#rmelster

Barnabas Allenbrought

Thérèse Découx

Thérèse Découx (New Orleans)

Jacob Allenbrought

(Reposting this; by your humble server)

𝟐 || 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑵𝑬𝑾𝑳𝒀𝑾𝑬𝑫𝑺

❝From the sole of the foot and up to the head there is no health in it; 

bruise and sore and bleeding wound have not been cleansed...❞

Isaiah 1:6

— ♛ —

𝑻he ceremony had been without pomp.

With no more witnesses than baron Francis Lovell and the old priest that had officiated the marriage, lady Anne, once princess of Wales to the feeble Edward of Westminster, became the Duchess of Gloucester in the eyes of God and men. 

Therefore, his.

His. Her spirit, her bed, her dowry, all that was her to give... She had bestowed it, oh so naively, and now he, Richard of Gloucester, was his master. 

No feast or merriment followed after the ending of the ceremony. Once the pertinent vows were exchanged between whispers, the priest commanded them to stood up and exchange a single kiss to seal their union at last. This time, the bridegroom was cautious when kissing his lady wife: The memory of the unexpected and all consuming fever that had assailed him the night before when she had bid him farewell, and the torrid passion that followed when his desire made him follow her to the bedchamber was still fresh in the memory of the proud duke, and he would not allow that sudden vulnerability ever bother him again. His lips were closed when he pressed the most chaste and cold of the kisses ever given to a bride against her trembling mouth, before he pulled apart and, grabbing her wrist with his gloved hand, he left the chapel.

The newlyweds headed to the Duke's chambers in complete silence. The cold halls were solitary, and such lonely environment invited to entertain thoughts of more secret acts of affection; however, when they reached their bedchamber, the place meant for life, love and death, and she reached out to hold his sleeve, Gloucester pushed her away. 

"Unhand me, woman" he hissed. Lady Anne took a step back, confusion casting a pitiful shadow over her fine features, “Thou shalt not touch me.”

She seemed to be bright enough to understand that he desired not to be bothered; under his watchful gaze, she turned her back to him and started to disrobe. First went the gown, then the kirtle and the many layers of skirts and the bodice, the piece creaking under her trembling fingers like fallen leaves under a hunter’s feet. She took off her hennin and unbraided her hair slowly, and the duke had to force himself not to tangle his gloved fingers in the soft realm of her locks. Only the long chemise remained when he finally heard her steps getting closer to the bed and opening the bedcovers. She blew the candles with a sigh and rested silently, as if she had already resigned herself to spent her wedding night relegated to oblivion.

Only then did Richard start to prepare himself to go to bed. As he unrobed methodically, he refused to face the reflection that the mirror offered him, for he knew beforehand what wicked image would return his gaze: An uncomely, hunched and gaunt body, the image of God’s least favourite creation. He struggled to put on his nightshirt and, once he had tightly tied the thin laces around the cleavage, he blew the trembling candlelight and limped his way to the bed.

Lady Anne was already asleep; the gentle harmony of her tranquil breath was the only sign of her presence in the room, that in the darkness seemed as lonely as a convent’s cell. He turned his back at her and closed his eyes, a biter feeling overpowering the satisfaction of having achieved the first part of his plan.

(Reposting this; by your humble server)

𝟏 || 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍

❝I never sued to friend nor enemy

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word

But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.❞

Richard III 

— ♛ —

𝑹ichard of Gloucester had been doomed since birth. 

Wicked.

Cursed.

Bewitched.

Born too soon, with a crooked spine and a stunted arm, he had been a hideous thing since the cradle, a creature so malformed and detestable that even the wetnurses that his horrified mother had sent to satiate his thirst didn't bear his presence too long before leaving Fotheringhay. Due to his position as the youngest of his brothers and his limping and the pain that had assailed his body ever since he had memory, he was meant to devote his life to God and, with the influence that his family exerted over the clergy, to become a priest, then a cardinal, then a bishop, and so on... But he refused that shameful fate for a son of York, to be locked for the rest of his days in a monastery when his blood yearned for the glory of the battlefield, and, rebelling against the doom that his condition carried, he became a soldier during the war against the Lancasters, and the fiercest of them all. He had slain uncountable men, from mere nameless soldiers whose faces he no longer remembered, to noblemen that deserved the agony his sword had inflicted upon them; he had killed the treacherous Warwick, and the fool king Henry, and yes, he had killed Edward of Westminster with his very own blade, a feat he wouldn't have thought himself capable of doing, until he saw the dark blood stain the fair locks of the young prince, and the life drifting away from his pupils...

Yes... He had killed his way to the glory, and yet, he was still a despicable, deformed  creature, plagued of scars and besieged by bad dreams. He was not his brother Edward, or his brother Clarence; his flesh wasn't made for idle affections, his lips weren't meant to be kissed, and his existence wasn't meant to be cherished. His only women would be the desperate harlots who could not lay with more noble men, and nothing else. The duke would never met the tenderness of a sincere embrace, the sweet pleasure of laying in bed with a legitimate wife, and the comfort of resting his weary head against a soft shoulder, as much as he wouldn't cradle a son in his arm and watch over his sleep, tenderly...

A soft sigh made him come back to his senses. He was not alone in that bedchamber; curled up under the coverlet, lady Anne slept. Her carelessly hair flowed like a river of silk over the cushions, her breath modulated and tranquil, quite the contrary of the past night, when he had assailed her with impious fondles and words so sinful no holy man would recall out loud. Now, there was no coming back for lady Anne; her virtue had been lost under the bedcovers of that bed, taken away by that villain, her name would never be pronounced with pity for the loss of her brave prince, but with contempt, and she would forever be stained with sin of having laid with him, and even more if —as he expected— she had resulted pregnant of the encounter. 

Her gown and her silver coronet rested in the cold stone floor, where he had thrown them in the middle of the encounter, ridden by the hunger of caresses he had never fully satiated with the wenches he had bedded before that fateful night, and that, he knew, he would not satiate with the women that would come after her. In the edge of the bed, his own doublet and his breeches were left forgotten and wrinkled, carelessly. He left the comfort of the bed and started to dress himself in silence; in the darkness, he thought, as he put on his clothes, he wasn't as hideous as under the daylight, as the Devil might be. 

When he finished, the Duke of Gloucester looked back at the lady, and he wondered whether that sweet creature that slept so peacefully by his side knew about his machinations, before he reached her shoulder and grasped it harshly, making her go back to the land of the awake.

"Wake up" he ordered her, handing her the gown, "Thou shall become my wife before the dawn arrives and the king knows."

She nodded and, now restrained by a modesty that she had completely forgotten the night before, when he embraced her for the first time, she started to get dressed under the coverlet. He sighed and a vile smile started to curve his thin lips. 

Oh, the gentle lady Anne had no idea of who he was going to be once he became her husband...

But neither did him. 

(Reposting this; by your humble server)

𝟎 || 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄

❝Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep

To undertake the death of all the world,

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom .❞

Richard III 

— ♛ —

𝑻he sword fell to the floor, and, with a pained lament, lady Anne sook refuge behind the stony pillars, leaning on them as if she could not find strength in her limbs to support the anguish that besieged her spirit. She was of fragile built and fragile heart, and even more fragile will, for the Duke of Glouceste knew that it would not take long for her to yield to his desires.

"Take up the sword again!" he spoke, gesturing towards the blade that rested on the floor, forgotten, with a single drop of blood gleaming in its edge, the only drop of life she had dared to take of his breast before fleeing. Not even the breeze was to be heard when he spoke again, this time, with a firmer tone "Or take up me."

With a slow, resigned motion, the lady Anne faced him, still resting her trembling frame against the pillar. There was woe in her eyes, the fear of surrendering to his wicked propositions, but despite that, she spoke. 

"Arise... Dissembler" she uttered in a feeble whisper. He stood up slowly, limping slightly as he came closer to her, "Though I wish thy death, I will not be thy executioner..."

"Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it!" he sentenced, grabbing the sword again. Lady Anne quickly reacted, saying in a frail voice: "I have already"

"That was in thy rage" the Duke of Gloucester pressed the edge of the sword against his throat, "Speak it again and, even with the word, thisThis hand, which for thy love did kill thy love, shall for thy love kill a far truer love. To both their deaths shalt thou be accessory!"

"I would I knew thy heart"

'Tis figured in my tongue" he said. 

"I fear me both are false..." she murmured.

"Then never was man true!" but before the cold steel could caress his throat, lady Anne grasped his sleeve with a trembling hand, stopping him.

"Well!" she cried, before taking a sudden step back, as if touching him was the same as touching a burning iron. Once again, the lady rested against the pillar, trying to keep a serene facade, "Put up your sword."

He obeyed, coming closer: "Say then my peace is made."

Her voice was barely a faint whisper when she said "That shalt thou know hereafter."

"But shall I live in hope?" he ventured, now so close his shoulder could press against hers.

"... All men, I hope, live so."

In a quick motion, he took off his ring and offered it to lady Anne, a gesture of maze in her visage.

"Do wear this ring" the duke said, and, at the sight of her meekness, he held her closely, " Look how it encompasseth thy finger; even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart. Wear both of them, for both of them... Are thine."

Not even the breeze could be heard, but he heard her sigh, as slight as a forgotten prayer. The Duke of Gloucester didn't need more to know that now lady Anne was his.

"Bid me farewell" he said, and, in the slowest of the paces, she turned to face him and, still in his grasp, she pressed her vulnerable lips against his gaunt cheek and then against his pallid mouth, in a kiss so tender and welcoming that his crooked and loveless body nearly shuddered, moved by a taste of affection he had been so callously denied since the cradle... A taste of affection in the caress she gave to his face, so blissful and fleeting, that, against his purposes, when she started to walk away, he, who still embraced her waist, brought her to his side without a word and kissed her in the only fashion he knew: Cruelly, harshly, so ridden by the hunger that he forgot who he was and what purpose he served. 

When the sinful exchange ended, she left to the bedchamber, and, following her and closing the door, he made her his and his alone, and the name of Edward of Westminster and the ambition where forgotten for a night.