Though his own instinct is loyalty to the Tudor regime, it is at odds with his desire for revenge -- and all of that balanced upon a dangling line: he cannot, now, doubt he is regarded with suspicion by many. And, what’s more, perhaps they are right to wonder...sometimes, he wonders, himself.
and with that, margery instantly regretted making her presence known to the earl of devon. the expression on her face quickly shifted to displeasure. she could feel bypassers’ eyes glance their way as that dreaded nickname rolled off of col’s tongue. if she could hit him, she would have already by now. however, they were at a very important function and margery had a reputation to protect, being one of the princess’ ladies. her composure was hanging by a thread. margery raleigh was usually a patient woman but only nicholas courtenay could rouse such a reaction out of her. in her head, she’s already cursed him in every language she spoke.
“it is heartwarming to see that after all these years you still enjoy my misfortunes and that my efforts certainly do not go to waste whenever you are around,” margery said between her teeth, her smile sarcastic as she looked up to her dear friend. “the world is constantly changing however you, my lord courtenay remain—” an idiot. margery didn’t even finish her sentence but she was sure col understood her. despite being utterly exasperated by his taunting demeanor, deep down all those layers, she was happy to see her dear friend.
it was funny, their friendship; banters and jokes the very core and foundation. however, it was more than that. beneath all those jests and repartees was a bond that encompassed friendship, something that she would not dare trade for anything in the world. the raleighs and courtenays shared the same ideals and beliefs, their families more intertwined than they could ever imagine hence these two’s closeness. without any hesitations, margery took his hand. it was only until she was seated that she exhaled deeply, feeling nothing but relief from her exhausted feet. “nicholas courtenay since when have you become a gossipmonger? i never pegged you as such.” margery feigned disappointment. “—but if you must know there were some that were far more graceful than i was. if you thought my performance moved you to tears, these would evoke unexplainable emotions. don’t look but that one behind me stepped on my gown too many times i have lost count. i should charge him for damages.”
A bright laugh broke from Col’s lips as she stopped just short of calling him an idiot, as the moniker was not lost upon him, but rather tucked away delicately into the folds of his consciousness from the days of childhood. “It is my wish always to please,” he replied in kind. “I should be most distraught were I to fail you in so meaningful a pursuit as proving the steadiness of my character in this respect. Indeed, I could not possibly forego the pleasure of your misfortunes. I think I should be utterly lost without them. What is the merit of a day without companionable stumbles and slides, or the passage of a week without some slip of the tongue to brighten it? No,” he teased, grinningly. “I could not do without it. Besides, how else am I to prove to you that I remain, always --” an idiot. He laughed, again.
Sinking into the seat, he observed with affectionate satisfaction as relief suffused her features with the pressure off her poor feet. “There, now,” he soothed, softly. “That’s much better. Here, we are also treated to quite the opportunity.” Claiming a cut strawberry from a passing tray, he held it up for her inspection. “If I were to but lob this upon the dance floor, I might cause all manner of mischief, and you may well thank me. Who will recall your efforts to clobber Sir Robert when the imperial pageant has collapsed into such chaos as the Archduchess collapsing upon her partner and the Prince of France sliding across the floor? I daresay we may even be treated to the start of a war, in such an instance, which is something I would happily risk in the qust to enhance your reputation. What say you, my lady? Shall I toss it?”
Col gasped in mock horror. “A gossipmonger! Why, Magie, you wound me! This is no idle tonguewag; no vapid curiosity, but a sober and scholarly pursuit. How else am I to castigate my fellow men and how else to rank them in order of my friendship? Certaintly their traits and character cannot be sufficient to enhance them in my understanding. The only means of ascertaining the weight of their good names is by knowing which is most likely to tread upon a lady’s feet in the process of courting her, and which is like to kick her ankles. Would you deprive me, entirely, of companionship?” Hearing her ranking, he burst into laughter again. “Such elegance is scarcely to be fathomed. I do not know that man, but I think I am forced to own him now my dearest friend. You have been quite eclipsed. There is no figure I better admire and I look forward to watching his progress with most assiduous attention.”
Her heart quickened once she met with the Courtenay son, or now was it the patriarch? So tainted was his family name, even with the acquittal, that Ursula felt her heart shiver in anticipation. Alas, she knew that the only way to bolster a new, smarter rebellion was through their Plantagenet blood - that was, perhaps till she found a better way. When sidestepping her husband’s presence and the overlooking eye of the King’s inner spies, Ursula caught the Count of Devon within the Entrance Hall’s grand ceiling - wooden beams holding the heavens upright, providing the semblance of privacy for each noble present at the centre of the Tudor’s heart.
Having shared a string of letters full to the brim with secrets and motivated plans, Ursula knew all too well the consequences of plotting against the monarch - but what was at stake? Religion itself and the future of England seemed to teeter on the edge, and she could not stand by for a moment longer.
A good Catholic, the Countess of Pembroke put her hand between them to stop him in his tracks, her spine straight and proper before she met Nicholas’ eye in a quick flash of eyelids. “I cannot be long, my husband will be waiting for me,” she snapped, not bothering to wait for an answer as her eyes went behind the Earl, searching the nearest exit route. “Did you et my letters this Summer? Do you understand what I need?” @colofdevon
That the Countess was a beautiful woman, no one could deny. With an air of regal dignity, she might have been empress of all the world; her dark eyes were prisms to enchant the unsuspecting and the flex of her brow could conquer any fool who dared cross her. Yes, she was intimidating, but Col was used enough to that: his royal cousins Henry and Anne and William and Elizabeth were as well. What set the Countess apart, he thought, was the fact that she owed no loyalties to him. But, then, he had lately found that, it seemed, neither did the royal family.
Her hand upon his chest stopped him in his tracks. Glancing down in surprise, his eyeline traced the silhouette of her fingers pressing against the sumptuous fabrics which swathed him -- so light a touch, and yet so commanding. It did not even occur to step aside and continue on -- no, he was a statue upon her wordless demand.
Her words seemed to stop his heart, sinking like sweat into his skin. His lips straightened. A flat line. He wished to pull her into a shadowy corner -- this was not the place for this discussion -- yet to do so, now, with court fluttering on all sides, would be a more sure tell-tale than the exquisite torment of discussing it out in the open with only veiled language for concealment.
“I...had that honor, my lady,” he said, softly, careful not to look around himself to see who heard. No gestures of uncertainty could be employed here. This must all appear excruciatingly ordinary. Slowly, then, casually, they must maneuver to another place. “I comprehend you perfectly, madam, but I fear I am powerless to assist. You must understand what prevents me.” There was a price to be paid for such things. He wondered if she’d been there, amidst the crowd gazing upon the gruesome horror that had preventing, too, his father’s assistance. “Please understand that it cannot be. No good can come of it, my lady: it is already over before it begins.”
He paused, shook his head. “What does your husband say of this? Your brother, sister?” You court disaster, he wished to warn her, but he did not. Could not.
She had taken her time yes as in love and war, battle and debate and the cauldron on intrigue that was court everything had to be approached with care. Rush and one could miss something and a lady though she may not wage war in the traditional manner often any social engagement was a cause to wear her battle armor. Lace and fine fabrics were delicate yes but her mail and breastplate, her wit coupled with charm her sword and shield. Helena Grey was a master of the field in this regard well versed in the subtler arts and what it took to navigate courtly life.
However, this evening felt distinctly different in preparation for it. It would be easy to go into the pageant and pretend nothing terrible had ever happened and that a period of time past was a nightmare she suffered once only to wake to something better. The world was watching now, begging for any hint of disloyalty or reason to doubt their allegiance. She dressed this evening yes prepared to field the volley of suspicion. Helena allowed her ladies maids to dress her to dazzle and stun, to captivate and inspire and to armor her well for this grand social engagement. Let the world see her and that her allegiance stood with her cousin and her eyes alone were for her husband. After finishing touches, finally adjustments she exited her rooms, silhouette illuminated by candlelight. Eyes lifted and she gaze at her beloved greeting his smile with a loving one, a truly genuine smile reserved for him
“I hope my beloved you weren’t kept waiting too long for me. A woman would have her husband guess as to what I’ve decided to come as. Which virtue would my lord think his wife would be?” Extending her hand she had once imagined his hand wouldn’t have been there to receive hers. It was not often anymore but when his hand took hers it served to pull her from heaven, ground her to solid earth and a feeling of security and stability still washed over her. Truthfully she didn’t need him as she could survive well with her wit and wiles. Helena though wanted him, above all others she did truly love him. “Perhaps, Love. Would that be too obvious for her heart beats for him alone? She would wish to surround him in such a feeling as if she is clothed by it alone and would wish to inspire all other young lovers to feels as she does and the love of family she does hold dear. I wouldn’t wish though to take take from a cousin who may have more right to being lady love.”
A small blush colored her cheek, flattered by his comment more than happy to accept his admiration. She was not above bits of flattery and if Col so stated it her attire had indeed achieved Helena’s desired impression “Let us make our appearances then so they may not be kept waiting much longer and left to wonder if I have stolen you away. You may have my first and last dance. Those in between you may have fierce competition for but no matter my partner I will wish it were you. What pray tell has my husband decide to attend as?”
Her gown was a confection of starlight swirling within vestments of brocade and cloth-of-gold, till she seemed to gleam by her own power moreso than the fluttering candles whose dim illumination seemed to bend meekly away.
“Not at all,” he replied. “Indeed, I must confess to be all amazement that such an effect may be achieved in so small an amount of time. I would say that your steamstress has outdone herself, save for the simple fact that she owes it all to your own particular charms -- you would look as radiant in sackcloth.”
He chuckled softly, arching his brows. “A guessing game, then?” Gently his eyes traced her face, slowly finding her gaze.
His mind rushed, unbidden, to the Tower: its looming shadow shutting out the light from his cell as he gazed, unseeing, towards the limpid blue of the sky. He’d amused himself, in the first days of his captivity, with seeing how far his gaze might penetrate the city of London -- those far-away people, heedless of his absorbing gaze, moving here and there -- people tiny as ants going about their lives far below -- but the novelty had soon worn off. He’d sunk into the corner, gazing at the clouds without seeing, lost to time, lost to space, lost to this reality as he waited to learn what it might hold for him -- doom or salvation. He remembered, too, the moment they’d let him out. The light he’d so missed had blinded him, then, glancing off his blue orbs with glaring beams till he’d cast out a hand to shade them. Yet, there had come another glow, an unearthly glint of color and light, his eyes adjusting as it approached, burning like the sun against the crisp air. His wife had smiled; his heart clenched. It was not till he saw her face that he’d felt it all.
His smile was thoughtful. “If I am to name the virtue I assign most to you, than it can be only one thing, my dear: it is hope.” His fingers swept across her chin, the gentle structure of her face, and fell away again, unspoken and uncertain. “Let cousins have love -- your virtue is something far more powerful, in the end.” He arched a brow. “Well? Have I guessed correctly, or have you selected a namesake from one of your other bountiful virtues?”
Col laughed, the corners of his lips sweeping upwards at her declaration. “Then I shall do my utmost to endure between those moments when I may hold you. But see you hold no one else so closely -- I shall be watching, and I mean to be jealous of all your smiles tonight.” His tone was teasing, and he gently ran two fingers across the gentle jut of her jawline, smiling into her eyes before dropping his hand to take the one she extended to him. He kissed it gently and began to lead her towards the Great Hall, as requested.
“What else?” he inquired softly, glancing at her in the glowing candlelight. “Loyalty.” He tilted his head. “Tell me, my lady, does it suit?”
They moved swiftly into the Hall, where they were presented as they were -- Earl and Countess of Devon. He wondered, without asking, if she ever resented that title, now: she had married him with the promise of someday becoming a Marchioness. Did this rank suit her?
By the hour of their communion, the sun had declined out of sight behind the towering abbeys, the once dewy grass turned grey - blooming flowers had begun to close, bees scurrying homeward. On walking, Nicholas felt much at ease - fall was advancing, the sudden decline of temperature spurring a , as summer foliage crumpled into brown heaps. Henry’s triumphant grounds were devoid of tittering Englishmen, and foreign dignitaries, who moved about with loud-self assertion and satisfaction, which Nicholas detested with intense fealty. In sweeping robes and commanding airs, his companion for the eve - Col, though in Nicholas’ own heart, called by their shared name, approached him in good humour.
He regarded the Earl with a cool, bemused way; in the very fashion, he admired any, when his humour was tranquil. “My Earl! How well you look - has your hair grown, to be an even finer hue of straw?” Nicholas cried in earnest, each word delivered promptly, with pure sentiment, and without a semblance of prudery - Nicholas wore his colours, brazenly. “You may think my request for a tour of the gardens at this hour, a rather strangely romantic one - or one of a most cliche nature, as everyone, seems to take to the gardens. But the night air is a thrilling element upon my skin, and privacy, is nearly guaranteed.”
Despite his rancorous devotion to a now outdated mode of worship (Nicholas had committed himself entirely to the en-vogue reformists), he honoured his names-sake with the the sincerity of esteem, and the earnest extent of his ear. “You will forgive me if my statement feels unkind, or a foul attempt at mockery; but I am earnest, when I stress freedom is most becoming, on you. Shall Hampton Court be treated to the full might, of the reborn Earl of Devon?”
Mutual regard found its nascence in what else but enthusiastic honesty. Oh, it would be foolish to think that neither man might not demure here and there or dissuade this or that, but there was a streak of guilelessness which animated these moments, unfurling from some genuine agent nestled deep within. It was this verve which oozed, now, from Pembroke’s bones, uncurling like a fern to cast sweet, protective shade across all that stood beneath its shadow.
Chuckling at the other Nicholas’ assessment, Col shook his head. “I have been indulging in the sunlight more than I once did, I confess. Strange the things we neglect to cherish when we have them.” He had left the House of Courtenay to shiver, on occasion, as he marched out upon the parapets to soak in the drowsy’s disk’s distant heat. He’d been, once, a child of summer, but he’d taken those sunny days for granted. In the Tower, he’d been cut off from even its most powerful glare till, now, he craved that warmth as much as anything in the world. But that much was, hardly, the thing to say -- not when he was aching to put the whole experience quite truly behind him. “I think this past winter was warmer than the one before it -- or perhaps I simply noticed it, more.”
Col grinned, knitting his hands together behind his back. “I assure you, my lord, I would be the very last person to judge anyone in so innocent a diversion. Indeed, I intend to fully embrace it, myself. If it is cliche, there is a reason; if it is romantic, so am I. Is not court a place for indulgence? This is a luxury I mean to savor.” Smiling, he tilted his head as Nicholas spoke of privacy, wondering if he meant merely a wish to leave the hubbub behind -- or if there were, indeed, private matters he wished to discuss in the absence of prying ears.
The latter, he quickly realized. His eyes rested upon his fellow earl’s, drinking in their expression: the weight of the words mingled with the airiness of the expression. Col knew to his core that this was truth -- but it seemed somehow freeing, too, to hear it, to breathe out, having it out in the open. Despite himself, Col’s eyes twinkled. He glanced away for a moment, scouring the scene of twangling bees and flickering lightning bugs attendant upon swollen roses whose summer tresses gave way to autumnal blooms.
Turning back to Nicholas, he smiled. “And, I confess, it feels even better.” He paused, running his tongue along ivory teeth as he considered how he might voice what he felt. “It is...a weighty thing stand trial, but when waiting upon judgment, it gives way to...a strange weightlessness, as if one floats amongst the constellations, set into the firmament by some fiery ancient god.” His smile was stiff. “You wade there, wade through the starless night, pushing through it as if through water, unable to stop. That weightlessness -- it is a terrible thing.”
Exhaling, he glanced away again. And then came the triumph of innocence -- quickly followed by the sick crush of horror at his father’s sentence. But that, at least, he did not wish to speak of.
“Here, I am set upon the ground, again, and I feel it beneath my feet -- I feel master of myself, again.” He laughed. “Perhaps that is as much an illusion as the next notion, but to find oneself no longer swimming in a limitless void is a liberation beyond compare. But whether reborn,” he shook his head. “Perhaps some day. But there is yet more mountain to climb before I achieve that pinnacle.”
Looking to his friend, he smiled. “And you? What obstacles do you mean to surmount? Which rocks do you require aid in rolling?” He shrugged, opening his hands. “And might I help? I am in a frame of mind to heft rocks, I confess.”
margery raleigh was many things but a dancer was not one of them. yes, she memorized each step, each beat by heart, perfectly executing them even with her eyes closed. margery could only attempt to emulate grace with every turn but she was not half as beautiful of a dancer as the other ladies at court; she did not even dare compare herself to them.
how many dances has it been? she has honestly lost count to the point where her feet were starting to hurt. margery took it as a sign to retire momentarily. lady raleigh had already removed her mask, allowing air to finally graze upon her flushed cheeks. she kept her composure as she retreated to the side of the room, away from the dance floor, hoping to catch her breath. her emerald hue caught a glimpse of a familiar golden head of hair and instantly knew who it was. a smile slowly grew on her face as she approached. it has been a while since they have last seen each other. margery did not expect to be reunited with her dear friend at hampton court and was much surprised to see him. this, of course, she did not make known to him else he would not let her live.
“my feet are hurting so i beg you not make fun of me at this very moment,” margery said in between her teeth as she kept a wry smile on her face. “do not enjoy my pain too much.” after years of not seeing each other, this is how she greets her dear friend. from the looks of it, nothing has changed. // @colofdevon
Pretending to be astonished, Col stepped back as in shock and clasped his hand to his heart as she removed her mask. “Magie!” he exclaimed -- he had once in childhood slurred her name, blurting out a strange mispronunciation of it in his haste to tell her something but, upon witnessing her reaction, had permanently adopted it as a teasing nickname -- and an unspoken term of endearment. “Can it be you? I had not thought it possible that so spritely a dancer could be you. Why, the way you nearly cuffed Sir Robert in the head when you passed him was so lyrical as almost to bring tears to my eyes.”
It was a relief to see her -- and to sink back into the old spirit of joshing. Having grown up together, Margarey could not now be dearer to him were she, indeed, his own flesh and blood, and she was one person to whom he did not feel he needed to prove himself. With her, at last, he could be himself, or some facsimile of himself. He did not yet know what parts of him had sloughed off with his father’s head, and what parts might yet re-emerge, but he could do this, at least: slip back into the familiar role like removing a heavy yoke.
Laughing, he shook his head. “Oh, I did not agree to that,” he assured her, as slowly, he went to stand near her, offering his hand, should she wish to lean against something and relieve the pressure in her aching extremeties. “If I am not to enjoy your pain, then it brings no good into the world and is therefore wasted. I would not force you to go through pain for nothing,” he japed. “No, I care far too much about you for that. For you, I will mock you relentlessly.” Pausing, he held up his hand, a smile breaking through as he held back a laugh. “No, no need to thank me.”
So saying, he led her gingerly -- so as to put as little pressure on her feet as possible -- towards a seat. “There is something you must tell me, Magie,” he said, holding his face in mock seriousness. “Who was the worst dancer out there? Who stepped on your toes, who bumped your knees, and who came so close to crashing to the floor as almost to accomplish it? I must know everything -- it is a matter of pride to know who, amongst my friends, is the most dreadful dancer of your acquaintance. Hold nothing back, Magie. Tell me everything.”
She had always been a keen student, that much was obvious. By the time she learned to read and write, Elizabeth had become accustomed to learning about the various noble families and their relationships to the mighty crown. But, when her eye had stuck upon the name of Courtenay her stomach turned. She had been young when his father had been executed by the keen and vicious signature of Elizabeth’s own patriarch, but with time she had learned and read all there was to do with the Courtenay family line - how they were related but hated, how distrust had grown between the two lines of the family till a sword came to sever the last remnants of what once was. Elizabeth, who had taken her father’s word as gospel, could not see past the looming gap.
But, she was diplomatic. And often smiled at her Courtenay cousin with a slight, coy expression - allowing them to survive together as evidence of a time gone by.
Her hands clasped, she came to Nicholas Courtenay as his Princess, her lips softly upturned to reveal the subtle glint of her teeth. Whilst her brother acted as King, Elizabeth was meant to charm the guests - a woman’s touch, her old governess had insisted, the very words leaving the Tudor heiress to cringe inwardly. If she could put on a smile, so could William! Even then, her fondness and gentle approach to her brother had left her soft and malleable to his hands - or so, she thought. For in time it’d come to pass that Elizabeth was no ordinary sister. But a Woman King with as much might as any man.
“Sir Courtenay, welcome,” she called, tilting her head to one side by just an inch.. She had always preferred her Boleyn cousins. “How was your journey? Does the Countess of Devon join you here?” @colofdevon
In the year which had passed since his father’s execution, Col had strictly avoided court, yet now that he was here, again, it was not the bitter pain of loss that caused the painful knot in his stomach -- it was the darling boyhood memories, once beacons of cheer -- that soured his heart. Now, it was with a pang that he remembered the mischievous boyhood days with Wills, the raucous adolence they’d shared, and the daring youth. Now -- it smacked of betrayal.
Of course, he knew the truth, too: there hadn’t truly been a choice. What his father had truly known of the conspiracy before the trial, Col could not guess, but the fact that Hugh was such an active part of a community which was actively attempting to replace the Tudor regime with a Catholic one and had gone so far as to begin feeling out the Spanish ambassador, had left Wills without much choice. Col understood the irony, too: if the reverse situation had borne out, if Hugh had deprived Col of Wills rather than the other way around, he could not easily have forgotten that, either...but it did not matter that that might have happened, because it had not.
It did not surprise him that his cousin Elizabeth was wary of him. Col’s time in the Tower of London and his trial -- both for treason -- were hardly endearing experiences, even if he had been ultimately acquitted. He wondered if a loss of trust that profound could ever be prepared. Was there any way to know?
Sweeping the habitual bow, Col smiled and touched her hand gently to his lips -- a spiritual, if not literal, kissing of the ring in obeisance. Col knew his place, and he knew that now, more than ever, he must tread carefully. Still, he wished to regain his cousins’ favor -- was that not why he had returned?
“Your Highness, it is well to be back. Pray, how faired the Progress? I’m sure there was much to see -- did any exhibit better please Your Grace than the rest?” Hearing her question, he inclined his head. “She does, indeed. I believe, even now, she is occupying our apartments -- arranging all as she sees fit.” He grinned. “A circumstance which has quite exiled me from thence, for the time being: I should only get in the way. Perhaps I might tarry with Your Highness?” he inquired. “It is, I think, a day fit for mingling and it has been some time since last we saw each other.”
He did not think that he had seen Elizabeth since before his arrest -- he had been but a carefree boy, then, he knew, now. But who was he, now? Glancing away as if to dispell these thoughts, his drew his eyes to hers.
“Or perhaps I might help you settle into your apartments?” He paused and his smile, when it arrived, was grave; sincere. “I am, as always, yours to command.”
He did not have long to wait. When Col was dressed for the pageant, he had walked out into the corridor outside the Courtenay rooms to await his countess. He leaned against the wall, gazing blankly ahead. His mind was a confused cocaphony being here. He could imagine, almost, that nothing had happened, yet the chill of the wall behind him sunk into his back and a shudder ran through him as he thought of the cold of the Tower -- the cold of the axe hovering, hovering.
Relief seeped through him, warming him, at the rustle of fabric. He turned to spot his countess approaching, her pageant gowns flowing in luxurious folds around her, silhouetting her elegance against the backdrop of a thousand burning candles.
"And what,” began the Earl with a small smile. “Has my lady wife come as?”
Taking quick strides towards her, he took her hand. The pageant was in commemoration of one which many of them did not recall -- but one which had, nonetheless, inextricably changed their lives, forever. Silently, Col wondered what shifts this, its successor, might make. He hoped they would be positive. The King had been solicitous enough of his friendship, now that Col had returned to court, that he felt such hopes were not folly -- but who could say what favor would last? His father’s had not.
“It remains for me, only, to state the obvious,” he added. “You are bewitching, my dear. Now come, we must make our appearance and I must require a dance, if you will allow me. I daresay, with such a partner upon my arm, I shall be the envy of court.”
It was good to have Nicholas Courtenay, the king’s cousin by blood, amongst those gathered at Hampton - where the Boleyns trusted him only so far as they could throw him. Wills, relishing to be gracious and enjoying even more to be seen as gracious, clasped his straw-haired cousin by the shoulder and brought him squarely to his side. ‘Now, now, Col,’ the king guffawed, disregarding the numerous sets of eyes scrutinizing the pairs’ roughhousing as they tripped down the park. ‘It was my father who the poets called the English Nero, not I. Certainly I am more of a Charlemagne, only taller and more attractive?’
Despite the gray weather, Wills was glad of the fresh air - and affable company - as his courtiers lined up in pairs of two and followed the young king’s fattening entourage. He’d grown accustomed to the constant stream of petitioners on his heel, though never less unnerved. Mercifully, the great and sprawling Hampton, the palace his father’s once treasured Wolsey had gifted him in an extravagant deed of loyalty, gave them something else - something other than his person - to gawk and marvel at.
Wills cocked his head, and in a lower voice uttered: ‘the news of the north can wait, dear cousin, until this evening. My reenactment of those barbaric villages is improved by the drink.’ As he glanced sidelong at the Earl, Wills swallowed. He’d doubted whether or not the relationship between them could be as it were ere, for the knelling of Hugh Courtenay’s beheading had rippled across England a forbidding presage for the Tudor’s male relatives. Yet their conflict, in the eyes of the king, had appeared to be long forgotten. Uncle George would never believe him, having always regarded Col with an uneasy contempt, but he would have to bear it. Wills was even of a mind to advance him to his council - it needed strumming up by way of young blood, and who better than a friend?
‘You, the Earl Percy, and some others of my privy chamber will ride off to Richmond tonight so the evening will not be…’ He glanced, conspiratorially, to the effusion of courtiers attending them. ‘Encroached. Except, of course, by Frenchwomen.’ Though more of a command than an invitation, he waited, exultant, for Col to accept. ‘Does that answer your question?’
“And, I daresay,” added Col with a bright grin. “Better dressed. Though, that may be unfair of me, as I suppose in those ancient days, superior fashion was doubtless difficult to come by, and Charlemagne did show his wisdom in other areas. Is the Emperor the primary muse of leadership, or one in a number?”
Eyes glinting, Col thought with interest upon the comparison. Perhaps it was an iconic figure drawn out of no particular parallel -- or perhaps Charlemagne was a person very much upon the young king’s mind. It could not be such a stretch to suppose he was: the very first Holy Roman Emperor and the progenitor of the French, German, and Austrian crowns, it would be difficult not to think of him, Col supposed, with all his political descendants now dotting the English landscape. But he wondered, too, if there might be another cause for comparison. Did Wills, like his father before him, crave the imperial crown?
Glancing with curiosity towards him, Col tucked the idea away as useless: the Pope was unlikely to crown one who led his whole kingdom upon a merry dance with heresy. Or so his late father would have said. Col glanced quickly away, to conceal the taut line of his jaw, and took in, instead, the splendor around them. Having grown up so close to Wills, Col had all but ceased to take in the magnificence around them, but watching others gawk, he glanced with renewed interest at the sphere in which they currently abided.
“But I should never presume to say aught about the late king,” he replied. “I am sad to say that I have no memory of him, and therefore, I think, little right to judge, as all that I know -- for both good and ill -- are but hearsay. History, I think, and our children,” he added, glancing towards Wills with a smile. “Can be the only true testament of legacy, when the measure of our lives must be taken.”
He paused, arching his brow. “Which reminds me...” he added, flashing a wolfish grin. “I must ask that question which, I think, every noble mama in England wishes, but fears, to ask. Do you hope to take one of the visiting princesses for a bride? There can be few more eligible.”
Chuckling at Wills’ whispered confidence, Col grinned. “Then I shall stem my impatience,” he replied in the same tone. “That I may hear of the matter properly.”
Hearing the King’s invitation, Col’s smile broadened. Not only was the prospect of merrymaking entirely welcome, the summons, itself, implied not only a willingness on the king’s part to forego any further unpleasantness between them, but a desire to resume old affections -- a wish that Col, himself, shared. It was not comfortable, this: living under the shadow of uncertainty and treachery. Finding himself once again in the king’s good graces was precisely what Col had hoped.
“That is does,” he said softly, inclining his head in gratitude before a laugh stole into his tone. “I think we may confess that pretty Frenchwomen are always quite welcome to encroach upon revelries. Indeed, I daresay some amongst our acquaintance might feel that a revelry deprived of such companionship does not entirely merit the name. Is this to be a secret session,” he added, wondering how many black looks of jealousy he would face this evening. “Or is the Richmond exit one which is generally known?”
"The reasons behind the Earl of Devon’s identity in the second Chateau Vert pageant aren't hard to guess," writes historian Edward DeBurgh. "The recent beheading of his father for treason was clearly very much on his mind. Who would not wish to avoid such a fate?" In the autumn of 1559, Courtenay was twenty-eight years old and already the head of his depleted family. He had a reputation to protect, if he did not wish to make the same ghoulish end his father had met. "He likely returned to court with no other aim than once again securing the good graces of the king," writes DeBurgh. "Loyalty, therefore, was not only a guise: it was message. It was an oath."
anna was surprised at how … wonderful the great hall looked. it was somehow cozy even with hundreds of bodies. she wondered how the kitchens looked in order to maintain such a service to his majesty. she was enjoying herself, talking with those around her. the wine was too sweet, at first, but with each sip it was becoming more and more delicious.
anna gasped when the fruit ended up on other’s lap. but after a moment she couldn’t help but giggle. she brought her fingers up to press against her full lips to keep the noise as quiet as possible. she turned, knowing the other beside her was speaking to her. she smiled, reaching out and taking another sip of her wine, that seemed to help her giggles. ❛ but your grace, ❜ she said, her eyes glassy from the wine as she set her brown eyes onto his face. ❛ where is your sense of adventure? ❜
There was a warmth in her laughter and the earl felt himself, by some impulse, doing the same with a rueful shake of his head. “All right,” he began, tilting his head. “If you dare me so, I shall take the challenge. Pray,” he sang out to the liveried attendant with the tray of fruit. “Bring that here. Her Imperial Highness and I wish to partake.”
The tray swept closer, heaped with a divine assortment of vegetation, fresh from the Hampton gardens and imported from across the world.
“Tell me, Your Highness,” he began, plucking an interesting assortment from the tray. “What is your favorite fruit. Or, rather, what fruits do you come by most in your sphere or the world? I wonder if they are very different from those indigenous to England which -- by the by -- I must insist you sample. They will never taste better or fresher than they do here and now.”
He paused. “In my tenants gardens at home, one can find a variety of plums, currant, raspberries, strawberries, cranberries, blackberries, elderberries...a wealth of berries,” he laughed. “As well as a few others here and there, but I swear there is no delight greater than that simple one of plucking a piece straight from the vine. Have you ever been able to do so, or is such beneath the dignity of your station at home?” he wondered, not with judgement, but with interest. In his own experience, royal blood came almost with as many limitations as opportunities.
𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗
Great Hall, Hampton Court Palace, Night
"Well, that was ill done,” commented the Earl of Devon, half without thinking. He added with a twinkle of ironic humor: “I confess, I was rather looking forward to a side of fruit, but I think I shall pass now: good Lord knows where it has been.”
The banquet portion of the evening was in full splendor, with a thousand patries and savories strewn about the table in regal delight. Pigs and peacocks and grandiose tarts graced the table in a superlative flourish of wealth and prestige. The enormous stained glass windows now showed only of pitch with the dark outside, but the spectacular forest of tracery wood beams above them -- though shadowed now -- was as showy as it had been the day Cardinal Wolsey had seen it erected.
All this splendor, however, was quite lost, now, on Col. It might have impressed him, it was true, at one time, but having grown up running through these very corridors alongside the prince, he had achieved manhood without truly stopping to admire the place the way it deserved, as to him all these gorgeous glamors were seemingly commonplace. What he did, however, note, was the element which changed with every viewing: the individuals peopling the scene.
So it was that a servant who appeared a touch...tipsy had caught his eye. He’d observed his staggering path, winding amongst the tables like a whirlwind till, at last, he’d tripped and dumped the contents of his tray directly onto the table, raining a volley of fruits upon the king’s glamorous guests at the other end of the table. A flurry of activity had ensued: the liveried servants flying to the rescue to give aid to those few who had been peppered with sweet things to eat, others dragging the tipsy servant away.
“What of you?” he inquired of the person next to him. “Will you brave the uncertainties of this fruity terrain, when they bring out a fresh tray? Or will you skip the course and dive straight into the baked sweets? I daresay if the kitchens are running with wine enough to effect that poor man, the baked goods will be rather wonderful, tonight.”
He smirked, adding with a flourish of his usual sarcastic humor: “I wonder if the court witnessed wonders such as these while in the north?”
‘His Majesty is either a great coward, or a terrible shot. Why else would he neglect to attend a tournament held in his honour?’
With a crossbow still looped between his fingers, William’s brows arched into his hairline, shamelessly sniggering at the Spanish ambassador. Don de la Quadra, whose sea-sickness had prevented him from being presented to the King of England, had plainly no conception of who he was presently grousing at. Wills often dressed in an unaffected manor when partaking in fond activities, such as archery, and exhibited, except for in his restraint, little kingly majesty - not even his beloved jewels adorned his fingers. He wore, on the other hand, his bemusement as clear as day.
The king made a show of doffing his hat to the ambassador, and sweeping grandly - nay, obsequiously - before him. He covertly winked to the guest looming just behind the Spaniard, who appeared privy to his faux-pas, and stifled a chuckle at the ambassador’s expense. ‘You may count upon it, excellency, that I will inform the king’s council of his incorrigible behaviour.’ Wills gleamed ruefully, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
Once Don de la Quadra was out of earshot, he scoffed: ‘if I am not to be king, perhaps the stage is in my cards.’
It was a startling thing to hear. All eyes rounded upon the fellow, before slowly tracing their way back to William. It was not easy to guess what the king would say, but what he might fell was plain enough and it could hardly go unnoticed. A collective breath was held, waiting to see the result.
Standing behind the ambassador, Col slid his gaze back towards his cousin, eyes narrowing. Meeting William’s eye, he arched his brows, half-invitingly, before shaking his head and looking back to the unfortunate ambassador as he did his best to suppress a chuckle.
Hearing William’s retort, he laughed aloud and clapped the clueless ambassador on the back. “How does it feel to have endangered Spain?” he jested to the befuddled fellow as he passed, falling into step with his king, at last.
“I believe it agreed with one or two of the Roman Emperors,” laughed Col. “But I daresay you’ll be needed here to listen to that man’s excuses just as soon as he realizes who you are. Though, I do hear the stage is a starving profession,” quipped Col. “Should you decide on a fall back path, no doubt they’d be grateful of any contribution.”
There was an ironic twang to his sense of humor, but his eyes danced. It would be wrong to think that Col did not love his cousin, for he did. William was his oldest and dearest friend. But he had loved his father as well and it was proving a difficult thing to know that one was responsible for the loss of the other. But, then, if it had not gone that way, Col reminded himself, his father might have -- even if inadvertently -- become responsible for the loss of William. There was no easy path here: that much was certain.
Pushing these thoughts aside, he clapped his hands behind his back and quirked a brow at William. “Well, now that we stand upon the brink of humiliating an unwitting ambassador, I would say all noble duties are fully seen to,” he laughed. “Which means that I think we may attend to the evening’s entertainments as such. What news of the north? Walsingham is reporting fireworks, hm? But I must know, for all these protestations, who managed to garner real favor...and,” he added with a touch of wicked humor. “Who lost it?”
Location: Hampton Court Palace, one of the palace courtyards
Timestamp: Evening, after dinner
With: [open]
“I had forgot how hot it could get when so many people were packed into the place.” Edward’s comment was rather off handed as the Duke sat perched on the edge of the courtyard’s fountain, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. He had indeed escaped the Great Hall for a breath of fresh air, but he had no objections to the company that had arrived. “Sit with me. We may as well enjoy the nights before they become too cold for any of us.” He paused, taking a sip from his cup. “Have you missed the excitement as much as I have? I find summer makes me listless.”
These two were alike, Col considered, in some ways. Both Col and Edward were of royal blood and, therefore, considered able to pose some little threat to the current regime -- and both had seen their loved ones lose their heads for treason. Both had lost their fathers; both now stood, bereft, at the edge of uncertainty.
Stretching out his legs as he took a seat on the wine fountain by his second cousin, Col crossed his arms over his chest. “Incredibly,” he agreed, the corner of one lip quirking upward, and a brow with it, as if to showcase a certain feeling he dared not to voice. For him, it was the eyes of all upon him as much as the press of bodies that had driven him out. This was the first season returned to Hampton Court, after all, since the beheading of his father -- and nearly his own -- and all waited with baited breath to see how he would fare.
Hearing him speak of the coming cold, he chuckled softly. “Before we know it, the heat may well prove a welcome element, I suppose.”
He watched his cousin with some interest, before turning to dip his own cup into the fountain. He took a fortifying sip. “Restless,” he said softly. “Yes. Quite.”
It had taken him the summer to make up his mind how he would go forward. Continuously, he was assured of his good luck -- and it was true as well -- he had retained his ancient earldom, his fortune, his family, his head...but his loss had also been incalculable and he was not permitted, publically, to allow it to be so.
Turning to face Edward, he shook his head. “How did you do it, cousin? How do you do it, now?” Will there ever be an end to it? he wondered, but he did not dare to ask it aloud. Glancing towards the bevy of guards who moved through the shadows, he smiled, again. “That is...pass the summer,” he ammended. It would not do, of course, to speak too openly of such matters as these.
MOTHER & FATHER: Elena de Salinas & Hugh Courtenay
SEXUALITY: bisexual, biromantic
HOROSCOPE: Aries/Taurus cusp
VIRTUES: humble, judicious, jocular
VICES: jaded, jealous, guarded
MARITAL STATUS: married to the Countess of Devon
ISSUE: n/a
RELIGION: Roman Catholic
ALLIES: could be you!!
ADVERSARIES: could be you!!
TIMELINE:
27 September 1501 -- catalina trastámara sailes from spain with her retinue, including elena de salinas, to marry prince arthur of england
25 October 1519 -- wedding of hugh courtenay and elena de salinas
18 June 1525 -- henry viii creates hugh courtenay marquess of exeter
20 April 1531 -- birth of nicholas courtenay, first surviving son
1538 -- hugh courtenay is arrested for speaking out against the dissolution of the monasteries but is released after capitulating on the point
early 1554 -- nicholas courtenay is precontracted to helena grey but the formal marriage arrangements drag on for some time for various reasons
late 1556 -- nicholas and helena are formally married
November 1558 -- arrest and trial of hugh and nicholas courtenay; execution of hugh courtenay for treason; nicholas becomes earl of devon upon his release from the tower of london
IN CHARACTER INFORMATION.
NAME & TITLE/ROLE: nicholas ‘col’ courtenay, earl of devon
MONIKER: the shadow
AGE: 28
FACECLAIM: bradley james
THREE POSITIVE TRAITS: humble, judicious, jocular
THREE NEGATIVE TRAITS: jaded, jealous, guarded
BIOGRAPHY:
Nicholas Courtenay is trapped in between, doomed by the legacies of his parents. Col’s mother, Elena de Salinas, was a Spaniard who sailed across the Channel in attendance of the Infanta Catalina Trastámara. Through the turbulence of Catherine of Aragon’s journey from Infanta to Princess to Queen to Princess once again, his mother maintained her staunch loyalty to her lady and to the Pope in Rome.
Elena proved more fortunate in marriage than her distant cousin, the one-time Queen. Her marriage was founded not merely upon the fiscal and proprietary hopes of its inmates, but also upon mutual affection. When Elena chose to speak out, openly, in defiance of the edicts offered by King Henry VIII and his new Queen, Anne Boleyn -- particularly the dissolution of the monasteries which left their tenants without many of the basic needs which the church had long provided -- her husband chose to support her.
This was a dangerous tact for many reasons, not least of which was the fact that her husband, Hugh, was himself of royal pedigree. Descended, like the king, from the royal House of Plantagenet, Hugh’s defiance was a very real threat and Henry reacted swiftly and without remorse. Hugh was imprisoned and attainted, stripped of the Marquessate of Essex which he had held, and put on trial. Knowing his only other option was death, Hugh threw himself upon the mercy of the court and the king and quickly signed everything Henry asked of him, but the crime of dissent -- though forgiven -- was not forgotten. Hugh was allowed to maintain the Earldom of Devon and his remaining rights, but was from then on regarded with suspicion.
Hugh’s health never fully recovered, but time moved on and both Anne Boleyn and Elena de Salinas went on to furnish their husbands with heirs to their respective Houses. Though a pallor had been cast over his early life, Col was blessed with precious little memory of these troubling events, having been only about four years of age while they were taking place. Instead, he grew up laughing and playing with his fellow children, and as time passed, it seemed to him almost as if it had never happened -- a mere fretful old wife’s tale rattled upon by his mother from time to time.
Yet, though Col and his peers had all-but forgotten, none of their parents had. Yet, the death of Henry VIII at last emboldened Hugh once more. The held-in opinions of twenty years spilled out across his letters...till one, speaking openly of the ‘harlotry’ of Queen Anne met her own eyes. With an investigation launched, more letters of the kind were soon uncovered and, paired with Col’s marriage to one of the Ladies Grey -- herself a Plantagenet heiress -- word began to spread of a so-called “Courtenay Conspiracy.” Both Hugh and Col were arrested and taken to the Tower for questioning and trial. While the charges against Col were dismissed, his father did not prove so lucky and was, ultimately, beheaded by the sword.
Now, Col is in a difficult position. Though his own instinct is loyalty to the Tudor regime, it is at odds with his desire for revenge -- and all of that balanced upon a dangling line: he cannot, now, doubt he is regarded with suspicion by many. And, what’s more, perhaps they are right to wonder...sometimes, he wonders, himself.
WANTED CONNECTIONS: (if any)
childhood friends -- tba
more coming!!
OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION.
NAME / ALIAS: val
AGE: 21+
TIMEZONE: est
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION?: im obsessed w everything tudor and i can’t wait to explore a world in which history took a little turn, and see how things might’ve gone!
kaledo-art
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
