IMMORTAL SHE

setting: a merry feast (which is happening because i said so!!!) 

 All were a stir; boisterous was the welcome given to all in attendance of the feast. A busy throng of gentleman crowded round the king, alive with the energy and movement of a thousand men; William issued directives, set his shoulders to carry the weight of the crown pressing his brows.  Many rose and remained standing; some walked about, all talked and were glad. Anne, perched upon her chair, was a woman of solid charms, and marble; some would say, this being the effects of early bereavement. Oft she bent her head to listen to her lady's remarks, her mistresses desirous to rouse her attentions; invariably her smile relapsed, and she took to marking the crowd. She saw them now, amidst the brilliant throng; she knew those heads, their hair skull-caps of satin. The Percy's had the confidence of conscious wealth in their bearing; perfectly handsome, as far as physical beauty went - chatting with a light-hearted sort of satisfaction with themselves. 

anne's voice is a pull of the tide, a voice that had shaped her adolescence and broadened her perspective on the world. there is an irrevocable reverence towards anne boleyn that has persisted over the years deep within her exceedingly well-informed mind, for how could she not love such a divisive figure? her inner might, indomitable spirit, the richness of both her unprecedented intellect and soul; she's always been a long-loved image of radiance, at least, that is, in isobel's dark, expressive eyes. to inspire and elicit such love was no small feat; isobel loves greatly, but rare are those who ever truly earn such arduous affection. she turns towards anne as if she were an eternal rose amid copious and heavy dew, dazzling like daybreak. “your majesty,” enunciating the words with sincere cordiality, she smiles amicably before audaciously and yet delicately uttering her name. all that she vies for is a morsel of intimacy. “anne, i trust that's nothing else but a jest, for i have always reveled in your company. truth be told, i hope that there shall be many more nights such as these, so that i could smile and laugh once again by your side. as for the matters of your songbird, i fear that i cannot alter another girl's voice, but i could, of course, compose a song in your honour. perhaps the girl could play it for you, if you ever find yourself missing my presence. my heart will always be with you.”

Chiseled by Poseidon were the white cliffs of Dover, those jagged edges falling steeply into the turbulent froth below, the surface of the sea glittering, crowded with a flotilla of royal Spanish vessels, gold sails thrashing in the wind. His mother – God’s blood, his entire realm – would slice him with the sharp blade of condemnation were they to see their King thus, craning his neck over the slippery, scalloped ridge of the cliffs, overlooking the turquoise coves below; churning more white than blue with Amphitrite’s wroth. There would be few at court who would not mourn William, he knew, were he to descend here to his death as Narcissus before him; though with his sister’s entourage knocking at his door, there would also be no poverty of support for any number of Catholic adversaries to succeed him – with the rifts his father created still bleeding acid rain across England. For in the end, the same crowd that applauded his coronation would just as likely applaud his execution.

At the sound of fur-lined skirts whipping in the wind, William untangled his mind from deep, brooding thought and turned his gaze to the figure stealthily gaining ground on him – adorned in pleasing shades of cream and silk, a river of onyx-hair floating behind her, rather like the perfumed sails that flapped and billowed bellow, bearing Helen of Troy's ambrosial scent. The smile wreathed across Isobel’s ruby-red lips made the seascape, however, appear pale in comparison – bled of its vivacity and intrigue – as though all the radiance and luster of England’s wintry sun had poured its resources in concentrating on her, making gold the soft angles of her cheeks, glimmering the whites of her doe eyes, the ridge of her collar-bone ignited by its gentle rays. ‘Why is it,’ the King called out to her, beckoning her with a voice that proved teasingly accusative, ‘that you are the only woman in England who manages to creep up on me?’

overpowered by vast directionlessness, with wilting grass crunching underfoot, she forges a path of her own towards a glistening eden, sequestered and off the beaten track, ascending to join neptune, somewhere between abyss and elysium, on his dais. it's the mellow murmur of foam prayers and wind that tugs at her abundant dark hair like an erstwhile lover that confirm the frivolous suspicion that she's already grown tired of castilian and heavily accentuated syllables, feigning at times a lack of knowledge of the language that she's spoken since she was twelve. left, right, heavenward, she turns towards the sun hovering in the sky only for it to be eclipsed by the sight of familiar wisps of william's titian hair and nonpareil crook of his smile. the magnificent galleons that had sailed all the way from the sun-drenched iberian ports could be reduced to cinder and she would still only look at him; what a frightening thing it must be, to look and know that he would always look back.

isobel stands before him as if he were caesar, or alexander, the adulated felis leo of macedon — and she tells him, jubilant as ever, i will not be your alexandria or gaul, i will not capitulate or surrender. it's a stupefying proclamation, nonetheless, especially when it comes from a woman who has his initials imprinted on her tender skin; the golden pendant he had gifted her hides underneath layers of velvet and silky fur, pressed against her chest so that not even the most keen-eyed courtiers could leer at it. “that is a question i cannot answer. it seems that every step i take, no matter in which direction, leads me back to you.”

“perhaps i may be able to disarm you, but i bare no blade, your grace.” straightening her already faultless posture, she lifts up her hands, the act redolent with playfulness as the material of her sleeves billows and vivaciously forms into swanlike wings. “even with the spanish flotilla docked at this very bay, you think of my letters? be careful with such words, for they could give someone the wrong idea.” surprise seeps into her tone when she joins his side and almost instinctively tugs him closer, their hair awash in light as the dover sun descends to place gilded crowns upon their heads.

“you must not stand so close to the edge of this precipice. but still— i understand. i understand the call of the sea.” the want to be fluid, not static. the desire to seek solace, even in the crushing depths of grey and blue. “my father used to tease me when i was a child and tell me that he had found me somewhere on the jagged shores of northumberland, amongst precious seashells. it's why i've grown to love the sea. it's a foolish sentiment perhaps, especially when most men fear it.”

"perhaps  they  shall  grant  her  a  freshly  sharpened  blade,"  sibella  mused.  "perhaps  the  king  might  call  upon  the  premier  swordsman  of  france.  english  executioners  are  too  clumsy  and  unworthy  of  the  job."  her  mind  immediately  returned  to  the  grotesque  events  of  that  morning,  of  how  margery  hallows  wailed  as  the  axeman  hacked  at  her  neck  multiple  times  to  complete  the  task.  rage  and  grief  tolled  wildly  within  her,  crashing  against  her  like  waves  against  the  cliffs  of  dover.  her  pathetic  attempt  to  say  such  words  with  sarcasm  were  only  filled  with  sordid  hope.

they  will  kill  her  anyway.  no  kindness  would  change  the  fact  that  she  is  to  die.  there  was  no  point  in  saying  this;  sibella  only  buried  her  head  further  into  her  sister's  neck.

isobel's  words  brought  upon  the  first  smile  on  sibella's  face  in  the  long  hours  since  this  nightmare  began.  for  once  the  flashes  of  memories  did  not  bring  with  them  sorrow,  but  the  warmth  of  being  held  by  the  convicted  woman  as  she  was  held  now  by  her  sister.  if  sibella  closed  her  eyes,  it  all  felt  the  same  —  the  splendent  brocade  sleeves,  the  warmth  of  her  skin.  "my  heart  feels  lighter,  even  if  just  a  little  bit."  sibella  lifted  herself  from  isobel's  shoulder,  pushing  away  stray  tears  with  the  hem  of  her  muslin  nightgown.

"blessed  be  the  child  that  is  granted  the  privilege  to  call  you  their  mother,"  she  says  softly,  almost  inaudibly.  she  thinks  regretfully  of  their  own  mother,  whose  desire  to  ressurect  her  family  from  the  bowels  of  disgrace  took  up  the  space  in  her  heart  that  would  have  otherwise  gone  towards  affection  for  her  children.  while  the  duchess  of  northumberland  made  herself  to  be  an  unyielding  matriarch,  the  role  of  the  tender  mother  was  assumed  by  elizabeth  talbot.  but  too  many  times  as  a  child  did  sibella  nestle  her  head  upon  isobel's  shoulder  without  a  second  thought—  or  even  a  first.  isobel  was  there  for  her  as  the  sun  was  suspended  in  the  morning  sky.  "for  they  shall  be  of  and  loved  by  the  kindest  woman  to  have  ever  roamed  this  earth,  for  that  woman  is  not  i.  but  you,  isobel."

"i'm  afraid  my  grief  has  caused  all  of  the  softness  inside  of  me  to  dry  up.  i  have  become  a  person  i  do  not  recognize.  i  encountered  the  lord  oxford  shortly  after  the  announcement  of  the  arrests  and  we  shared,"  she  pauses  a  moment,  searching  her  mind  for  the  best  word.  "hostile  words.  though  i  do  not  regret  what  i  said,"  she  continues  in  a  hushed  tone,  "for  i  do  believe  it  preposterous  that  such  an  arrogant  man  have  the  ear  of  the  king  not  by  merit  but  by  blood  alone,  and  i  took  offense  in  his  making  light  of  our  family's  strife.  i  do  regret,  however,  that  i  allowed  the  man  to  beckon  this  unpleasant  behavior  from  some  unknown  depth  within  me."

poise is her first language, passed down from their mother, woven into every well-defined sinew of her body, resembling a golden thread. every part of her trembles, exhorts, strives to tirelessly uphold a preeminent semblance that she’s been taught to exude from the very beginning. she’s never been permitted to cry, to shed sudden, unbidden tears, suffering thrice more than any other girl who had given herself the luxury to weep before the rancorous court. “perhaps” she says, tactful even when the moment doesn’t issue an ultimatum for such sacrifice, having no means to justify the act of obfuscating her sister. 

“you’re all the warmth that i have. without you, sibella, not even the sun would rise.” she is her albedo, pureness, clarity, hope, the white swan, all that’s good in the world. languishing in dour silence, isobel pushes a cascade of soft, unrestrained curls away from her sister’s delicate face, her supple fingers refusing to relinquish their anchored spot underneath her angular chin. 

“i must implore you now, i must hope that you can forgive me for all the things that i wasn’t able to do, affairs that i wasn’t capable of changing. regret consumes me each time i remember that i had to leave you all those years ago. perhaps i should’ve beseeched mother to let me stay. i had wanted to pray for you to join my side, but i knew— knew that you were much happier under elizabeth’s tender wing.” she lowers her lashes, staining the divulgence with her own tears as she inwardly chides herself for her inconsonant faux pas, the precipitous shift of the topic. she’s meant to be a paragon of stability, elegance, ingenuity, and not a sniveling girl before the one who needs her the most. she’s learned to give, intrinsically, unreservedly, give and lend herself to those she fervently holds dear, brimming with insurmountable love, as though her own volatile heart does not ache. 

“there’s only one thing that i so ardently wish for and that is to travel with you. we’ll go to florence, rome, granada, tours, seville, any city or great wen that you desire to see. life means nothing if i don’t get to spend at least some of it with my sister. we’ve wasted enough time.” when she pulls sibella once more in a firm embrace, she does it without arrière-pensée; the impulse and proclivity to cradle, hold, and shield the other have become second nature to her, for who else would care for a child starved for precious love at their mother’s feet, if not the one kissed by the same fate? 

yet tears, futile and obtrusive, at the mention of motherhood well up in her eyes again, leaving a glistening trail across her carnation-stained cheeks. “sibella, if i ever have children, i will want to have you by their side. someone so true-hearted and benevolent to teach them of kindness. your profound understanding of humanity has always inspired me. i can only long to see that in my own children.” her unabashed wish, she seals with a kiss upon the younger girl’s hand. 

“julian de vere?” seemingly another nuisance, it took lord oxford fewer than twelve hours to turn into a bête noire and elicit ire, even in the magnanimous heart of the middle percy child. “do not allow his cruel opprobrium to wound you. to try to quarrel with someone in a moment of grief is a true sign of cowardice. regardless of that, never underestimate the artifice of a craven. what did he tell you?”

the older woman hummed softly as she waited patiently for the arrival for her companion, eyes watched the various bodies that strolled throughout the gardens, smiling faintly at the sight of a child making their governess chase after them. penelope's thoughts wandering to her own daughter, praying that she was being mindful currently in her lessons, less she have to play the role of sharp mother as her own had done years before. the sound of gentle footsteps called penelope's attention away from the sight of others, instead resting on the demure, feminine beauty that was isobel percy. while she still carried a few features from her girlhood, isobel had certainly grown into the near perfect image of a lady of court that penelope had seen when they first met previously. the woman took note of the way that isobel carried herself, a sight that certainly must have made other young ladies quiver in fear at such a threat to their own reputation. for how could any of them compare when lady percy sparkled like a ruby within the sun? her expression softened as isobel drew near, hand reaching so that they may clasp arms and press against one another as if they were sisters, a sense of familiar intimacy shared between the women. 

the rustle of heavy velveteen skirts over the smooth flagstones, accompanied by a mellifluous, unmistakable rattle of intricate jewelry that clings around her neck and discernible waistline, now only seems to amplify the incessant attention that others so readily bestow upon her, persuading isobel to grow more cautious for her name spreads like quick-fire throughout the tapestried halls of hampton court. people are so easily persuaded, captivated, so fond of flattery and aggrandizement, and yet they only ever see what they wish to see; isobel percy is many things, to many different people. the esteemed percy child, a daughter that's a bargaining tool, devoted sister, gifted comedienne when the moment asks for it, demure, beauteous maiden, and perhaps a venerated whore in the observant eyes of julian de vere.

one of few that she now trusts to get a glimpse into her intimate life is a woman unlike most, the éminence grise of hampton, with each of her advice upheld as sacrosanct. penelope, faithful penelope, the one who always waited, a woman whose multifaceted mind could only be rivaled by that of her husband. as a child of only sixteen at court, isobel had sought guidance and inspiration in other, older, more powerful women, turning both anne boleyn and mistress walsingham into her lodestars, a striking dyad that had without a doubt earned her irrevocable reverence over the years.

Mistress Percy,

Though delighted I am to be the subject of your – as you say – long writings, your words put me to great agony. On turning over the contents of my mind and heart, I declare to you that there is nothing in this world more worthy of precious protection than your honour, which I know to be boundless.  To suffer anything else would be unsuitable for a woman of your charm and goodness, and rest assured that my lord Great Chamberlain will be ordered to cast out all thoughts otherwise. This promise I again surrender into your hands, beseeching you to hold us in the favour you so willingly pledged to me at our last encounter (the memory of which retains my fervor).

I regret that I cannot write to you anything of great length, nor can I be personally present to assure you of my long-standing consideration for you and yours. In lieu of both, I send you the nearest thing to my person, a locket bearing my initials, which as you wear upon your breast, I hope you would wish myself tenderly in its place. I write this letter from my own hand, he who greatly thanks you for some remembrance of your potent fragrance.

Your loyal servant and friend (who very often wishes for you instead of your brother),

sir,

to express my gratitude with mere hackneyed and trite phrases now seems unfeasible, for they have yet to invent words that could aid me in bearing my tenacious and beholden heart to you. in lieu of platitudinous gramercy, i will only inform you that you bring such sweet calmness to my mind like no other man, i might even sleep well tonight. now, too, i shall happily return to composing a song in honour of your lady mother, hoping that it'll bring her great joy to hear something from me again.

the consideration you've shown me pervades my body, and my pledge to you remains as strong as ever, that much i can assure you.

aut caesar, aut nihil.

the locket, as i write this letter to you, hangs from my neck, and so, each time i think of you, i'll be reminded of all the goodness that the world has to offer, and wish that you were here to tell me the tale of the locket's origin. i marvel at its beauty and the gilded initials that so ardently cling to my skin. forgive my heart and mind for being so dauntless and bold, for now i can only look forward to seeing you again (whenever that again comes, even if i must wait a hundred years.)

your catherine from another life.

He gestured to the seat across from him, gentlemanly as he stood to assist her. "Not as much as I would have liked, but I confess that I may carry some blame. However, I assure you, I am in quite a mood to avenge myself, so you will find me to be a determined adversary." Gathering up the cards, he considered her question for a moment. "I will leave it to be lady's choice," he offered with a coy smile. "I do enjoy piquet, but it seems only polite to let the decision be yours."

As he shuffled the cards with a deft hand, he offered her a smile. "Tell me, my lady, how you have been. Did summer treat you kindly?"

in a swift, silent second, isobel thanks the man before her for the unprompted assistance with a gentle tilt of her head, ensconcing herself in the ornate chair before deciding to offer richard another insouciant smile that many, regardless of their adjacency to the percy girl, could seldom see. she plays her games well, even those sans sleek cards, appearing, disappearing, vanishing, forever both guarded and vivacious, a master at hide-and-seek, the timeless game of apodidraskinda. “certainly, lord boleyn. anything else would be a true insult to my skill.”

false bravado, some would call it, but only a fool could belittle a boleyn or dare to dismiss their adroit maneuvers; an idiosyncrasy that they all appear to share to a varying degree. “piquet it is, my lord. the winner gets to decide the next game.” she leans forward, lifting her arms as her brocaded sleeves scatter across the table like the most scarlet poppies, denuded only of an opioid effect. “it did indeed. i spent it with my sister back at alnwick, with an occasional jaunt to our warkworth castle. that, of course, makes me hope that you and your family will get the chance to pay us a visit at least once, lord boleyn. northumberland is known for its unrivaled beauty. especially when the first white winds blow.”

“and what of your summer?”

The King arranges his face into a pattern of wry amusement, the mention of their encounter flashing in his eyes, as though he were an eagle soaring and squawking on high, lording over the clandestine meeting like the winged, mythical beasts gliding over the rugged cliffs of Dover – or perhaps Icarus himself, his waxen wings dripping molten gold over England. ‘Aiding, of course,’ He echoes, his mouth pursed. ‘I’d say the debt was yours to repay, but I much prefer the ball square in my court. I might decide to play it at will, Mistress Percy, so you mustn’t underestimate your King.’

Wills' gaiety dissolves into heed, his impassive gaze trained to the empty corridor stretching endlessly before them. The King stiffens, blood drumming to his head, as Isobel speaks: calling down a melodious blessing over that woman, her aunt, who was condemned, by a panel adjured by the King’s own pleasure, to die a traitor’s death. But he is silent, his grave face giving no indication of either clemency or vengeance, growing intent, thinking neither of her delight nor fear. Her words strike a potent chord within him – echoed over and over again like the ominous humming of a Byzantine hymn. To be alone is a cruel fate. How many times had he felt the same, clustered by a myriad of petitioners, foreign dignitaries, splendidly dressed courtiers, appearing to look through him as if he were glass – or at him, as if he were an immovable chunk of marble, no more tangible than a bust of the great Alexander? An Adam’s apple bobs in his freshly shaved throat; a raw, red stitch where his barber’s blade had thoughtlessly scraped.

My King. Dark eyes slide close; prying open at the intonation of his Christian name. William, William, William…

Nearing his private chambers, the King’s footfalls cease until they stand completely still, and he turns to face her, two monoliths joined together. Looming over her like an ancient oak – a shock of copper hair gleaming like a raven snared in the topmost branches – his gaze dark, exigent, pressed into Isobel’s own with a fierceness that belonged to the two dynasties whose blood he proudly bore. ‘Isobel…’ William draws both of her delicate hands into the cusp of his, her fingers warm to the touch. ‘Even if you were Eleanor of Aquitaine herself, the charge… it is indissoluble. An imbecile could see that her actions were traitorous; there is no undoing it.’ He, like his father, bends to no one (not merely because King Henry would have needed to be hauled up by ropes), though his words are swollen with a certain magnanimity that made obsolete any doubt in his strength of character, in the veracity of his piety. This was, after all, the man begotten by the woman every belle in France envied, the King every woman in England revered as the handsomest potentate in Europe, the sovereign every girl dreamed of; a man above mortals, a heavenly body just below angels… and in a confident stretch of silence, Wills’ eyes scan Isobel’s for a mere hint, a sweet whiff, of the trust and admiration he gleaned with ease from lesser subjects.

‘You are unlike any woman I’ve met before,’ the King mouths, suddenly laughing, only promptly aware of the frigid temperatures of his empty, windowless halls, a place where no one dare tread. ‘But you have my word that we will spare your beloved aunt every honour. It will be quick, painless, and private. You have my word.’

Blinking, the King's brow twitches as he unleashes one of his hands from their tangled nest of fingers, using it to brush aside a silken strand of hair tickling the side of her cheek, unbound from the restriction of her headdress. His eyes trace the movement of his thumb, brushing her skin, tucking said ringlet behind the cream shell of her ear; then, gently, assiduously, cradling the side of her face, his palm protecting her jaw as if it were the most delicate pearl in all of England. The nearness of her, the scent of her, the mounting need to slant his mouth over hers pulsed throughout his body; a blinding longing that began to move within him as his tongue outlined the seam of his bottom lip, his intent gaze never budging from hers. His free hand slid toward the small of her back; long, lean fingers furrowing into the fabric of her gown. Yet just as his face was mere inches from hers, their noses nearly touching, his warm breath fanning across the sensuous bow of her lips, a clearing of one's throat broke the spell. William, as though his flesh had been singed by her touch, leapt back and turned his furious gaze to the incomer shadowing the hallway – Julian de Vere.

With a fist clenched by his side, the King dipped his head to Isobel.

'Mistress Percy,' He remarked; a frigid, emotionless parting. 'Send my regards to the family, will you?'

edmund graced his beloved sister with a melodramatic sigh of sorts, always allowing her to be remain privvy to his unseemingly antics. even as they speak, his eyes do a discrete sweep for any sign of their mother in the throng of people that surrond the pair, relieved to see no sign of their keeper. “ not yet, i have been quite elusive to her thus far. our mother hassaled me earlier while you were preparing yourself, whispering about who i shall ask to dance this evening or accompany me for tea while everyone is at court,” he spoke softly to isobel, less they are overheard. not that their words were unkind or treasonous towards anyone, but edmund hardly needed to be the subject of rumors. 

“do i ought to act surprised at your words, teddy? though perhaps i may offer a temporary solution. you can dance with me, as you always do. someone must show these people how to properly twirl,” she proposes, letting a lighthearted laugh trail after her words even as her fingers, pale and gracefully fragile, dig into the handknit fabric of edmund's familiarly blue sleeve. the jejune notion of dancing with her beloved brother again harkens her back to the days of a departed era they can never go back to; days during which they had joyously danced and chased after one another through the snowswept halls of the alnwick castle, their boisterous laughs now but a distant echo, the sudden memory as fleeting as the penultimate note of a sorrowful cadenza.

The Tudor court was surely in its prime, at least so Meg believed. The most important people from the highest established families in England were in attendance, as well as foreign guests, and many of them young, bright, and vivacious. Though she did cherish quiet moments alone or with the ladies of Elizabeth's retinue, Meg thrived in mixed company, particularly when a large gathering was taking place. Grand suppers were her favorite evening affair; laughter could be heard echoing throughout the Great Hall along with the cacophony of conversation.

As the meal began, Meg turned to regard the lady whom she had been seated next to, Isobel Percy. The Northumberland daughter had long been an elusive figure to Meg; impeccable breeding and manners made reading her thoughts difficult, and she held herself with such grace and poise that Meg often felt the urge to sit a bit straighter and speak a bit softer. She may have been raised alongside a princess, but she was very well aware of her status in comparison to those with storied noble lineage. "Did you enjoy the festivities in the gardens, Lady Isobel?" Meg inquired, leaning in towards the other young woman to be heard over the others around them. "Though the rain ended our celebrations early, I thought it a great success."

the temporary absence of edmund on her right side and sibella on the left, like additional, precious limbs of her body, certainly does not go unnoticed by the middle percy child as memory falls victim to wistful nostalgia, reminding her of her early days at court spent by anne's poised side. they are, after all, the triumvirate of the north, wrought from luminescent snow, adored by everlasting winter winds that shape and mold solemn mountains according to their own will. the lions of northumberland, to separate them is an odious sin in its own right, one that mustn't be absolved at any altar, and yet, isobel would never so easily let something dull her inviolable charm in the presence of others, no matter the circumstance. men have their blades, but isobel has her grit, lunar grace, gravitas, and ready wit, sharper than any weapon they would dream of wielding.

somewhere between vivacious stars and the moon, with her uncharted thoughts elsewhere, a woman's voice interrupts isobel's golden reverie, tempting her to turn. “of course, lady marguerite. i must admit that everything suited my taste.” she cants her head as a courteous smile stretches across her face that could summon anyone's attention, abandoning her silver spoon and honey roasted almonds within a single moment. “but truthfully, i did not mind the rain. it was quite refreshing and did wonders for my face and skin.” the true meaning of her words she daintily conceals behind a heavy goblet of wine brought to her lips, remaining present and yet out of reach. “pray tell, does life serve you well these days in the company of princess elizabeth?”

The King’s jaw opens, then clamps shut. Although he often dispensed with the formality of punctuality, the Privy Council was scheduled to convene within the hour – and with the morrow of Elizabeth Talbot’s execution drawing ominously near, there would be raucous calls for bloodshed from each faction at court, an expectation for the King to resolve the ancient feuds embittering his assemblies. Besides, the engineers behind Talbot’s downfall would expect some kind of reward; scraps of rich meat and haunted manors and former abbeys thrown to them like dogs, omnivorous hounds at his disposal, gnashing at each other's throats. ‘I don’t have much time,’ Wills announces, thrusting out a fig-purple sleeve for Isobel to clutch. ‘Walk with me, Mistress Percy, and I’ll hear your plea – try to make it brief, yes?’

As they begin their stroll toward the King’s chambers – an orchestra of Wills’ heavy footfalls, the clanging of a sheathed sword, and the swish of Isobel’s velvet skirts sounding their journey – he tilts his cuprous head in the direction of Isobel’s pearl-edged hood. ‘I cannot promise satisfaction, but I vow to listen, Mademoiselle Percy, to whatever it is you bring me. May I only ask for the honour of your friendship, your loyalty, in turn?’

perhaps it should've been sibella instead of her on this path for leniency, a venerable littérateur, homer's forgotten daughter, a pious woman that could embellish any fable or narrative; isobel had seen her scribble away in her diaries and voraciously devour exceedingly rare and large books a countless number of times. it's only sensible to assume that she'd be capable of speaking from the heart on behalf of aunt elizabeth. presumably still, the role could've been edmund's too. thirteen years of camaraderie that stems from the early days of boyhood must equate to more and be of greater value in comparison to whatever she may offer.

“thank you, your grace.” she could be the voice of a haloed cherub in his ear, extol and praise him before the world, shower him with platitudes and reverence that he's bound to hear from every noble that doesn't truly mean it, deceive him with well-crafted and elaborate lies, but she opts for the truth.

“my loyalty,” isobel echoes, playing with the words as if they're iridescent freshwater pearls within her mouth whilst walking arm in arm with him, the very amalgamation of purple and blue making it seem as if they're one. “well you cannot ask for something that is already yours. as for friendship, i've always thought that the most cherished ones must be earned and built, but i'd say that night in the rain gave you a head start. for aiding me, of course.”

a skilled orator not by nature, but proclivity and practice, a master of pace, structure, and phrasing, she had acquired such adroitness as a fledgling by anne boleyn's side, going for perspicaciousness over needlework. “a wise king must know his subjects. he, after all, holds their fates in his hands. that's why i must tell you the story of elizabeth talbot, for she's not just a name on a parchment of paper, and though her treacherous choices mustn't be excused, i believe they weren't necessarily done out of malice. see, aunt elizabeth lost her husband years ago and was left childless, without someone to call her own. it's why she loved sibella dearly, the youngest girl, whom she doted upon, while i was away and serving at your lady mother's court.” she couldn't speak of the way they had sojourned in foreign cities, basked under the roman sun or sailed the azure mediterranean sea. no, that wasn't her story to tell. hers are rare memories, of fleeting cheek kisses, lovely letters detailing her voyages, and expensive gifts she had sent almost religiously often, from venetian silk to extravagant jewels.

unable to hold a distinct opinion of her own and yet unwilling to condemn and castigate the woman even before the king, she opens her mouth once more. “we weren't by definition close, but i knew her well enough to see the profound sadness in her eyes. to be alone is a cruel fate. one could easily say that loneliness begets loneliness. i think that's how she ended up trusting the wrong people. she allowed herself to fall for their ruse, all under the guise of finding comfort.” it's daunting, too, to realize how alone she must've been.

“my king,” raptly, she turns to look at him, forsaking the act of weighing every word as the silken veil of pretense and guise drops ceremoniously.

“william,” his name on her tongue like holy prayer, a midnight hymn, immortal echo, like she whispered it a thousand times before, in a dream, another life.

“think of my sister, someone who's too gentle to know of true callousness of the court.”

“think of my brother, the dutiful man you've known for so long, the same man who has once already faced the brutality of loss.”

“and think of me, a woman most devout to your cause.”

it  is  a  filthy  habit  —  these  are  most  certainly  her  mother's  words,  or  perhaps  they  were  found  in  her  aunt's  rare  reprimand  of  her  favorite  —  to  sneak  away  before  the  conclusion  of  any  of  the  courtly  festivities.  she  could  stomach  watching  a  volta  after  dinner;  she  could  navigate  a  conversation  with  a  courtier  drunk  on  ale  and  wine  with  some  grace.  and  yet  after  this  morning's  execution  sibella  found  herself  repulsed  by  the  meaningless  conversation  over  honeyed  ham  and  the  outpouring  of  wine  the  color  of  the  blood  shed  upon  the  scaffold  that  very  morning.  she  did  not  even  attempt  to  distract  herself  with  a  word  nor  a  plate  nor  a  goblet,  and  escaped  the  great  hall  as  quickly  as  she  had  entered  it.

she  spends  the  rest  of  the  day  sequestered  in  the  family's  apartments,  ignoring  any  plea  to  show  her  tear-streaked  cheeks.  indeed,  her  parents  and  her  elder  siblings  probably  knew  best  how  to  face  the  rest  of  court  as  another  of  their  family  member  fell  —  it  had,  after  all,  happened  before.  but  she  could  not  be  peaceable,  not  yet;  so  long  as  her  beloved  aunt  was  imprisoned  in  the  tower,  a  storm  would  rage  on  inside  of  her.  sibella  had  never  known  this  side  of  herself;  there  was  hardly  any  reason  to  release  her  to  the  vultures.

nightfall  sheaths  hampton  court  palace  in  darkness  and  after  the  last  dinner  candle  has  been  blown  out,  all  of  court  retired  to  their  beds.  but  not  the  youngest  percy.  indeed,  she  laid  her  haid  to  rest  but  her  mind  did  not  follow  suit.  she  traipsed  out  of  bed  and  out  of  her  bedroom  into  the  small  sitting  room  of  their  apartments,  and  hoisted  herself  onto  the  windowsill  that  overlooked  the  knot  garden.  she  curled  her  arms  around  herself  and  without  even  trying,  felt  a  hot  tear  stream  down  her  face.  she  wasn't  aware  that  she'd  managed  to  stop  crying.  "they  are  surely  to  kill  her,"  she  mutters  to  the  figure  that  entered  the  room.

the awful hours of the bloody day, nearly twenty-two of them by now, are both hurried and slow-moving at once, dragging on for far too long and yet making it seem as if there isn't enough time to do what must be done. whatever grievances and worries she may harbor, isobel won't allow them to cloud her judgment or the minds of the percy siblings, offering herself instead as a single pillar that would bear the weight of their anguish and doubt; it's her endless, irrevocable love for them that compels her to move onward.

she doesn't even realize what time it is when she at last returns to her bedchambers, adamantly refusing to trade her gown for a silken robe de chambre and settle down for the night without paying a badly needed visit to her siblings first.

“sibella, my heart,” she calls out and rushes to her side in an instant, her voice low and brittle as she envelops her in her arms and presses a tender kiss upon her sister's forehead, allowing mere minutes to elapse in utter silence. wordlessly, without sparing the worth of her gown a second thought, she extends her cobalt blue sleeve to wipe away her sister's iridescent tears, her sleek fingers lifting her chin so that their eyes may meet.

“i wish i could say that i don't agree with you, but there is always hope that they shall show her at least some kindness.” is the only reassurance she can give that isn't a lie or faux belief. what good would it do to hear of her meeting with william if he decides to listen to his council over her? sibella mustn't know that it was for her. that it was all for her.

“you don't have to carry your sorrow all by yourself. let me help.” they'll grieve together, grieve like storms and wounded animals do, for not once will her sister have to walk alone. “i know how much aunt elizabeth means to you. how much you both mean to each other. but she wouldn't want this for you. think of how much she loves you, all the places where she took you. you are her favourite memory, sibella. no matter what happens, no matter what the volatile future brings for her, she'll always know that she was loved, truly loved by the kindest and most intelligent woman that this country has ever seen.”