the grass is emerald underfoot. radiant verdure seems to spread ever on and on and on, hills sheltered beneath ancient trees and skies of brilliant cerulean gilded by the nimbus of the sun. a tiny girl loves the feeling of the grass beneath her tiny toes. surrounded by friends and siblings, she laughs in the fresh air, dances with the fairies at night, and weaves flowers into her hair. she never imagines her idyllic existence might ever change.
C HAPTER T WO
education chases her across the stormy chanel, tossed amidst the raging waters into the arms of an enemy she was raised to fear. french manners suit her, french fashions and tastes and words. here she trades pastures for palaces and flowers for gemstones. she learns etiquette, languages, comportment; she learns resourcefulness and how to suffer with grace a broken heart. she trades the name margaret for marguerite; meg for margot; and de mowbray for tranceléon. she learns to be whatever she must be. she learns to laugh in the face of adversity.
C HAPTER T HREE
home is no longer home and, once there, she finds she is as much a stranger here as she was there. no longer belonging anywhere, she belongs only to herself. she learns this is a kind of freedom and she learns that everywhere she has gone, it has been to the sound of laughter and the rhythm of dancing. now is her chance to embrace whatever she most desires. she chooses joy.
after a strict case of seriousness had hit the family he had been born into, it was pleasant to come across the merriment of margot — a woman who seemed well-travelled, intelligent and humorous all in one same sweep. harry was lucky, if he and alex ever stopped with their charades perhaps he’d have more time to wonder at what life had given him as a prince of wales and heir to the throne. yet it was no surprise to richard, who had watched his older siblings grow into fully-formed adults, that luxuries were left unspoken off.
though they continued the dance around one another richard had been left feeling the solitude that came with the news of his newborn son; a child he may never meet if he was to be held within the orange city — he was isolated, closed off, his eyes set behind a glaze that reflected upon his dwindling mood. he selfishly thought, that perhaps, margot would incite some cheer within him — to spoke a fire burning out after being unaccompanied for too long. back within england’s stone halls, she had always made him laugh — a joy not lost on the bastard.
“i believe if you felt such happiness you would’ve sought me out yourself, my lady.. or perhaps you were too nervous to come to see me, for we all know how you enjoy my company,” he teased, words empty yet full of jest as he pushes his tongue into his inner cheek, the wet flesh a comfort to the cold that whipped around his ankles — his skin barely covered by thin hose.
his thoughts were yet to solidify on the news of his son back in england, and so even with the talk of children, he does not pause to consider the breathing babe who, unknowing to him, was being paraded around the halls of somerset as a king’s grandson. instead he only blinks and allows a small, chaste smile to surface on his lips. “i’m sure the journey was tiresome for such young feet, but when they awake i’m sure they’ll get the most out of florence and it’s eternal glow…” not mentioning the fact that the children may have been his own nieces, though the glow behind his dull eyes may have hinted towards a certain warmth he held for a family he couldn’t quite understand.
harry would’ve surely soured at the idea of richard taking his mistress around florence as a suitor may do, but richard never prepped his mind to think, and instead he offered margot his arm - a nod of his head signalling his comfort within her presence. “come with me, there are sights aplenty and if you do not resist it, i’d rather we take a trip to the river and outskirts that boast countryside so different to english fields…?”
A certain sadness seemed to lurk behind the young man’s eyes as Margot gazed at him, and her smile turned half-sympathetic as she turned over in her mind a resolution to cheer him up. She knew well enough, herself, that both travel and the entrance into this world of a new child could be sources of great joy, yes, but also of great stress and it seemed to her that an hour or two spent otherwise occupied might well do the young Fitzroy good.
“Well, well,” she teased, folding her arm into his proffered one. “I do believe I have earned this chastisement for my fickleness. Yet, now that it has come with the promise of lavished attention, I confess I can find little cause to regret my tardiness.” She laughed. “You know I do love attention. And,” she added, continuing to josh him. “As to your other charge, we must recall I am as yet still lately a widow and must not make too great a show of my true affections or risk shocking the world even more than I already have. In light of this, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Margot chuckled. “I believe your words have about them the ring of prophecy, my friend. I am informed by greater minds than my own that boys are an even greater handful than girls, yet I can hardly imagine anything more rambunctious than my daughters are, already. I find I must pity Her Majesty the Queen your mother, juggling two little boys of her own and Harry in her spare moments. I can hardly fathom how she functioned at all.”
Margot had nothing but respect for Queen Isabel who was, in many ways, not unlike her at least insofar as she was a passionate woman who had had the great misfortune of loosing her heart to a Plantagenet prince - a grave mistake for anyone, Margot was always sure to add with a spark of teasing native to her. Yet, Isabel was not to her merely the Queen she served as lady-in-waiting, or one who had endured a similar trajectory at one time, she was also someone Margot looked to as a true friend, even given how complex matters so often were in the English court.
A smile lit Margot’s face and she inclined. “I do not resist,” she replied. “In fact, hearing such a description of it, I must now insist you take me there. I love everything free and unusual, and this sounds like it must certainly be that.”
Crara might have been one to champion love and its sacredness, but she would not stand idly before the unholy fornication between her nephew and his mistress. What disgrace it had brought upon her nephew’s reputation! If Queen Lianor had lived to witness such sinful acts from her son, her heart would have been broken to pieces. Crara did not have the power to put a halt to Edward’s affair with Isabel while he was wedded to Lianor. But Crara was Harry’s and Alexandrina’s aunt. She would die before she let history repeat itself on the English throne. If anything, Margot was simply another Isabel in the eyes of the Portuguese court.
As a woman, Crara was sure Margot was not spared the woes of womanhood. And Crara empathized with the younger woman in regards of whom they fell in love with. Falling in love with important men, especially heirs to the thrones, meant a loss of autonomy and privacy. One’s body became a matter of the states. Crara should have been the first one to lend Margot a helping hand. Yet, fate had determined that the two shall not be friends. Margot stood in the way of Crara’s mission to restore her Aragon family to their home.
“Truthfully, I miss Lisbon’s sea, especially now that it is winter time. Most people prefer the sun and the blue waves crashing ashore. But I do enjoy a bit of greyness of winter when it finally dawns on Portugal.” Crara spoke diplomatically. The smile grew smaller by the second until there remained nothing but a straight line on her lips.
“Now, to the main business, shall we?” Crara waited not for anyone. The Queen knew the Countess Dowager was smart enough to figure out the true intention of her invitation. Only a fool would believe in the rosy outcome of this meeting. “I am sure you’d understand my concerns over the matter of your relationship with my nephew, no? As a devout Catholic, I cannot help but shudder at such a relation for the last time I was informed, Harry has not asked for your hand in marriage.”
A wistful smile visited Margot’s thoughts as, carefully, she pictured the scene Crara described: foaming seas lashing against solid rock beneath a slate sky. If fate had wound itself only a little different and an English princess had wed a Portuguese prince, such might have been Harry’s home, rather than England, but whether his mother were English or Portuguese; whether his father were Portuguese or English, he had been born to be a king, and that was the gulf which would always sunder them.
“That sounds like paradise,” replied Margot, eyes sparkling as she pictured it. “But, then, I suppose it is the lot of an islander, such as myself, to love the sea, even in its rages.” She laughed, softly, her mind rushing back to Harry and tilting her head. Or, perhaps, she thought. It is a condition of my obstinate heart. She had always craved excitement.
Margot’s own smile faded, however, as she watched the Queen’s lips draw into a firm line. Severity was, she could see well and good, the harbinger of unpleasantness and Margot steeled herself for what was to come. She sucked in a trepidatious breath, wondering what manner of bad news was to come, yet astonishment still curled around her throat as she heard the Queen’s words. She’d not known what to expect, but certainly this had not been it, at all. She’d heard of wives attempting to dismiss their husband’s mistresses, but rarely an aunt chastising a nephew’s. A perverse sort of amusement bubbled up, threatening laughter at the thought and Margot arched a her brows as humor fanned her wounded pride and anger wreathed her heart.
She welcomed the humor - the familiar reflex of her stung pride - and, raising her chin, allowed a bemused grin to light her features. Despite everything, she had to respect the Queen’s openess and did not insult her intelligence by dancing around the subject, herself. Margot had always been fond of frankness and she was not ashamed - as she was often told she ought to be - of her relationship with Harry. Still, the insult stung and stubbornness - her constant companion - lodged in her heart. Carried away as she was, Margot nearly made a lewd joke regarding her hand, but recalling herself at the last moment (this was a queen after all), swallowed the comment and decided to give voice to her other thoughts, instead.
“No, indeed, Your Majesty. I think my late husband would have found such an arrangement most unusual,” she quipped, instead. She tilted her head, allowing her mood to slip into a more serious mindset, anger slipping away in the face of utter honesty. “Do not mistake me, Your Majesty, your loving concern for the state of His Royal Highness’s soul is most touching, but it is also, perhaps, misplaced. As no doubt Your Majesty is well aware, the Prince does only as all men must in desire of good health, and this being so, is it not less sinful to keep primarily to one woman in the midst of such pursuits?
“I shall be bold enough to say, as well, that I imagine Your Majesty has other hesitations in addition to your devout fears. Your Majesty may also have some concerns that, perhaps, His Highness will be less motivated to take a wife while carrying on with another, yet I may assure you, His Highness strays even from my bed, and I am not a woman easily forgotten. There is, I may assure you, more than enough room in his life for both wife and lovers of...other varieties. His interest in wedding a princess is quite genuine, as well, and, further, it is my wish, also, that he wed, so you need not fear interference from me on the subject.”
The choice of a bride without a land, of course, was one that did give Margot some pause, but she wished him to marry, and well, to secure his position. For her part, Margot would be waiting for him, any time he found he still wanted her.
richard was lost in his own world when he reunited with the gentle margot, who had carried his half-brother’s children to term though neither would be so bold to admit such a statement. his eyes wander around her dress, taking in the delicateness of each stitch as his hands fidget behind him - his head lowered out of respect. “lady hastings,” a hint of a smile appearing on his face, stretched out into a grin that’d hint at something malicious or something filled with ill-intent. “it is a pleasure to see you here in florence, i feared you may have stayed in england… tell me, are your children with you?” one brow raised, he takes the few steps around her and goes to fetch a chalice of crimson wine to put to his lips; happily drinking to quench his thirst that came with another headache. ( closed starter for @margothastings )
A bright grin overtook Margot’s features as she spotted Richard and, impulsively, she raised both hands to take his. Though Margot had long been aware of Harry’s difficult relationship with his stepmother and half-siblings, his mistress did not feel the same antipathy towards them. In fact, her hopes were all for their sake, that their lives might take a sharp upturn at every corner - upturns that, she also prayed, may someday be reflected in the lives of her own children.
“My lord,” she replied with her usual exuberant manner. “I am so very pleased to see you here looking so happy and well. I declare there is nothing to match the feeling of meeting once more, those one knows well in a new clime.” Her previous knowledge of travel had been marked mostly by meetings with utter strangers, making this reunion to her appear a matter all the more novel.
Rumors of his own offspring had not failed to reach Margot’s ears and she wished to congratulate him, but also feared to injure him, if the matter were meant to be secret, so she tempered her own comments.
Her children. She did not even know where in the world her French firtborn was, just now...but she was also quite aware that it was not after Marcon but after his own nieces that Richard inquired. Margot’s smile turned bittersweet one quick breath, its single note of sadness swallowed up once more beneath the usual bright smile. “I thought there should be no better opportunity than this to introduce the girls to the world, or the world to them,” she added. “But I left them at the palazzo to sleep. The journey has quite exhausted them both. Yet,” she added, brightly. “I can find little regret to these moments away. I have a desire to explore every possibility in Florence, which I’ve not a single intention of ignoring. Perhaps, Lord Richard, you might be my guide? Where does one begin, here?”
Margaret of House de Mowbray by birth and House of Hastings by marriage. A widow and mother of three children. Now also known as the Mistress of the Prince of Wales, Crara’s nephew. Knowing Harry would never willingly confess the affair to her, Crara had taken upon herself to meet this young widow and see it for her own eyes who it was that held Harry’s infatuation and who it was that shall rob her Alexandrina of a happy marriage with Harry. Cristiano’s reservation over the marriage prospect between Harry and Alexandrina also lied on the existence of a mistress in Harry’s life. The whole ordeal eerily reminded the Portuguese King and Queen of a repetition of history - now only with different names. Both Crara and Cristiano did not want to see another one of their own perishing on the cold and wet island called England once more.
Pretty was the first thing that came to Crara’s mind once the dowager countess entered the chambers. With that good family name, Margot could have gotten the Portuguese King and Queen’s blessing in her romance and maybe even in marriage to their nephew. Better than anyone, Cristiano and Crara knew the importance of having someone one loved by one’s side while one was ruling a kingdom. Had it not been for love, the two of them would have wrecked each other to pieces like many others had once the burden of the crown became unbearable. Crara herself wished fate would smile on Harry and Alexandrina like they did with her and Cristiano but it seemed like matters must be taken into her own hand then.
“Dowager Countess,” Crara acknowledged the other’s greeting with a kind smile. A genuine one for the woman’s only crime against her was her love for Harry. Extending an arm over to the opposite chair, Crara offered the woman a seat and refreshments. “Please do retire your feet and enjoy some beverages. I trust my men have been helpful in escorting you to meet me, no?”
Margot’s eyes drifted towards the seat at Crara’s direction and, with a grateful smile, she sank into it as instructed. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” replied Margot, facing Crara with her charming gleam. The Queen was all grace and majesty and Margot felt warm with rosy comfort, wondering in a distant sort of way whether Harry had not inherited his forthright qualities from the native infusion of Portuguese blood. His passions, certainly, he had from his father - though Margot was not about to say so to anyone.
For herself, Margot wondered if she were not more like Crara, of the two families. After all, both had been born the daughters of dukes, both great heiresses in their own right, both women of passion and certainty, both cast by love into the way of the crown. Margot was, of course, even more like Queen Isabel, given her current position, but that was another topic that it did not do to discuss directly.
She studied the queen with interest as she delicately sipped the proffered cup and decided to match Crara’s courtesies as such, allowing the Queen to direct the conversation as she so chose. After all, such a move seemed only proper: one did not rush queens. “Your Majesty, this wine is heavenly. Did you bring it with you all the way from Portugal, or is it a more local acquisition?” She paused, her smile softening almost to sadness, a sudden comprehending pang of remembered homesickness when, once, she’d believed she may never see England, again. “I pray you do not find your separation from your homeland too trying. As much of beauty and intrigue as there is to be had elsewhere, there is nothing capable of conquering the comfort of home when we have been long parted from it.”
Margot grinned as she heard the Queen’s question, her eyes glittering with affable humor. “I may assure you, Your Majesty, your men are of the most excellent understanding. They have proven to me as indispensable as Medea’s string was to Theseus in the very heart of the Labyrinth.”
Inhaling deeply, Margot steeled herself. She had, for some time, told herself of the many opportunities that awaited her in Florence, but now that she had arrived, she hardly knew how to proceed. Though she’d known Jean-Henri in France - and known his wife well - so much had changed and, perhaps more to the point, her own impressions of him had not been very positive. Over the time she’d known him, she’d watched war whittle away at him, little by little. Each individual day seemed to take its toll, each passing moment. She knew the wars were primarily to blame - they’d claimed too many lives, those both of the living and the dead.
Many years ago, she’d known a better young man, but she’d come, many years ago, to doubt he still existed anywhere within Jean-Henri’s frame. In France, long ago, she’d ceased to hope even to see any more of him than the hardened shell that remained. Nonetheless, today she found herself wishing against hope that she might be proven wrong. She needed his help.
Margot had prepared herself for the day with the usual care she always exhibited, dressed just to the appropriate level of her rank: neither trespassing upon the sartorial ranks of more lauded beings nor edging into statuses beneath her own. As always, Margot wished to appear in all ways precisely as she was.
Stepping out into the crowded streets, she made her way quickly and precisely to the palazzo where she knew she might find him and, sucking in a deep breath, prepared herself for what was to come. Moments later, she found herself inquiring with a bright smile after His Grace the Duke de Guise and promptly found herself ushered into the chambers in question to await the duke’s coming, her bright eyes glancing about her with eager interest. Dear Lord above, she prayed silent. Let him help me, let him help me and preserve my boy. Breathing in deeply, she prepared herself to wait.
april 29 - birth of margaret de mowbray, the first child of thomas, duke of norfolk and his second wife, elizabeth beaufort
1440
margaret is sent to receive a princely education abroad in burgundy but a storm blows her ship off-course
landing in france, margaret is delivered to the court of king ferrant of france as a valuable hostage and placed in the household of his wife the queen
1446
margaret marries anseleme tranceléon, comté d’armagnac, one of the three great lords of the south of france
1447
birth of marcon tranceléon to anseleme, comté d’armagnac and margaret
death of anselme at the battle of valmont; marcon becomes comté d’armagnac and margaret becomes comtesse douairière d’armagnac
loyal armagnac soldiers seize marcon as aquitaine collapses into anarchy upon the arrival of english forces there; margaret is abandoned to her own devices
one of the other three great lords of the south, the comté de foix, purchases the lucrative wardship of marcon from the king, making him regent of armagnac
1448
margaret returns to england and her family arranges a place for her in the household of queen eleanor
margaret meets prince henry of wales
1450
margaret marries charles hastings, earl of pembroke, a great up-and-coming english magnate who made his fortune in the war
only seven months into her marriage, margaret gives birth to eleanor, a healthy baby widely rumored to be the secret daughter of henry of wales
1452
margaret gives birth to elizabeth hastings, also widely rumored to be the secret daughter of henry of wales
1453
death of charles, margaret becomes dowager countess of pembroke
though eleanor is expected to inherit, a male cousin of charles’ contests this ruling on account of her femininity, giving rise to a fierce contest for the earldom
1455
margaret travels with the rest of the english court to florence to attend the great summit
the way in which margaret hastings both carried and comported herself was fascinating, in a room of a thousand ladies she surely stood out as the proudest, and one of few whom had a right to be proud— perhaps that is why harry had selected her and taken her under his wing as his unofficial mistress. if he could have his choice in prize, take caution in selecting what jewels he wore, he would have little but the best and though twice married and widowed margaret was surely that. she had established a name for herself in the english court long before his interest fell upon her and it boded well with harry that the woman with whom he associated would be, in her own right, dazzling.
his chin lowered in an understated, quiet nod— intended for the woman to whom it had been directed. the dusting of his eyelashes against freckled skin implicitly excused him from lord wessex, who stumbled his way through the all - too - willing throng of women shadowing lady pembroke’s petticoats like a train of skirts. the prince turned on his heel, arm instinctively outstretching for margaret to take hold, peering down the bridge of his nose at the curls piled atop her head akin to precariously placed secrets.
the prince gives into the idle talk, though the droll quality to his voice alerts her that his mind wills to stray to other matters, the winding hedges encasing them too encasing their voices and the words that whistle between their teeth. ❛ perhaps for today. ❜ he muses, ❛ though there are other accomplishes of yours more pleasing, and impressive by tenfold, to me. ❜ he snakes his arm from within her grasp and winds it around her lithe waist, drawing her hip flush against the side of his abdomen, ❛ remind me. ❜
Margot’s gaze settled heavily upon the Prince as, slowly, the corners of her lips curved upwards. Having lavished half a decade upon the young man, she addressed her mood to his with a near-instinctual certainty, curling her arm more tightly around his as they walked. She knew well the tone of voice and her own response was as natural as his own, softly biting her lip as one brow arched, a teasing laugh of pleasure threatening.
As they strayed beyond the guardian verdure, she stopped in her tracks, turning to face him, head tilting as she drank in the look of him. She enjoyed stretching out the moment, giving him just enough, withholding just enough to make him want it all the more. Tilting her head, she grinned as he pulled her close, her hands landing upon his chest momentarily, eyes locked with his.
“Why, what accomplishments might these be, Your Grace?” she inquired in mock innocence, before laughing and stretching her arms up, locking around his neck as her lips found his, lingered there, deepened the kiss, and trailed along his jaw, his ear, his neck.
“Is this what you crave? Or,” she cocked a brow. “Something else?” Breaking off, she giggled and, taking his hand, led him deeper into the tall maze, enjoying both the feeling of seclusion as well as the excitement that, at any moment, it might be interrupted. Still, she was eager to please, to get at the root of what he wished: she was well aware these days were trying and she wished to bring to them some semblance of amusement, as well, of whatever kind.
Margot had found herself in much too deep with Harry before she’d hardly realized she’d begun at all, yet she considered this to be one of the great virtues of their relationship. In that way, they were the same: both driven, both impulsive in their own ways, complementary ways, which when united relieved life of its tedium. Each of her marriages had been plodding, planned things that had each served their due purpose but left life dry of spark. Harry, however, was one of the most alive people she had ever met, and incendiary, too, in all the ways she desired.
Margot had heard the Queen of Portugal’s summons with some astonishment. Margot did not hesitate, however, quickly preparing herself for the visit and making her way to the palazzo inhabited by the Portuguese. Passing through the pleasant corridors as she was shown in, Margot glanced around herself.
She had hopes as to the origin of this unanticipated honor. After all, Margot’s daughters were King Cristiano’s own flesh and blood. Was it not possible that that Queen, herself a mother of many daughters, wished to do something for the girls? Of course, Margot knew it was a bit of a longshot, as her husband had acknowledged them, (though they were not indeed his,) but Margot liked to think it was, at the least, a possibility.
She moved along quickly, her eyes scanning the beautiful palazzo as she strode along, attended by a liveried servant wearing the green wyvern badge of House Braganza. Quickly, Margot was shown through corridor after corridor, completing a labyrinthine maze worthy of Theseus, shown through a series of great doors, and finally, finally, arrived within the sanctified halls of the Queen, herself.
As soon as she was shown in, Margot swept the appropriate bow, before rising again, smiling, and praying this invitation was a good thing. Her face showed no hint of concern, however, instead glowing to show how honored she was. “Your Majesty,” began she in Latin, as she did not speak much Portuguese (Harry had whispered some of it to her from time to time, but she could not consider that much good when it came to addressing a queen). “I was greatly honored to receive your kind invitation. Please instruct me how best I might please Your Majesty.”
FULL NAME. Margaret Anne Catherine Jane Emma Cecily de Mowbray Tranceléon Hastings
PRONUNCIATION. MAHR-gə-rit AN KATH-ə-rin JAYN EHM-ə SEHS-ə-lee deh MOW-bree trahn’cehl’AY-on HAYSTinzs
NICKNAME. Margot & Meg
GENDER. Female
HEIGHT. 5′7″/170cm
AGE & D.OB. 27 & April 29, 1428 (St. Catherine’s day)
ZODIAC. Taurus
SPOKEN LANGUAGES. English (fluent), French (fluent), Burgundian (multiple dialects), Flemish, Dutch (multiple dialects), Latin, Greek, learning Italian
— PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.
HAIR COLOR. Chocolate brown
EYE COLOR. Coffee brown
SKIN TONE. Cool
BODY TYPE. Slim with a curvy frame; measurements: 32-23-33
ACCENT. Aristocratic English (occasionally with the slightest of hint of French inflection over a few consonants) when speaking English, the inverse when speaking French.
DOMINANT HAND. Left Handed
POSTURE. Having been taught proper carriage since early childhood, her posture is lovely - straight and open and sure.
SCARS. She bears a white scar across her left ankle from a hunting accident, many years ago.
TATTOOS. n/a
BIRTHMARKS. n/a
MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S). Her immaculate dark eyes and bold eyebrows, prominent cheekbones and jaw.
– CHILDHOOD.
PLACE OF BIRTH. Kenilworth Castle, Warwickshire, England
HOMETOWN. London, England
MANNER OF BIRTH. Margot was born on an unremarkable Monday, around 8 o’clock in the morning at the end of a long and hard labor. Both mother and child were happy and healthy after the birth and the event was greeted with joy.
FIRST WORDS. Duck.
SIBLINGS. Duke of Norfolk (half-brother), Lady of Norfolk, Lady of Norfolk (sisters)
PARENTS. Elizabeth Beaufort & Thomas de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk
PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT. Limited. She reported to them each and every night with all that she had accomplished, but mostly other than that she was in the care of governesses.
– ADULT LIFE.
OCCUPATION. Dowager Countess of Pembroke Mistress
CURRENT RESIDENCE. London, England –> Florence, Italy
CLOSE FRIENDS. could be you!!! <3
RELATIONSHIP STATUS. Taken. Single. It’s complicated. She is technically classified as a widow at the moment, though it is an open secret that she has been for some years engaged in a torrid affair with Prince Harry of Wales.
FINANCIAL STATUS. [ $$$$$$$$$$ ]
VICES. luxury, gossip, stubbornness, impulsivity, jumping to conclusions, emotional, impractical, blunt
– SEX & ROMANCE.
SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Bisexual
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. Biromantic
PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE. submissive | dominant | switch.
PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE. submissive | dominant | switch.
LIBIDO. High.
TURN ON’S. Confidence, openness, intelligence, shared experiences, excitement, affectionate touches, teasing, passion, emotional honesty, feeling adored and desired by her s/o.
TURN OFF’S. Feeling ignored or neglected, dishonesty, clinginess, controlling behavior, cruelty/abuse, feeling unheard by her s/o.
LOVE LANGUAGE. Quality time, physical touch, receiving gifts, words of affirmation, acts of service.
RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES. Margot is very open in her relationships and tends to view commitments of that sort as much as pacts of honesty as anything else. She is also very emotionally protective of her s/o, though that may not be obvious to the outside viewer as she also feels part of this charge is being - brutally but lovingly - honest and open with her s/o. She gives all her loyalty in spades and lavishes love and attention on the object of her affections, but expects the same in return.
TAGGED BY : @lianabragana
TAGGING : @meleksvltan @tatiarurik && anyone who wants to !!
the impending arrival of religious holidays across the full spectrum of abrahamic creeds meant that harry’s advisers were diligent in their attempts to reconcile the likely king with both members of his father’s court and august rulers of foreign nations— as holy days provided the quintessential balm to forge allies. yet, as he leisurely strolled the labyrinthine-like gardens the palazzo de diardinoa overlooked, lord wessex’s voice in his ear ( ardently, and futilely, paying lip service to the ottoman empire ) had begun to grate upon him.
not nearly half attuned to the noble’s attempt to inspire fondness in the prince’s person toward the empire, it is with great relief that the swishing of petticoats round the corner pans out to be none other than the dowager countess of pembroke. harry halts in his tracks, alerting lord wessex ( who is, by all accounts, enraptured by the sound of his own voice and oblivious to all else ) of another’s presence. harry lowers his chin in subtle reverence, brows arching in a sly show of pleasure.
❛ lady pembroke—, ❜ he begins, failing to get a word in edgewise as wessex sparks a conversation on the utter assuredness of her ladyship’s demeanour in florence. he rather closely watches margaret’s response, light eyes teasing her as she formulates an apt response to the influential, but self-important, count.
The sound of laughter wafted pleasantly across the gardens, a denizen of young English ladies gathered to take their exercise out of doors. Margot, for one, was glad to stretch her legs, to feel the motion after so many days cooped up inside due to what had proven incessant rain. She’d tired quickly of that condition and the rays of nimble sunshine warmed the ache she’d enduring in their absence.
The sound of gentlemen’s voices filtered indistinctly towards them and, as one, the ladies turned to face them. A smile tugged at the corner of Margot’s lips as she caught sight of Harry strolled across the lawn...but faltered slightly as she took in his companion. Flicking a look of pure amusement towards her friends - knowing immediately just the sort of conversation Harry had been treated to in his walk - she watched them attempt to conceal their own laughter.
Hearing Harry’s greeting, Margot - along with her friends - all dropped the appropriate curtsy. “Your Grace,” she replied, about to say more when she found herself cut off by the garrulous lord, himself. Biting back on her laughter, Margot flashed a look of pure amusement towards her friends before leaving them to their spot to approach the gentlemen.
You must do better than that if you wish to offend me, thought Margot, suppressing her grin. I was raised in France. Stepping forward, she smiled. “My lord, you do me credit. For what trait better recommends the capabilities,” she began, her eyes trailing suggestively towards Harry. “Of our most beloved country than assuredness?” Her grin widened as, returning her gaze to Lord Wessex to, for once, find him lost for words. “Your tacit approval, Lord Wessex, is most moving.”
Reaching out, she took Harry’s arm. “Excuse me, my ladies, my lord. I must borrow His Grace.” Folding her arm into his, she began to stroll away from the accompany feeling quite pleased with herself. “I believe,” she commented to Harry, once they were out of earshot. “That silencing Lord Wessex may be my very greatest achievement to date. What do you think?”
keira knightley, 27, margaret hastings. ❝ ⤚⟶ FLORENCE, 1455. thanks is given by the MISTRESS TO THE PRINCE OF WALES/DOWAGER COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, MARGARET HASTINGS, from ENGLAND. they are at best PLAYFUL, and at their worst TEMPERAMENTAL. whilst sojourning in florence, their ambition is to secure the futures of both her children and herself. SHE seem/s to remind everyone of KEIRA KNIGHTLEY && rose petals showering from the heavens, laughter in the candlelight, twinkling eyes and sparkling smiles. ❞ penned by KATE AA; EST, SHE/HER, 20s.
A great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt and first cousin to the King of Scotland on her mother’s side, Margaret - mostly known either as Meg or Margot - was the first product of an illustrious second marriage for her father. He had already produced his son and heir with his first wife, but he was young and ambitious enough to remarry, as well as being well enough situated both politically and financially to make his suit to Elizabeth Beaufort - and to find himself accepted. Her father was of no common stock, himself, being Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Nottingham, Earl of Norfolk, Baron Mowbray, Baron Segrave, KG, Earl Marshall of England with an impressive and rich lineage of his own.
As a result of this pedigree, Margaret de Mowbray was always to be a prize upon the marriage market. Her status as the eldest of her mother’s daughters (without a son born to Elizabeth who was, herself, her father’s only child) made Margaret a joint heiress of a substantial fortune, entitled to great lands, and able to bestow her husband with great power. As a result of her status and situation, her upbringing was lavish and pampered. She looked forward to a future just as privileged, but also by virtue of her status and situation, her ambitious relatives viewed her as much as a tool as a person, but she was petted and admired by all else around her.
In 1440, she was dispatched to the great court of Burgundy to receive a princely education at Mechelen. Her voyage, however, was blown off-course by an unfortunate storm and Margaret was instead plunged into enemy French territory. Quickly identified as a wealthy noble, Margaret was taken as a hostage to the French court where she would spend many formative years, the education she’d been intended to receive in Burgundy instead being conducted in the heart of the glittering French court, where she served a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of France. Despite her situation as hostage being initially quite terrifying, Margaret was well treated and, with a big heart, charm, and a fun-loving spirit, she soon garnered friends and affection in her new paradigm, coming to love France nearly as much as she’d once loved England.
In 1446, Margaret - or Marguerite as she was now to be called - was married to the Comte d’Armagnac, who sought to gain her substantial wealth for himself and his descendants by the marriage. She was thus transported into the highest ranks of French court, and soon bore a son, securing the continuity of the prestigious line of the Comte. Soon after his only son’s birth, however, the Comte died, felled in the fighting against England, and Aquitaine fell into English hands once again - with it, Margaret, herself. The French spirited away her child to court but she, herself, was left to the mercy of her own people.
Sundered from her son, Margaret - as she was, again - was sent back to England to begin her life anew in 1448. Her family quickly secured a position for her in the English court, serving Queen Eleanor until 1450, where she was able to reacquaint herself with many of the figures of English politics she’d not seen since she was twelve years old.
In 1450, Margaret took a brief respite from her courtly duties to marry one of the great up-and-coming magnates, Charles Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, who had made his fortune in the war against France. The two produced a brace of lovely daughters before Charles’ sudden death in 1453. Since that time, Margaret has been fighting a fierce battle to see her eldest daughter recognized as Charles’ heiress, rather than a male cousin of his and, from before even that time, she’s fought to retrieve custody of her son in France.
Margaret has another history, as well, that she shares with the Prince of Wales. As a child, she grew up in the great courts of England, playing with the other noble and royal children, forging bonds not easily forgotten, until she was snatched up and carried off to the continent. Her return signaled a rekindling of these too-long neglected relationships, but also a shift in them. Now older and wiser, there was a spark that hadn’t been there before and, in what seemed to Margaret a whirlwind, she and Harry had embarked upon a romance which has not, to this day, abated, nor does she wish to see it so.
She knows, in her heart-of-hearts, that he may eventually tire of her and put her aside, and she means to go peacefully when that day comes for the sake of any children, but she can’t help but enjoy every minute of what they share, now. Besides, as she watches his bastard brother near the throne, she can’t help wondering what the fate of Harry’s own bastard children could one day be…However, as Harry plots to delegitimize and exile his half-siblings, she also realizes their fate could be equally harrowing.
In any case, Margaret is a sure ally to the Prince of Wales and is determined to see him well-wed in a way that will cement his position, particularly in the face of rival half-siblings who may or may not have royal ambitions of their own…Though she wishes to remain by his side, herself, she also recognizes he will be in need of a great queen to his right. Margaret need only stand at his left.
Margaret enjoys flirting, fun, and frivolity. Her interests have always lain in the direction of having a good time. Known for her zest for life and her infectious laughter, Margaret enjoys adventure, teasing just about everyone she meets, and exploration. High-energy and passionate, she has a rather informal way about her which is off-putting to some and inviting to others, but she rarely means offense. Her open and friendly manner is merely symptomatic of the way she takes the world in and the sort of life she prefers to lead. Of course, she was also taught rigorous manners and knows how to behave when the occasion calls for it, but she prefers a more genuine and enthusiastic sort of lifestyle.
As enticing as some of her virtues may be, Margaret’s vices are also many. She loves luxury, gossip, and pleasure in all its forms and rarely gives two hoots about her so-called immortal soul. Instead, she prefers to make the most of her life, considering it all the more precious because nothing is certain beyond or about it. She is impulsive, emotional, often impractical, and tends to be blunt, but equally she is spontaneous, warm, curious, and open, making her a bit of a mixed bag. She doesn’t mind what anyone thinks, however. Margaret only wants what’s best for herself and her loved ones and that is what she will always put first.
FULL NAME : Margaret “Margot/Meg” Anne Catherine Jane Emma Cecily de Mowbray Tranceléon Hastings
TITLES :
lady margaret of norfolk
femme de chambre
demoiselle d'honneur
comtesse d’armagnac
dame d'honneur
comtesse douairière d’armagnac
woman of the bedchamber
countess of pembroke
lady of the bedchamber
dowager countess of pembroke
BIRTHPLACE : Kenilworth Castle, Warwickshire, England
AGE : 27
LANGUAGES : English, French, Burgundian (multiple dialects), Flemish, Dutch (multiple dialects), Latin, Greek, learning Italian
DYNASTY / HOUSE : House de Mowbray by birth, House of Hastings by marriage
MOTHER & FATHER : Elizabeth Beaufort & Thomas de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk
SPOUSE : Anselme “Ancelin” Tranceléon, Comte de Armagnac (deceased), Charles Hastings (deceased)
RECOGNISABLE FEATURES : Bright brown eyes, sharply squared jawline, slight frame, thick eyebrows, full and pouty lips
REPUTATION IN FLORENCE : Margot’s reputation is tenuous, at best. Known as a woman tossed about between two warring nations, unable to remain loyal to either, and still further for her only thinly veiled and rather torrid affair with the Prince of Wales, Margot is a figure for scandal and, still worse, doesn’t seem to give two figs - if anything, reveling in her scandalous reputation. But, still, being so wealthy and so well-connected, there are very few who dare say a word out of line to her face.
WANTED CONNECTIONS :
childhood friends: margot’s life has held a great deal of variety, not the least of which has been her early childhood in England and late childhood and coming of age in France. In both cases, she’s been separated from those she once saw constantly as she moves back and forth across the channel and is eager for a means of reconnecting.
rivals/enemies: everyone needs a challenge and margot is no different. particularly when it comes to her children and fighting for their rights and inheritances, margot is faced with a great deal of opposition that would be very interesting to explore.
political intrigues: as both a well-connected and an impulsive person, margot is just the sort to become embroiled in something and get in way over her head before she hardly knows its happened. just give her an emotional/meaningful hook and she’ll find the prospect nearly irresistable.
family members: of course, i’d love to see immediate family member picked up, but in addition, margot’s connections are a wide net so it’d be interesting to work out, both in terms of her own bloodline and those of her various in-laws, etc, ppl who might claim a familial connection to her.
past flames: margot is a passionate woman who jumps into things headfirst without thinking, which opens a whole world of possibilities!! she’s devoted to harry atm, but im sure she has a whole past that would be interesting to explore.
anything and everything!! if you have a plot idea, id absolutely love to hear it!!
vaporwave
kaledo-art
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
areudirty
baratheonpilled
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