He had thought it hearsay. Tattle-mongering, hollow wineskin of words passed around courtiers, perhaps even a cruelly complex design, given the circumstances. The precise contraptions of their roles and their play: a bed-hopping adulteress, an insular statesman and the knave with a barren wife. Yes, he had thought it some inhumane ruse. And then he saw Alastrine’s face blanching before him in a marooned alley. Blood seeping out with such intensity that he almost expected to have it spotting the snow and the stones - the statuary reminders that they were fixtures and appendages to this castle, this king, nothing more. And he knew it was the truest thing that ever concerned him.
George’s back thudded on the wall that cornered him. The oil cloth from the torches, smeared with tar and ignited like pyres, cast a dreary light upon his face. “I believe you have news.” It was all he could say. It was all the darkness could bear.
She couldn’t very well pretend she hadn’t seen him, could she? The time expanse in which that would have been a reasonable excuse fleeted quickly, abandoned her to face an event she’d tried desperately to avoid. How many twisting, winding paths had she taken as a coward, avoiding George Boleyn’s usual haunts, turning away the congratulatory beams and praise from her in-laws? Nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, her spine crippled, confident bones sliding and snapping and hunching over. The slight swell of her stomach itched beneath her corset.
“God above, George, you mustn't sneak up on me like that, like a phantom in the night,” She puffed, as if Alastrine was close to collapse, and the sprawl of golden curls against stone would save her from taking another step farther. She pressed a hand to the wall, another to her clammy forehead, “I feel as though I may faint.”
There was never more cause to celebrate, save for the coronation of the boy-king, in recent months than for the occasion of the Duchess of Somerset being with child. Alastrine’s celebrity had advanced the Seymours almost as greatly as Nicholas’ military success had, granting them foothold into fashionable societies, and yet – in a development that had caught him completely unawares – it was their unborn child who had softened Edward’s reputation, improved it. His tenants viewed him as a family man, his peers as being elder, wiser, for simply having fulfilled his conjugal rights –––– for simply having rutted with his wife. Whilst his nature hadn’t changed between then and now, his name had, and his adversaries now stood about like loose sails luffing in the wind, attempting to anticipate the duke’s next act.
Knuckles rasped against the dark-oak door leading into Alastrine’s chamber before he glided within – his presence announced by the click of his boots. Arms crossed, bent like a mathematician’s askew triangle, he leaned his frame against the door as a bemused smirk curved upon his lips. He marveled at the rapid growth of his wife’s abdomen ; within the span of days the middling proof that a child was unfurling within her womb had metastasized, and with each movement made the duchess was now led by the swell of her stomach. Her cheeks rosier, her skin softer, tongue sweeter –––– there was now no denying her condition and in that he took the greatest of pride. Edward swallowed dryly. By next autumn he may well be the father to the future Duke of Somerset, his successor –– the thought, after years of childlessness in the span of two marriages, was unfathomable. The eyes of court had been upon him for sometime, and yet now, the certification of Seymour’s virility and the glue between himself and his wife was never more credible.
❛ Poor woman. Likely scarred from the night I dragged you in here by nothing but your hair. ❜ He glanced about his wife’s chambers ; the space sunlit and spacious, brimming with recently-procured dresses, tailored to her altered frame and ideal for a fortnight of celebrations. He did so relish it when his wife was dressed to the nines, the most resplendent in any crowd. The heel of Edward’s boot scuffed against the hardwood floor, and his face lowered –– as if sheepishly. ❛ I have heard a rumor. ❜ He cleared his throat, ❛ Now that we are to be parents, we are expected to observe some sort of decorum during the events this week. I thought I would say my goodbyes here, in private, before the joust begins. ❜
Her domain with Edward in Somerset sat like a ripened peach in her mind, a sweet, decadent memory that smelled of long summers and vast forest paths. In Somerset, the staff was rather adapted to the offbeat twists and turns of the Duke and Duchess’ marriage. So much so, that Edward dragging her into her bedroom by the long, golden locks that crowned her head might have seemed like another Sunday, perhaps, or Alastrine returning home with thickets and branches caught in her dress, or no dress at all, soaked to the nines in lake water. She was, as her staff affectionately dubbed, the queen of Lake Wimbleball.
But poor, sour Meredith, who was not a native member of the Somerset household, nearly dropped dead at the sight of Edward’s thunderous beckoning of Alastrine’s company, her shouting, and his ravishing, in turn. It was all she could do to stifle her laugh as the old crumpet rushed from the room, heavy skirts shuttering wildly with her animosity. Edward was right. She’d never quite looked at either of them the same, after that.
“Oh?” Alastrine’s lips softened into a smile, hazel eyes tracing the slant of his jaw, the downcast flicker of his eyes. Was it a symptom of her pregnancy, perhaps, that the place in her chest carved out for her husband harbored something softer now, something homely? A sensation that made her want to hold his arm for the sake of holding it, not just to snake a hand down his thigh–though, most assuredly, she wanted both.
She walked forth, the soft, blue fabric of a newly tailored dress clinging most comfortably to her shape, “Fortunate that you’ve found me first, given that I would have jumped on your steed myself before you left without this.”
The Duchess took her husband’s wrist, heavy and warm in her grasp, and wrapped a embroidered cut of the softest velvet around it, tying it where his pulse throbbed. Edward’s mother (dear woman, that Margery, given how rotten her children could be) had sent along a chest of babe’s goods after hearing the buzzing news of Alastrine’s condition. What better thing to forge a favor from than the blanket that held his, and their child’s, name in bold thread? She pressed a thumb to the soft flesh of his palm, “And how fortunate, still, that no matter how you play, you have already won. Kiss me goodbye, won’t you?”
“Edward,” Alastrine was surprised to see her husband enter her chambers of his own accord--in the middle of the day, that is. Was it not her that sought him out when sunlight beamed through thick clouds, bombarding into his study, unlocking his door? She had no preference for her purposes. No time of day, no rhyme, no reason.
Perhaps he was afraid--afraid she would grow faint near a window and, in turn, topple through. Or maybe down a flight of stairs, off her steed, even. And he’d come to see if her head was still, indeed, on her shoulders. She hoped this confounded weakness would cease as her stomach swelled--but, was Edward afraid? The thought was an interesting one. Perhaps a pleasing one.
“Merry Saint Valentines, Lord Somerset,” She waved off a nearby lady, near ancient in age, who in turn, bowed, and stalked off, giving Edward a wary look. Alastrine bit back a smile, “You’d do well to avoid Meredith’s alluring gaze, Edward. I need no blood on my hands on such an affectionate holiday.”
as promised for blackwidowsredledger. A look at the relationship between Mary and Anne Stanhope.
To begin with, we have to clear away any preconceived ideas about Anne Stanhope- put into our heads by the Tudors and historians such as Alison Weir who tend to over play drama for audiences.
Far from a manipulative nymphomaniac-as she is presented to us in the Tudors, or an overambitious arrogant bitch who had her husband under her thumb, Anne Stanhope was actually a deeply religious, moral woman, who patronized many evangelical works. She was an active player in the politics of her day, often assisting her husband Edward to maintain the Seymours position, and later when Edward began to be criticized, one of his contemporaries main complaints was that he was dependent on her, and that she dominated him. How much of that was true and how much was made up to make Edward seem “un-manly” is up for debate, but its doubtful Anne was any worse than any of her other powerful lady contemporaries, and probably a good deal better than her male.
Edward and Anne did have a seemingly happy marriage, it’s believed that Edward fell in love with her when she was a lady-in-waiting to Katherine. And she gave him a good deal of children (all of whom were actually his, not other men. For all her “faults”, it doesn’t seem her fidelity to her husband was ever called into question)
Anne was Evangelical, and there isn’t anything to suggest her belief wasn’t genuine. She ordered her servants give Anne Askew and Thomas Bacon said Anne Stanhope was charitable to the poor and a good and pious woman.
However, as with a surprising amount of women, Anne Stanhope didn’t seem to let her religious affiliation tangle to deeply in her female friendships, as well as who she felt loyalty to. Anne Stanhope first entered the court as a Maid of Honor to Katherine of Aragon (meaning Anne was probably serving the same time as Jane Parker), tradition holds that was when she caught Edward Seymour’s eye. Many Evangelical women actually sided with Katherine of Aragon, and viewed Anne Boleyn-even with her own genuine belief in Evangelicalism, or Church Reform-as a whore and a homewrecker. Anne Stanhope seems to have been one of them.
And it seems that while serving Katherine-Anne made the acquaintance of the Princess Mary. We don’t know when the two met or how they became friends, but know a very warm relationship existed between them. Mary was naturally a very giving woman, her purse records are full of examples of her giving ladies and their servants money-she paid a few times for some minor repairs for Jane Parker after the woman was widowed-and gave her ladies money on occasion. Anne’s name shows up several times in these records, usually under the pet name “Nan”. “Nan” is also the name that pops up for Anne Stanhope in records of New Years gifts that Mary gave and received.
But gift giving isn’t the only evidence we have. Mary also wrote to Anne and would refer to her as both a “My Good Gossip” and “My Good Nan”, and always signed herself in these letters as being a good, affectionate and steadfast friend. The two also paid each other visits and enjoyed playing cards with each other throughout the 30s and 40s.
When Anne had children Mary visited, and often paid money to the midwife and the nurse. She also gave money for the child’s christening.
“You seem to cast yourself a rather wide net, don’t you, my dear Lady Brandon?” Something about the warm lights, the dimness of a room set in an evening shroud, couples clasped at hands and buttocks gliding by, made Alastrine’s fingers itch for a strong goblet of wine. Perhaps her husband had been a larger influence on her than previously thought (or admitted)--when was the last time she’d seen Edward without a chalice between his ringed fingers?
She settled for folding her hands in front of her. The Duchess wasn’t entirely sure how well she was adjusting to this new way of living, “’Tis a good thing. To have an array of options to choose from. Narrow the cads from the elusive breed of gentleman.”
“My dearest Joanna--if you continue to indulge me on all the gruesome details on what is to come, I’ll have no choice but to expel myself all over this table,” Alastrine wrinkled her nose at her flaxen-haired counterpart, stirring another cube of sugar into her tea to the chiming of their ladies’ respective, soft laughter. The weather was mild today, fair, a perfect day to take tea outside. Her recent dizziness and nausea had made her head, her stomach, her back, her everything ache most cruelly, but the cool breeze that whispered over her hot skin soothed, improved her condition. Yes, she liked to have her tea outside.
That is, until her longtime friend decided to pass on a few tokens of overwhelming experience, soft voice as orden as the cream in her cup. The Duchess of Somerset tugged on her hood, shielding the sun from her flushing cheeks, “Forget fetching tapestries, or reading me passages--when the time comes, Jo, you must knock me senseless.”
“I promise, nobody will see us. Not even most servants frequent this area,” Octavia reassured the Duchess. “If you want to know how to sneak all proper commoner like then this is what you put up with.” She poked her head around a doorway before signaling Trinie forward. “This isn’t even the hard way.”
“My sweet Octavia, surely you’ve spent too much time fraternizing with his horse-boy of yours, for you have forgotten who I am,” Octavia, fraternizing. But it was not Octavia who was pregnant, no? It was Alastrine, with a small, indiscernible bump weighed down beneath her corset. She did not fear getting caught--who would beget an altercation with the newly accompanied Duchess of Somerset? No one who didn’t want to lose an arm, surely.
The only reprimand she would pay any heed towards was Edward’s, and, more times than not, she curried that to the favor of them both. A desperate groan passed through pink lips, and she slipped the hood of her cloak over blonde curls, “Octavia, how I crave marzipan. Sweet meats. Cookies. I need cookies. Drizzled with honey.”
What events proceeded Alastrine’s fall were muddied, no more legible than ink splaying with the morning’s coffee, and until his wife came to Edward could not depend upon his nerves to relay the truth of such incidents, and whilst sparing a glance in his brother’s direction he ascertained that his sentiments were reciprocated –––––– perhaps tenfold, given Nicholas’ delicate temperament. They were yin and yang, Cronus and Zeus. Even Dudley, who’s reputation lauded his capability in the field and yet gave credence to his secondary title as the village idiot, was struck with paranoia that became salient upon his ruddied profile. Details Edward strove endlessly to ignore, such as the sweat beading within his hairline and the interminable convulsing of his hands.
Should anything befall Duchess Somerset, it would be on Dudley’s hands, mea culpa; a sin to merit grievous punishment inflicted by Edward himself and sectioned by Alastrine’s beloved admirers who waxed lyrical her effortless beauty in poetry. The duke made sure the physician was not caught unawares, his threats but thinly veiled as the doctor pried salt from the pocket of his buckskin breeches. Salts! Was he mad? Did he not know that Edward could not countenance the loss of a second wife? His public image depended upon the seamlessness of his personal life: an aspect of governmental duty neither Alastrine nor Nicholas gave considerable thought to, evidently. The duke uttered another oath as the duchess’ nose wriggled in response to the noxious brew of salts.
“Move,” Edward thundered, his hand clamping onto Nicholas’ leg and thrusting him backward to take his place, pleased – although for reasons uncertain – as Alastrine immediately latched onto his doublet. He glanced upward at Dudley, “she’ll be well? What do you prescribe –– rest, bloodletting, cures?” A stream of consciousness lifting from the cusp of his mouth, Edward’s arm shifted beneath her spine, rolling her into his chest and positioning his other arm under the crook of her knees. “Nicholas. Your quarters are not far, no? We’ll take her there for now. All will be well, Alastrine.”
“My quarters?” Nicholas was quite miffed from his selected station, ass-deep in water-logged dirt and wet blades of grass. Edward did not grasp the notion of give-and-take. He just took. Edward and Alastrine Seymour took and gave to each other and not anyone else. It was a vicious cycle, that, and Nicholas was caught in it, bones twisting and crunching under the weight of the duchy. Would it really be so bad if Alastrine perished? Yes, he concluded. Because Edward would still be there.
Already en route to his quarters, there was nothing much the younger brother could do, aside from brood, and hope the couple tripped on their way.
Her brother-in-law’s bed--though freshly cleaned and dressed--smelled of wine. A strong, liquor scent that refused to be scrubbed from the recesses of his linens. At any other time, she supposed, it might have smelled sweet, ordinary. But now, it beckoned and agitated her gut, threatening to spew the contents of her displeasure all over the floor. All will be well, Alastrine. The assurances of her husband, the lull of her full name on his tongue would have done wonders, perhaps, if she hadn’t been so hot, ribs so constricted. Is this how it started, a deadly aliment, a sweating sickness? One that would strip her of her worldly beauty, first, then end with dirt clods in her throat? Alastrine could not fathom that, would not fathom that.
Dudley’s hands, though tentative, were brisk on her, feeling the pulse that fluttered against her wrist, beckoning her to open her mouth, looking intently into droll, hazel eyes. Edward had clearly incited the fear that elicited a brisk and thorough response. That would have made her smile, had she not seen a small, medical blade in the palm of the good doctor’s hand.
Lewd satisfaction lost, Alastrine clamped a hand around his wrist, wrenching the instrument from timid fingers, “If you let me, Dudley, I shall let you. From your neck,” She tossed it across the room, smacking against the wall and falling upon the floor with tinny acclaim, “You’ve nary asked me a question. What makes you so eager to cut me open, doctor?”
He swallowed. What was worse--the wrath of the Seymour matriarch, or the patriarch? “I was simply--”
“Take off my dress--my God!” She laid her arms at her side, exasperated, “I feel as though I’m burning from the inside out!”
“If I may be so bold, Duchess Somerset--”
“You may.”
“--are you currently going through your courses?”
“No, I haven’t...” Alastrine replied slowly, steadily, as a realization dawned upon her, so obvious, she thought, yet so blind. Had her mind really been so churned, so frustrated, that she hadn’t noticed that she’d nary had a cycle in two calendar months? “No. I am not. I have not, in... some time.”
“Oh, so when a crow remembers people who wronged them and holds grudges, it’s “intelligent” and “really cool” but when I do it I’m “petty” and “need to let it go.””
NOTABLE FEATURES: Rosy cheeks, long golden locks, thin fingers, tiny waist.
PHOBIAS & DISEASES/FEARS: dying a horrible, painful death [as is common amongst the Stanhope clan], being replaced, ending up like her mother, being a bad mother, her children hating her.
PERSONALITY
GENERAL IMPRESSION: Silver-tongued, intelligent, quick-witted, fluent, aggressive, morbid, alluring, unwavering.
MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Evil; Does whatever she can get away with. She is out for herself and her own, pure and simple. She sheds no tears for those she kills, whether for profit, sport, or convenience. She has no love of order and holds no illusion that following laws, traditions, or codes would make her any better or more noble. On the other hand, she doesn't have the restless nature or love of conflict that a chaotic evil villain has.
ZODIAC: Aries.
MYERS BRIGGS: INTP [I think don’t quote me on this]
TEMPERAMENT: Choleric.
GREEK GOD/GODDESS: Athena, goddess of war, wisdom, and the arts. Athena was one of the most active goddesses in human affairs. She helped out Odysseus, sponsored the entire city of Athens and made sure the Greeks won the Trojan War. On the downside, she’s proud and has a big temper. Just ask Arachne, who got turned into a spider for daring to compare her weaving skills to Athena’s.
small / large / average / grey / brown / blue / green / gold / hazel / doe - eyed / almond / close - set / wide - set / squinty / monolid / heavy eyelids / upturned / downturned
HAIR.
thin / thick / fine / normal / greasy / dry / soft / shiny / curly / frizzy / wild / unruly / straight / smooth / wavy / floppy / cropped / pixie - cut / shoulder length / back length / waist length / buzz cut / bald / jaw length / mohawk / white / platinum blonde / golden blonde / dirty blonde / blonde / ombre / light brown / mouse brown / chestnut brown / golden brown / chocolate brown / dark brown / jet black / ginger / auburn / dyed red / dyed an unnatural color / thin eyebrows / average eyebrows / thick eyebrows
TATTOOS / PIERCINGS
no tattoos / one tattoo / a few here and there / multiple / full sleeve / thigh tattoo / neck tattoo / chest tattoo / no piercings / ear piercings / nose piercing / lip piercing / tongue piercing / eyebrow piercing / navel piercing / cheek piercing / nipple piercing / genital piercing
