rêves les plus fous

𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇.

[katharined]

𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘 –– ( i try to love the shattered window of myself: the hands: the rocks: the broken religion left behind: my inheritance is a body of vandalized cathedrals: light me on fire: strip my god from my breath: watch as i dance amidst the flames. )

intro « penned by di, 21+, discord available upon request !

[myladygrey]

starter for @katharined before banishment // katharine's quarters, hampton court

What Amelia learned of the duties for a wife and mother, was bound and caged within the beating heart of her lady mother. Though but mortal formed, the evidence of their Tudor blood still running rampant with life in every breath Katharine took, in every sharp quip her formidable mind produced, the duchess tread akin to ethereal legend within the confines of her second-born’s mind. Time had taught the newly appointed Seymour that all mighty mortals were, in fact, vulnerably human. But as a child, Amelia - her father’s inherited butter-haired curls brushing against her own tender face as she marvelled at her mother’s portrait, the beauty and prowess of pedigree and character alike - aspired to affect a room the way she did. The young lady Grey grew enamoured by her mother’s passing figure fluttering in and out of courts, desperate to please her. Apprehensive to falter, to drown from favour as the middle-daughter. To be swept up in the wake of attention from the baby, and the eldest.  Stuck on the lessons from studying her mother’s guidance throughout the yeast - wise, meticulous in aim, a seasoned huntress: stay tenacious, stay relentless, and endure. Resolved to marry strong, create her own shattering impact for the good of the family - now, though she would not take even a single step to the past to undo all the glories the Lord had gifted her with John- still felt bittersweet in nerves.

Here, in the low-ringing aftermath of family knowledge that her mother had wed Edmund Percy, another lesson arised. In the tapestry of their ancestral legacy, she could begin to count the stitches where the women defied order. Their hearts, their own determination guiding them to matrimony without the King’s blessing. Her grandmother - the king’s own sister - visited her in dreams following Amelia’s flight to the chapel, to whisper an oath of life and honour to John Seymour. Would Mary Brandon visit her mother, too? Haunt her dreams of an action now repeated within three generations, so deeply inherited within their bones, to fight for their own narrative? 

The weight of this clandestine union, and how it added to the frenzied state of House Grey, felt dizzying, from so many angles. Fear, the overbearing. There was no time for ruminating. Heels clicking in a determined march to greet her mother in the hazy twilight hour, where the sky coaxed lavender against the heavy-lined treetops of Hampton, she greeted her mother’s quarters with winter-cold hued gaze fixated on the woman she’d grown to admire. Not paying mind to the decorum of a woman, but very much the child, as she was assured they were alone, resorting to flinging her arms around Katharine’s shoulders and pulling her tight. “Why?” She whispered, tilting her temple against Katharine’s own. “Why was I not informed sooner… considering all we’ve been through, together, in the wake of my own choice? Tell me, mother, does your soul feel that this is your destiny? I cannot rest, I cannot think -  until you tell me you are happy, you are safe, you are secure.” 

Pulling back to view Katharine’s face, she cups her cheeks with her palms. “You deserve one who offers you the world within his embrace, do you not? A love true, steadfast love? How has Edmund Percy become your suitor, how has he won your heart and the honour of being your husband?” She demanded, searching Katharine’s eyes.

[katharined]

With each of her daughters’ quickenings, Katharine Brandon had been blessed with a sort of clairvoyance.  Although everyone – from the family’s astrologers, an overweening mother-in-law, the Dorset’s chaplains, to her own lord husband – anticipated the babes knitting in her womb to be males, scions to carry on their father’s great ancestry, young Katharine had always known her destiny was to birth England’s next Queen.  A virgin, her mind prophesized, marvelous in God’s eyes.  The blessed realisation that she was carrying her second daughter, Amelia, dawned as the warm rains of April beat over Bradgate Park; inside the high-domed, bricked dwelling, she’d read to the babe, lathered her belly with precious oils and draped her bump with pearl-beaded rosaries, ordered her minstrels to beat at their instruments from the hour she roused to the very moment exhaustion inveigled her to rest. 

She whispered hollow promises to Henry that she longed to deliver a boy; that she was assured, this time, it would be a son.  But when her pains came and another girl emerged, Katharine was privily delighted – her previsions had not yet failed her. She was content that neither should her daughters.

Sitting before a backdrop of gold-hung arras, Katharine watched as the rain, misty November bullets, wrought down over sweet-scented England.  The ground was drenched, so sodden with wet that the raindrops began to plop, and dribble about, rather than pelt the earth.  Amelia’s sudden presence split through the haze of tranquility like a knife through butter, and her inflamed cheeks and wild eyes augured her wrath.  Katharine made not to rise, though her gaze flitted to her daughter, a jewel-encrusted hand gesturing her to sit.  The rain, as her daughter perhaps well-knew, did not bode well with Katharine’s aching joints – nor did her daughter's occasional pertness.  ‘Amelia…’  The solemnity of her voice sought to temper the girl’s displeasure; her cornflower-blue eyes blazing about the dampened halo of her yellow hair.  Though she had laboured for half a day with Amelia, Katharine lamented that she saw few physical similarities between herself and her daughter; she was all Henry.  His fair looks, his cheek.  His insolence.  ‘I couldn’t have risked telling you.  What confidence have I, Amelia, that you stand ready to prioritize the interests of this family?  I did it to protect us, child – think of it: we are allied with England’s greatest house.  We have Percy’s protection, he has the King’s ear, and Northumberland may be ours yet.’   Nettled that Amelia had not grasped the reasons on her own, Kate gave a flex of her fingers, a quiver of muscles flickering at her jaw.

Lady Suffolk’s dark eyes widened at Amelia’s directness; as vast as the rich plates strewn across the cloth-of-gold tablecloth.  She was much the blushing bride, something that even in her youth, Kate had never been.  Nay, from the very beginning, she’d been the stronger of the pair; always, however discreetly at first, marshaling Henry, who was eager to be commandeered, passed from his mother’s clutches to his young bride’s – who was to prove, in time, a formidable opponent for the late and magnificent Margaret Grey.  ‘He is a Catholic, and he is inconceivably rich, my dear!’  Kate’s words rang out with a cry – her laughter incredulous.  ‘Never mind love, Amelia, we have our heads to think for.’  Reaching out to capture her daughter’s cheek in her palm, Kate’s head canted, her eyes welling with maternal compassion.  ‘You must know that all that I do, has been to protect you and your sisters.  It is true that my widowhood has been a long one, but not unhappy; I could have lived out my years as a Dowager, but Fate has seen to deliver me of a fair and true husband, who I believe cares much for this family.  I would not have gambled your life – nor mine – for something as fickle as a heart.  Do you understand, what this means for our family?  Our connections are limitless… we have never reached higher. Please, rejoice for me; I cannot bear to see you cross.’

[katharined]

DEADLY INHERITANCE: THE REMARKABLE LIVES OF THE WOMEN OF HOUSE OF GREY by DR. DIANA WALES, author of WILLIAM REX, coming AUTUMN 2024.

[edmcndd]

the lack of noise in the halls of chelsea place felt near suffocating to edmund, staring at the faded canopy above his bed, it'd been kind of the staff to place him in this room, but he found himself morbidly wondering what daughter may have claimed it before his stay - or perhaps, the late lord had once laid in this same spot. maybe he too had wondered about his marriage to katharine, of the impending future that seemed vastly uncertain - his mind drifted towards if the other man had also had a love he left behind to marry such a woman. the thought disgusted him and edmund found himself rising from the bed, not bothering to grab a covering before he took to the halls. in their banishment, no guests had rode with them to chelsea place so he knew it to be empty this late in the evening, the servants long gone to their own to rest for the evening. the stones were cold against the bottom of his feet, yet edmund allowed them to carry them towards the chambers that katharine had informed him of previously when they had first arrived. 

soon enough, edmund pushed the creaky door open, his shadow blocking out near all the light from the corridor behind him. for a moment, he paused, flushing uncharastically at the sight of katharine without a thousand layers and delicately pinned back hair. she was still beautiful, perhaps more so, with her curls curtaining her face, the cold bringing a rosiness to her cheeks that many a maiden tried to echo in the halls of hampton with rouge. after a beat of uncomfortable silence, edmund cleared his throat and nodded swiftly. " yes, it is chilling," he agreed, moving towards the fireplace to fumble with it, calling upon the tricks that his father had taught him - for the winters were harsh in northumberland, till it roared a bit more to life. " i shall attempt to fetch us more logs in the morning, certainly there's a lumberman who desires for a full coin purse for his family." with a sigh, edmund rose and faced her again, still acutely aware of the undress they both stood in. he supposed it was not unusual not that they were wed. " you ... look beautiful, katharine. i apologize that you are forced to succumb to such a cruel perch with me, this is ... far from the dream that i promised you." he said softly, a hand reaching up to brush a bit of hair from her cheek. 

[katharined]

Katharine’s falcon-gaze followed his movements closely, watching as he stalked across the space like a lion, exhausted from the hunt.  The Duchess (for still she clung to the higher-ranking of her titles, though she was now, by right, Countess Percy) was stupefied by his very presence, blinking furiously to ensure it was not merely a trick of a weary woman’s eyes.  Her late lord husband had seldom pierced the veil between his world and hers; they lived – and slept – in separate quarters, as custom dictated and an embittered union ensured, his sphere one of battling and politics, and hers an exclusively female one, womb-like, barred to the outside.  Wreathing her arms around her lithe middle, Katharine nodded, eyes still glued to his quiet creeping: the genius with which he roused the fire, so laughably similar to the heat he stoked in countless women’s bellies.  But how long had it been, wondered she, since a man had entered her chambers and kindled her own desire? Since a gentleman’s gaze had alighted on her undressed figure – standing slight, without her armour of velvet and robes of cloth-of-gold – and with her long, dark hair cascading like a brook over her shoulders.  Not since…  not since Henry had relinquished all hope for a son and ergo, vanished from her bed; theirs had become a partnership in his later years, all semblances of a true marriage, as God intended it to be, evaporating.   No passion; no lust; and certainly no great love.

Fingering the gilded embroidery woven in the collars of her linen shift, the Duchess glanced to the window, to the wizened branches scratching at the wintry-misted encasement.  ‘I am surprised to receive you, my lord, at this hour.’  Katharine tightened her lips.  ‘But not displeased.’  It was, after all, now his conjugal right to command her; men, Kings in fact, could dissolve unions such as theirs if their wives did not prove biddable and buxom in the bedroom.  Tilting her head to glance at Ned, near enough that she could smell the cinnamon on his teeth, watch as the flicker of the hearth illuminated the groves of his face – those blue, bluer than blue, eyes; his sharp, angular brow bone, belying the boyishness of his gaze, of his lips, the wolfish slant to his grin; those teeth, white squares glinting in the low-light, cutting across her flesh, housing a tongue that so exquisitely... Katharine paused, filling her lungs with a gulp of incense-infused air.

‘Certainly it is not what you hoped for, either,’ Katharine scoffed, reaching for him, clutching the sleeve of his robe with steady hands, eyes imploring.  ‘But I am content to make the best of it, my lord.  I would not… I would not desire to annul it, if that is what you’ve come to bid of me.’  Breath husked, whistled, betwixt her teeth as he touched her cheek; his fingers molten-hot against the coolness of her flesh, as icy and smooth as a marble bust, dredged up from the ruins of Alexandria.  ‘I only ask that if God has moved your mind, my lord, that you would think of my honour and resolve to remain by my side.  For better or for worse… I believe we might be stronger together than we are apart – like the woven vines on our great houses.  If we survive the night, that is. This chill might be the death of us yet.’

[ladymegwelles]

& @katharined

Save the dowager queen, there were very few members of court left who could claim to have known either of Meg's parents. The passage of time had been kind to some, blessing them with marriages and children that took them far from court, while others suffered fates similar to that of the Welleses. Still, there was one woman, particularly fond of the French herself, whose presence Meg would always welcome.

Katharine Brandon's life had taken many a twist and turn, both due to the circumstances of her parents' marriage and the blood that she and her children carried as a result; while Meg could not relate to the idea of strife between multiple branches of a family tree, she had certainly heard and seen enough of it living under the Tudors' and Boleyns' roofs. In any case, in spite of the tensions between cousins, Meg had always like Kate Brandon, a formidable woman who carried herself as though she were a reigning monarch herself, as her mother and aunt and uncle were, and cousins now were as well.

Meg had decided to call on the dowager duchess once things at court had settle,. after all of the travelers returned. With the Spanish alliance all but secured and rumors of Edward Seymour snuffed out, Meg hoped that peace would continue to cling to England's shores. "Lady Suffolk, I hope I do not disturb you. It has been some time since we spoke, and I wished to see how you fare."

[katharined]

It would come as a surprise to some that Katharine’s mother Mary, whose famous beauty rivaled the fairest flowers of Eden, had only ever been Queen of France for a few short months.  Until her death styling herself as the Queen, and often refusing to deign to use the English tongue, one would eagerly presume that Mary and her daughter were Frenchwomen born; blessed with all the elegance, hauteur, and rapier-sharp wit splendidly borne by the mademoiselles of King Francis’s court.  Her mother’s continued favour in the land had worked in Katharine’s, yielding allies and connections across the continent that continued to bathe the Brandons with goodwill, promising – should the Tudors’ wrath ever befall her daughters – to provide Katharine with asylum.  Keen, at least ostensibly, to avoid wading in her cousins’ filthy political quagmires, the Dowager sought from her French kinswomen only the latest reports in Parisian fashions, and, of course, the occasional assurance of their fine health; but she never forgot their pledge of support, should Fortune's wheel ever crash and burn around them.

Marguerite Welles’ presence served to remind Kate of the frequent voyages she’d taken to her mother’s former dominion, brief trips of political communing embarked upon under the guise of pleasure and globe-trotting.  For reasons unknown to the Duchess, the King’s ward styled herself as ‘Meg,’ as though she were a squire’s daughter and not the relative of a peer, and arrayed herself in the English style, with her Princess’ preferred white-coifs and modest, jewel-spangling décolletages.  Still, Katharine received Marguerite warmly, lifting to her feet as the girl entered – pausing, to allow Meg to curtsy, before speaking.  ‘Mistress Welles.  You are never a disturbance, not to me.  And your timing is opportune – I’ve just received word from my dear Lady de Clare in Paris.’  Speaking in sugared French, Kate effused, ‘tell me everything – how do you fare at court?  How does the Princess and Queen?  I regret I am so seldom in their highness’ company of late, with my eldest recently wed…  you must fill in the gaps for me – leave no stone unturned! Wine, ale? I brought with me from Calais a fine brandy, too. Whatever might loosen your tongue to the gossip of court, you shall have, my dear.’

[unconqucred]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. featuring @edmcndd, @truedevotions, @katharined, @boleynsrex. | inspired by the family tree series by cesareeborgia not pictured: (daughters of isobel and william) elizabeth, princess of england; helena, princess of england; grace, princess of england.

[katharined]

@edmcndd

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

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

But as the door creaked ajar, and Ned’s lofty, broad-shouldered figure shadowed the threshold, Kate immediately stood ; regaining the posture, aplomb, and steeliness for which the Duchess was lauded.  ‘Oh.’  Freeing her face of the chestnut-ringlets stuck to her cheeks, the Earl’s winter-bride remarked, ‘couldn’t sleep?  ‘Tis frightfully cold for November… one must wonder what horrors the deep-winter will bring.’

[philippaed]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡    . . .    katharine    grey    (    @katharined    )    𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞    . . .    hampton    court    .

the  news  of  a  resurrected  edward  seymour  did  not  fill  her  with  an  immense  hope  as  some  might  have  speculated  but  rather  with  a  dread  that  had  thickened  by  the  hour,  as  cloying  as  honey  left  outside  to  attract  flies  until  the  churning  within  her  had  forced  the  duchess  of  suffolk  to  empty  out  the  contents  of  her  stomach,  sending  the  household  servants  away  with  express  orders  to  inform  her  mother  of  the  sudden  malady  that  had  stricken  her  to  points  of  weakness.  the  back  of  her  throat  was  sore  from  the  bout  of  sickness  but  philippa  could  not  allow  that  to  hinder  her  purposeful  actions,  the  sharpened  tip  of  her  quill  scratching  out  a  letter  to  the  head  of  their  households  in  chelsea  and  bradgate  to  inform  them  of  the  news  and  of  what  to  expect  should  the  clandestine  marriage  between  amelia  and  john  seymour  come  to  light  at  such  an  inopportune  moment.  her  fingers  trembled  with  the  intensity  in  which  she  held  the  quill,  the  feathered  stylus  splintered  between  her  grasp  as  the  door  to  her  private  chambers  parted  to  usher  the  formidable  katharine  grey  into  her  sanctuary.  casting  the  quill  aside,  she  rested  one  hand  upon  the  bodiced  span  of  her  stomach  as  she  paced  before  the  window,  burnt - gold  locks  entangled  from  where  she  had  torn  the  headdress  from  her  cranium  ─  the  sharp  burn  of  tears  prickled  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  breathing  growing  erratic  before  the  one  person  she  trusted  with  her  life,  her  truths,  both  beautiful  and  monstrous.

❝  if  they  find  out  about  amelia  and  john  ...  ❞  her  voice  cracked  with  emotion  as  she  turned  from  the  window  to  gaze  imploringly,  hopelessly  at  the  older  woman,  no  better  than  a  babe  before  her  mother.  ❝  they  will  think  we  conspire  with  the  medici  and  that  ...  that  man  who  calls  himself  edward  seymour.  they  will  think  i  conspire  with  the  medici  ...  what  will  ...  ❞  a  stuttered  breath  caught  in  her  throat,  philippa  pounded  a  fist  against  her  stomach,  inflicting  self - punishment  as  a  reminder  to  keep  it  together.  she  could  strangle  her  sister  for  what  she  had  done  in  the  name  of  love,  burdening  the  duchess  with  two  more  innocents  to  care  for  ─  one,  a  soft - spined  man  and  the  other  a  babe,  twelve  months  old.  (  in  a  moment  of  insanity,  she  wondered  if  the  king  might  be  moved  to  mercy  if  she  betrayed  her  sister  now,  before  the  lie  was  unveiled  against  their  wishes.  her  mother  would  never  forgive  her  but  it  was  better  to  be  hated  by  the  living  than  loved  by  the  dead.  )

a  hand  travelled  to  press  tightly  against  her  mouth,  smothering  the  pained  whimpers  at  such  heinous  thoughts.  ❝  they  will  kill  us.  you  and  nicholas  ...  amelia  and  jack  ...  god,  they  will  kill  us  if  they  find  out,  mother.  ❞  the  recent  executions  came  to  mind,  the  bloody  spray  of  warm  crimson  against  the  fullness  of  her  skirts  as  the  hallowes'  were  relieved  of  their  treasonous  heads,  only  now,  in  their  place,  stood  her  family,  her  darling  husband  who  was  undeserving  of  the  instability  that  she  brought  into  his  life  by  mere  existence.  ❝  what  do  i  do  ?  what  do  i  do  ?  tell  me  what  to  do,  mama.  ❞

[katharined]

Sweet Jesus, could it be Edward?  Katharine’s daughters had been saplings when the boy was born, the Grey household aflutter with nurses and schoolteachers and merry little feet slapping down the corridors of Bradgate when the King’s lover – Jane, fashionably plump and fair of flesh, her round face studded with blue eyes that bespoke a certain indolence – was brought to bed at Hampton Court and delivered of the son Henry’s first Queen had prayed all her many years for.  Kate’s gaze had crossed him, Edward, once or twice, splendid in his Spanish christening robes, before circumstance had snatched him away, vanished into thin air.  She, like everyone else, presumed that the boy had died in the plague-sodden marshes of Wales – for who could know for certain if he yet lived?  Who then cared for the fate of a bastard boy? It had been more than a decade since anyone had spoken the Seymours’ name at court; and those who remembered the boy’s birth belonged to a generation that was dead or loyal to the Boleyns.  There was no one, she found, left to turn to; no one to corroborate the rumours that Edward Seymour had survived; there were only ghosts, sweeping in and out of the Suffolk’s plaintively quiet apartments, scratching at the window panes and snuffing out the candles.  It was both a blessing and a curse, Kate thought, to have survived at all.

Fortune’s wheel had lifted the Seymours and many other noble clans to the acme of the land, high upon its crest, and thereafter plunged them to its depths – as it might soon turn and spin and descend upon Katharine and her daughters...

But whatever privy perturbations the Dowager felt welling within her breast, peaking into a tidal, she refused to reveal her distress upon her sleeve in the presence of her daughters.  She strode with quiet, serene steps into the new Duchess’ chamber, shrewdly assessing the disquieted arrangement of Philippa’s countenance, haloed by glowing gold tendrils.  Attempting to placate her, Katharine said, ‘the King is our flesh and blood, the Queen of Spain our trusted kinswoman.  He would not… he could not…’  Yet her voice faltered, curling hoarsely at the edge; she, with Plantagenet blood amok in her veins, knew better than any at court that their royal descent granted them no comfort, and indeed no quarter, in such perilous times.  Still, the King was not his father – and could yet be moved to compassion, to clemency.  Failing that, there would be supporters of their family and faith abroad, in France or in Ireland, to whom they could abscond and rely upon for generosity; ancient houses and religious sanctuaries where they could wait in the wings thereof, until a militia could be mustered and the King of Spain could be persuaded to–oh, God above, she had grown weary of the Tudors and their reign of terror, forever forcing her to think of where next to turn!

‘The King and his council are a feeble crew, Philippa.  And think, my dear daughter,’  Katharine urged, moving to Philippa’s side and gathering her hands, ‘Amelia has a son.  You are married, and doubtlessly to be blessed with a bevy of children. The King has more reason to fear us than we do him.  If word leaked… we would have no choice but to take our place in the sun and you, darling girl, as our rightful Queen.’  Katharine’s voice descended to a murmur.  She’d never spoken such words aloud, but felt a sudden fearlessness in the presence of her trembling daughter.  ‘I have given you my blood.  I give you my fealty.  My life, if necessary.  Believe you me that nothing in this world could bring harm unto a single curl on your head.’  Bringing her lips to Philippa’s forehead, she drew her daughter into her thin arms, uttering the words that never failed to bring comfort to her girls:  ‘I formed you from scratch – no war, no earthly fear could tear you from my body.’   As she whispered comforting mumbles against her daughter's scalp, the wheels began to turn and flicker within the Dowager's mind – if it was protection the Greys needed, how long could Kate idle by without a powerful husband by her side?

[deviika]

Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

[johnseymour]

@katharined , katharine's receiving room , hampton court

Given all that had occurred of late, John was nothing short of reticent to spend more time than necessary near the Greys. The rumours of his cousin's re-emergence, it was said, had proved false, and yet he still remained vigilant of the scrutiny he would face. Nonetheless, when Katharine Brandon asked him to speak to her, he knew well that he must obey. Since he had married Amelia, she had become part of the closest thing he had to family, and he believed firmly, now more than ever, in trying to maintain good relations with the family.

"There is a matter on which I would like your advice," he told her, glancing up from their card game and pausing a moment. "I have received a letter from abroad. And I hoped you might know the course of action I must take with it. Tempted though I am to burn it, I would value your thoughts before doing so."

[katharined]

It was not dislike Katharine felt toward John, nay; the sentiment that burned in her breast at mention of his name – a name that betokened treason and disfavor – was complex in the extreme, a Byzantine mosaic forged of a thousand little shards of amethyst and emerald.  He’d run roughshod over the King’s sovereignty by taking her daughter as a bride, but in nearly other aspect had proven himself an amenable, honourable subject, and to Katharine an ever-loving son-in-law.  Where his marriage was concerned, though some might whisper such a match was doomed, for love matches were not the natural order, the affection he so clearly bore Amelia had delighted Katharine.  So it was with this odd alchemy of feeling that the Dowager received Hertford, pleased that, at the very least, he possessed a fine title to his name; one fit for a grandson of her royal blood to inherit.

 John Seymour played his cards well – his pasty face, rounded with a healthy padding of baby-fat, blatantly refusing to reveal the royal flushes stashed in his sleeves – but where her son-in-law might be naturally gifted, Katharine could boast of experience.  And experience would win out, every time.  Hesitating to place another card on the board, Katharine’s almond-gaze flickered to John, his tow-head brandished gold in the firelight.  ‘My counsel you shall always have, Hertford.  You have come a long way, I see – a year ago you would have already been marching down the aisle with said letter, with or without my privy.’  The Dowager smirked, teasing John as she laid another card, its glossy face sliding against the table.  ‘Pray tell, who from?  Let us hope it offers some coveted position in the French court; the King and his mother have greatly agitated me of late…’

[catherinesboleyn]

Jessica Raine as Katherine Parr

Becoming Elizabeth 1.03 (2022)

[katharined]

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍, 𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑 / 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀.

written by: di & sunny featuring: edmund percy, katharine brandon, and john seymour (a captive witness).

Though it was strangely out of Katharine Brandon’s character to inch a toe outside of formality, one could argue it was woven in her very blood to marry thus: in secret, without one’s sovereign blessing the union, and with only the ancient chapel walls, the man beside her, and the milky-eyed priest before them soaking up the soft-utterance of her vows. It had been her mother’s fate, and before her, a great-grandmother’s – Elizabeth Woodville.  

What, then, could stop a woman whose bones were borne from indiscretion and treachery from taking matrimonial fate into her own hands?

The journey had taken little more than a day, with their swift-footed and silver-tongued excuse from court proving far more arduous than the trip itself.  The dense, leafy forests of England shaded their breakneck pilgrimage toward the North, where the Old Faith flourished still, where the trees had withered hoar-white with frost, berries and saplings dripping with crystalline icicles: a daunting harbinger of winter’s premature arrival. 

As morning broke across England, the air crisp and pine-scented, Katharine breathed in the sight of the stone chapel, slumping into the near-frozen ground, and carefully slipped her hand into Edmund’s as she alighted from her snow-white gelding.

Some might argue that Edmund attempting to undermine his own father’s hand by marrying in secret was in line with the reputation of a Howard, for he carried the same blood as his mother and grandfather. Destined to concoct dangerous plans to raise himself and those around him to higher status, for it had been whispered to him since birth that he was meant for grandeur, even if at times it felt a curse to be borne a son to a mother who wanted a daughter to make queen.

Every movement previously made had been designed by others in Edmund’s life, calculated so that he may play puppet in hands under the guise of love, only to be freed by the nature of genuine love. The affection born between him and Richard granted him the ability to desire for a life that allowed them to love freer, or the brotherly bond that was bred with William – one that afforded him an unseen position in life, a fresh path.

And now, Katherine, who listened to Edmund’s heartfelt request, an indecent sort of proposal, had given him her faith and trust. 

The cold was harsh, seeping through the layers of clothing that he had donned this morning, shades of deep, romantic violet that he’d chosen in hopes of impressing his companion. Edmund’s hand helped her down from the horse, eyes sweeping over the quaint stone chapel, a far cry from anything he foresaw himself marrying in before. Yet, ever a romantic, he could see the tendrils wrapping around of the tale he’d weave when it came time to inform others. Ill-fated lovers, meant to never be together unless they took fortune into their own two hands. He prayed Richard may forgive him for this treason against his own heart, and for God to protect them from the wrath it would surely draw from the rest of the court. 

Head turned once more to her, words stolen by the appearance of John Seymour, a man that a few weeks ago he thought little of, till Katherine had informed him that she trusted him enough to bear witness to their union – even if Edmund felt repugnant still at the prospect of owing the man anything. With her hand safely ensnared in Edmund’s larger one, Katharine’s eyes too snapped to the sound of snow crushing beneath hooves, the violent bursts of ivory air blowing out of a stallion’s nose. Her chill-purpled lips formed into a perfect ‘o.’ 

Jack, her son-in-law, had come; he would bear witness to their union, giving it weight in the eyes of both God and man; his debt to her repaid. The picture of grace, the Duchess extended a silent smile in thanks, releasing her velvet cloak and allowing the chestnut river of brown hair to cascade down her snow-fluttered gown.

With a softer grin directed at Katharine, Edmund then motioned with his head for them to proceed onward into the chapel, where inside waited the priest that he’d sent for. An old, slowly decaying man, with bony hands and eyes that barely recognized the pair before him. A devout man of the Catholic faith, who survived the Henrician rule and would likely survive the rule of his son as well, sworn to allow no slip of his tongue about the traitorous proceedings that would carry out today. Edmund could not help but admire the beauty that Katherine exuded beside him, the strength with which she carried herself, finding no tremble in her frame as they faced the treacherous future that would soon await them. 

But where Edmund may have been treading into uncharted, shark-infested waters, the Duchess found herself in far more familiar territory. She had been married already once prior, and had primed her eldest daughter, Phillipa, extensively in her path to the altar, familiar with each trick of etiquette and ceremonial custom that was to follow. Still, she blinked with caution before the atavistic priest, whose blinded eyes leered back at her drippingly, before bequeathing to him a small pouch ringing with precious coins – the only indication that the couple standing before him hailed from noble stock – waiting for another gummy smile to pink across the his cheeks before proceeding. 

‘Shall we?’  Kate murmured to Ned, her voice uncommonly soft as she peeled off her leather gloves and exposed her rosy fingertips to the air. For the first time in nearly two decades, her ring finger was unencumbered by Henry Grey’s opal-studded heirloom, with only a bleached circle around the knuckle left in its wake; she’d buried it in the frozen grounds they’d flown through en route to the chapel, Ned and Kate, neck-and-neck.

The Duchess’ ringless hands sought warmth in the soft velvet of her cloak as she moved to stand facing her betrothed, and the priest began to hum the holy ordinances of matrimony to which Katharine had once pledged herself unto for all eternity, her mind reciting the vows she would soon once more utter. Catching a sliver of white out of the tail of her gaze, she instinctively bent forth to brush her fingers across Edmund’s chest, pressing the dusting of snow scattered across the sapphire-fabric of his doublet into nothingness, a moist stain, pursing her mouth into a tight-lipped smile.  

It wouldn’t be Ned Percy if he didn’t arrive at his own nuptials in disarray, after all.  

A whiff of fond affection struck Edmund at the simple motion, a faint yet genuine smile that overtook his features as he regarded her with a chin tilted downward, focus pulled entirely from the priest as he spoke to them. The Earl found himself barely listening to the lengthy words that spilled from the old man, thoughts drawn to Katharine and her alone, wondering if in another life what words he may have gifted to her on their wedding day so that she felt cherished. Would he wax poetic about the curve of her lips, the sharp edges of her smile, or the siren call of her voice when it wrapped around his name? Certainly not, for all physical compliments paled in comparison to the woman that stood before now, they were shallow, hollow phrases that would fail to encompass every piece of Katharine that Edmund had grown to admire. 

To not acknowledge her strength, the steady line of her shoulders against the constant storm that waged against her since girlhood, witty eyes that had raised a flock of headstrong daughters that bowed to no man in this life or the next; it was a cardinal sin to look at all that Katharine Brandon was and name her merely beautiful. 

Enraptured by thought, there was a lull from the priest, his tow-head turned to look at Edmund as if he was waiting for his acknowledgement. He nodded his head quickly, pulling his eyes from Katharine to do so, before that cerulean gaze returned to her face once more as they prepared to repeat the words that the man spoke. Edmund prayed that the lord did not allow his tongue to falter as he pledged a life to her in this chapel. 

“I, Edmund, take thee to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, and thereto I plight thee my troth.” 

His words rang out steady, confident, the words heavy with the weight of the truth within them; piercing eyes that bore into her, a silent vow hidden within that he would provide for her what others had been unable to. The silent pledge of a devotion that rang beyond a simple love affair.

Katharine’s chest untightened as she released a long-withheld breath – the dazed, unconcerned look in Edmund’s eyes vanishing as he announced his vows, a sigh of relief rattling out from her lungs. Sharing a discreet, sidelong glance with John, the Duchess gave a curt nod, with aplomb reciting her own oath.  “I take thee, Edmund, to my wedded husband,” Katharine uttered, followed by the same vow as the Earl’s and the time-honoured promise to – ‘be bonny and buxom in bed and board’ – though her lips curled around the phrase with certain animosity.  “Till death do us part.” 

Her son-in-law, John, shuffled eagerly forth to provide the rings, which Katharine firstly allowed Edmund to slip onto her finger, eyes feasting over the pair of gilded bands admiringly, entwined with sprigs of ivy splashed with roses. She then gingerly retrieved her husband’s ring and slid it onto his digit, her hands folding over his, thick gold bands clinking merrily to their union. “I did not have time to have it engraved.” She found her words convulsing with laughter – nervous, pitchy twittering – recognizing what was yet to come for the new couple; not merely the joining of their body, flesh and soul, but the fallout that was certainly to ensue at court.

Katharine prayed it was not their very necks that would suffer their folly – nor her daughters. “Perhaps next year.”

She then cut her eyes across his, the corners of her lips creasing as she clutched fast to the sleeve of Edmund’s jacket, the trembling of her fingers pulsing through the snow-lined wool.  It was well done, now. In the eyes of God, and John Seymour, Lord Hertford, in this frozen little chapel, they were married. “Husband Edmund.  Father Ralph.  Our good and dear son, John.  What say we take our breakfast at the inn, now?  I believe we have a marriage to drink to.” 

And as her smile met his – this time genuine, as untarnished as the bands that graced their fingers – Katharine felt a trickle of happiness warm her royal blood.

Fin.

[katharined]

[katharined]

𝐙𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒.

[katharined]

bloody days muses + taylor swift lyrics

the grey gooses as sad, beautiful, tragic.

[katharined]

KATHARINE GREY – wikipedia (tw miscarriage; tw conjecture).

[katharined]

Encoded letter written by the hand of Katharine, Duchess of Suffolk, found beneath the floorboards at Hampton Court Palace as part of the 2018 Excavation Project; alleged to have been deliberately hidden there in 1559, following Queen Mary Tudor's arrival to Hampton Court in November of the same year. Transcription follows below.

Dearest Cousin Mary,

I extendeth to Your Majesty mine own warmest greetings and doth sorely desire this letter to find thee in valorous health, sending mine own heartiest commendations tho' I remaineth desirous to knoweth how thy health fares as thee crosseth our wind-toss'd channel. For mine own parteth, I eagerly await thy arrival in London, where I and thy goddaughter, mine own lady the Duchess of Suffolk, has't a mind fully bent to greeteth thee in the greatest of sisterly accord. These past weeks God has't blessed us by the presence of a smattering of thy entourage, whose tongue and piety remindeth me of the most wondrous mistress, thy lady moth'r, whom in this life I wast hath called to serve, and whose casket I proudly hath walked behind as chief mourner of the realm. Far as truly I knoweth God is God, I surrender mine own fealty to thee, cousin, and prayeth over thee to liveth a longeth and healthy life. Hasten to visiteth us at Chelsea, I begeth, so yond we may converse without the eyes and ears of thy brother's court glu'd upon us. By what means I knoweth not, except the air at Chelsea is better and more conducive to thy majesty's health and safekeeping than in other palaces. 

By her that is yours to serve, Katharine Duchess of Suffolk

[MODERN TRANSCRIPTION] I extend to Your Majesty my warmest greetings and do sorely hope this letter finds you in good health, sending my heartiest well-wishes I remain desirous to know how your health fares as you cross our wind-tossed channel. For my part, I eagerly await your arrival in London, where I and your goddaughter, my lady the Duchess of Suffolk, have a mind fully bent to greet you in the greatest of sisterly affection. These past weeks we have been blessed by the presence of a smattering of your entourage, whose tongue and piety remind me of the great lady, Your Mother, whom in this life I was called to serve, and whose casket I proudly walked behind as chief mourner of the Realm. For as truly I know God is God, I surrender my fealty to you, cousin, and pray over you to live long and healthy life. Hasten to visit us at Chelsea, I beg, so that we may converse without the eyes and ears of your brother's court glued upon us. Though I do not know how you will do so, I know that the clean airs of Chelsea Place are better and safer for Your Majesty's health than other palaces.

@lareinamaria