#edmcndd

It was late in the evening, and there was not a sound throughout the house – not even the floorboards creaked, and the wolves in the nearby forest had released nary a growl as dusk dissolved into pitch-blackness.  The Duchess’ servants had long taken abed, and the hearth was nearly extinguished, with only a singular pair of charred logs continuing to flicker, emitting the occasional spark of embers that licked against the mouth of the fireplace.  When the Grey women were lodged at Court, Chelsea Place was all but deserted, a solemn cathedral – Katharine employed a modest staff to watch over the home, to bleach the linens and dust the draperies – but when the Duchess and her new husband had come thundering up the road to take sanctuary, the servants had filed out into the lawns in packs, willing to catch a mere glimpse of their mistress and new master.  But even still, there was scarcely enough firewood to keep Kate’s chamber warm and cheery.  Ned would fix it, she knew, with his endless Percy coin-purse; but the icy freeze felt throughout her rooms felt symbolic, in a way, of the lengths she’d fallen in the matter of mere hours. 

King William’s repudiation of her husband was a bitter cup to drink from – that ginger fool – but fleeing from court with a husband more than fifteen years her junior was an even greater sting to her pride.  But Katharine had made her bed and as she cut her gaze – eyelids weighted with fatigue – to the glowing coals of the fire, its fading heat and dimming luster, she knew that she must now lie in it. Finding that she could no longer bear the chill, Kate rose from her chair by the mantle and bundled herself in a furred robe, trimmed with cloth-of-gold, before creeping toward the edge of the oak four-poster that dominated her chamber and drawing back the curtains that enclosed it.  No sooner had she begun to crawl into bed did a rap sound against the door, prompting the Duchess’ brow to furrow in confusion.  ‘Bessie?’  Called she, figuring it was her lady’s maid who beckoned.  ‘Pray tell, good woman, did you find another log to burn?’

Sunlight leaked through the grand velvet drapes of the Presence Chamber, infusing the oak-paneled space with a sort of scarlet glow, bewitchingly bathing Wills’ cheeks in the high-colour of rubies. Though splendidly furnished and warmed with an enormous hearth, the throne room – where, as the name implied, the King’s damask-padded throne was mounted on a risen dais – was one of his least favourite places to be, the world over. Indeed, he found the whole business of receiving his courtiers' woes wearying. With days neatly marked out by hours of prayer, feasting, preening, hunting, and the receiving of audiences, the minor inconveniences and serene hear-hears his subjects brought to him proved rather irksome than otherwise, a practice he sought to reform in the regnal years to come.

Following a lengthy, garrulous plea heard from Sir Tilney, the King felt a great urge for wine grip at him. As Ned Percy entered, lowering into a graceful bow before the throne, a servant pushed a cup into Wills’ palm, a wish fulfilled. ‘Lord Percy.’ Mildly surprised to see Ned prostrated before him – for he’d always encouraged the Earl to air his grievances in private company – Wills’ brows waggled tauntingly, expectantly. Had his friend come to rescue him from inertia, come to wrest him from this tedious affair and spar him on the tennis court? Teasingly, the King entreated, ‘what great calamities do you bring us, brother? Witches in Northumberland? Barbarians in Sussex? If forced to adjudge another land dispute, I'll die an early death.’ A wave of hollow laughter rippled amongst the vacant-eyed servants clustered around the King, standing like Norman towers beside each of his shoulders.

Ever since the ascension that had come with the marriage to his most desired and unquenchable Anne Boleyn, Thomas had seen himself the attraction of many welcome eyes upon the grounds of Hampton Court. Of course, during the time of the late King, he had also entertained such wandering gazes with the call of sweetened poems or knowing glances — the attention itself was far from uncomfortable to he who had craved the spotlight in the same way a dramatic child did the eye of a parent. Between his love making or various writings across the known globe, Thomas had set aside hours upon hours for dramatic readings of sweet-hearted sonnets, his language then fluttering between welcomed ears with a smile in place for compliments laced with honey — and, gluttonous for their approval, the poet bowed for his crowd with the cry of gratitude, his hand suppressed against the broad expanse of his chest as he soaked it all in.

But, he was not simply a thespian willing his way towards stardom, but a high-ranking member of court. And as such, he had not only a role to play but a reputation to uphold — as the stepfather to a King, to a Princess and then the husband to an infamous woman, Thomas was pushed to up heave his love for adoration in place of serious remarks and well meaning nods of his head. As men came to him for the first time in his life to ask for the approval of a gift sent to the King’s quarters or to the Dowager’s reception rooms, Thomas found himself just beyond the comfort of well-stroked paths — but, that had been how Thomas had always preferred it, to tickle the fringes of life was all but a joy to a man often thrown to the gasping mouths of wolves.

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡   …   edmund  percy   (   @edmcndd   )   𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞   …   knot  garden  ,  hampton  court   .

dispersed  along  the  grounds  of  hampton  court  in  clusters  of  two  or  more  people,  the  courtiers  had  turned  their  faces  up  towards  the  night  sky,  now  illuminated  by  a  show  of  pyrotechnics  coloring  the  dark  canvas  in  flares  of  whites,  reds,  oranges  and  yellows.  the  duchess  of  suffolk  was  no  less  transfixed  by  the  sight  of  light  and  color  and  smoke  above  her  head,  remaining  in  place  even  as  the  sounds  of  the  cannons  blasting  gave  more  reason  for  inebriated  bodies  to  move  closer  together  with  heads  bent  and  hips  touching  ─  an  intimacy  prompted  by  the  pleasant  assault  on  their  sense  of  sight,  sound  and  smell.  the  wind  had  begun  to  pick  up,  blowing  the  smoke  from  the  distant  cannons  in  her  direction  as  another  bang  resounded  through  the  gardens,  followed  by  a  shower  of  light  and  philippa  startled  at  the  sound,  shoulders  drawing  closer  to  her  ears  instinctively  as  a  chorus  of  surprised  whispers  and  awed  laughter  floated  from  those  gathered  nearby.  unknowingly,  her  lips  had  curved  up  into  an  embarrassed  smile  at  her  own  reaction  and  she  spared  a  glance  around  her  to  make  certain  no  one  else  witnessed  the  flash  of  shock  on  her  otherwise  well - composed  and  rigidly  controlled  movements  ─  most  appeared  to  be  as  mesmerized  by  the  display  as  she  had  been  except  one,  his  heavy  gaze  resting  on  her  heated  features  from  where  he  stood  some  feet  away,  seemingly  content  to  watch  her  instead  of  the  skies  above.

(  ned.  )

𝐭𝐨    . . .    edmund    percy    (    @edmcndd    )    .

bearing  his  name  and  very  little  to  hint  towards  the  author  of  such  carefully  penned  instructions,  the  letter  had  been  inconspicuously  smuggled  into  the  satchel  that  hunt  from  the  side  of  the  horse  as  one  of  her  maids  disguised  the  motion  by  stretching  to  hand  over  two  other  letters  from  the  duchess  of  suffolk  ─  one  to  her  cousin,  mary  of  spain,  and  another  to  her  husband.  unlike  those  letters,  the  one  that  will  arrive  upon  the  desk  of  edmund  percy  could  be  easily  dismissed  for  the  lack  of  heraldry  that  it  bore  though  the  scent  of  her  lavender  oils  dotted  the  parchment  with  her  affection.

beloved  orpheus,

    i  pray  that  this  letter  finds  you  in  good  health.  fate  is  cruel  to  see  us  separated  though  i  take  great  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  though  the  distance  between  us  is  great,  our  hearts  still  beat  as  one.  in  your  absence,  i  have  endeavored  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  your  dear  aunt  on  your  behalf  and  on  behalf  of  your  sister,  who  must  mourn  for  her  still  ─  the  quiet  of  court  allows  me  to  share  my  thoughts  with  god  and  now,  with  you.

    i  write  to  you  with  a  burning  purpose  that  rivals  only  my  love  and  regard  for  you  so  that  i  might  challenge  the  king's  messengers  to  bring  you  the  news  that  edward  seymour  has  been  discovered,  in  florence  of  all  places.  whether  this  man  is  truly  the  missing  prince  or  a  pretender,  i  cannot  say,  but  the  hope  that  he  brings  to  those  trampled  by  the  boot  of  oppression,  like  you  and  i,  has  driven  me  to  beseech  your  help  once  again.  you  did  not  return  to  my  side  after  our  conversation  and  i  fear  that  i  might  have  frightened  you  away  with  my  impassioned  support  ─  please,  my  dearest  perseus,  say  it  is  not  so.  there  has  never  been  such  divide  between  us  before  that  we  saw  need  to  keep  secrets  from  each  other  and  in  my  desperation  to  return  to  the  days  of  our  youth,  i  have  pushed  upon  you  the  burdens  of  which  my  great  and  terrible  bloodline  have  cursed  me  with  bearing.

    did  i  err  in  whispering  such  words  to  your  ears  ?  will  i  find  in  you  not  a  confidant  as  once  before  but  a  coward  ?  am  i  surrounded  by  yellow - bellied  men  with  no  hero  to  champion  my  cause  ?  say  it  is  not  so,  my  dearest  hector,  for  i  await  for  you  as  andromache  awaited  at  the  gates  of  troy.  do  not  allow  gods  or  kings  or  other  men  to  come  between  our  united  hearts.  write  to  me,  return  to  me,  i  command  it.  

    the  conditions  at  court  glisten  with  a  veneer  of  falsehoods.  noticeably  absent  are  walsingham,  cecil  and  de  vere,  as  well  as  your  sister  ─  is  she  safe  ?  say  the  word  and  i  will  ride  to  her  rescue.  i  would  not  trust  a  dog  in  the  care  of  these  men  and  your  sister  is  more  dear  to  me  than  all  the  jewels  in  my  trousseau  if  only  for  the  blood  that  she  shares  with  you.  will  you  tell  me  if  it  is  the  same  in  dover  ?  how  fares  our  king  and  his  mother  ?  will  you  help  me  ?  will  you  write  to  me  of  anything  of  importance  ?  

    i  demand  much,  this  i  know,  but  i  cannot  sleep  for  fear  of  my  life.  the  ghost  of  edward  seymour  has  returned  and  with  him,  all  the  hopes  and  fears  of  our  great  cause.  without  your  assuring  words,  i  am  left  adrift.  do  not  leave  me  alone  in  this.