brother who had been brought into the world by the fair headed Bessie Blount and the glutton of her father. She had never met him, of course, for why would she? Elizabeth was a Princess, and Fitzroy’s place never saw the advantage of being thought of as the next heir to the throne — so, he was kept elsewhere as she remained by her mother’s side of indeed Hatfield House that soon became her sanctuary and sweet haven of protection. But, she didn’t know of him and his daughter, a name being but that, a whisper passed between soft lips.
Whilst she was under the care of the treacherous Seymours, Elizabeth penned something passively sent beneath the radar of her mother; something laced with promised sweetness, despite the reality that was to keep Eleanor kind and docile if she ever thought of ideas grander than what she deserved. Indeed, thus met at those Yuletide celebrations, the Princess rose to her feet, her hands clasped against her belly as Eleanor Fitzroy’s name and title was announced for all to see, the gaggle of girls that surrounded her seat then directed towards the door to greet the Princess’ niece. Met face to face, Elizabeth looked at Eleanor’s visage, yearning to find something of her father before she gestured for her to speak first, her lip wavering to a stern polite smile.
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yuletide starter for @myladygrey
Since the day of their transition from Hampton to Greenwich, Elizabeth had made sure to keep a pristine approach to the every day celebrations that then had the corridors throb with delight at every corner. With the evergreens hung from the ceilings, jugs of spiced wine keeping each room fragrant with luxury, Elizabeth was to become a coy, splendid vision of humble regality. Adorning herself in virginal whites as if to embody the Mother, Elizabeth went to meet her gaggle of ladies in waiting with her chin up-turned, her smile forced into a neutral line when progressing alongside many other hanger-ons. Greenwich and the faux rule of Charles Butler was, by any other name, a joyous ceremony of decadence — even Elizabeth, who had only ever been beneath such a roof under strained visits to her father or when she had been born, overlooked the ghosts of the past to partake in the joy that followed.
“My Lords and Ladies, do all dance and make merry… I have invited you to my quarters in favour of putting on a display of my gratitude for such a wonderful year. May we make a toast to the King, and the late King himself? Both are to be celebrated, as we embark upon a new year!” Elizabeth exclaimed, raising her cup to the room, her pearls twinkling around her neck as she eyed each singular individual who had been coaxed to her side of the Palace. Time was off the essence, after all, if she was to make her stand before she turned to her nearest lady, the loo, her cup wavering by her lip with hesitance. “Now tell me, what do they say about Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of Henry and Anne, on the seashore?” She asked, the wine having touched her tongue for a little too long as she indulged in its loosening effect.