granadas cayendo

tell them you followed the 𝖕𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘 seeds because they tasted like 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉.

[katharinepar]

anne boleyn in wolf hall | favourite costumes.

[history-of-fashion]

ab. 1545 Titian - Portrait of Settimia Jacovacci (?)

(Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest)

[johnseymour]

John was all too happy to take any possible excuse to make his way to Chelsea Place, away from prying eyes. More often than not, Nicholas or another man of the house provided a comfortable reason to visit, if he were asked, but today he had a different companion in mind. Admittedly, he knew little of the small Spanish delegation at court, but his wife had spoken to him kindly of the Duchess Maria, and he felt compelled to make her acquaintance, hoping for an ally in the lady of Medina.

"Not at all, your Grace. And at any rate, even if it had been a challenge, it would be quite worth it to be graced with your company." Ever trained in courtly politesse, John bowed, smiling kindly to her. At her invitation, he offered her an arm so that they might walk together, comfortable as he guided her. "Are you well? I much regretted to hear that you would not be able to come to court, but I have heard from my friend the Duke of Suffolk that you are being made quite comfortable here." He paused a moment, unsure as to how much she would know, considering she was an outsider. "I must admit, I find this place far more pleasant than court. It is a relief to be able to enjoy the quiet and the air."

[mendozaed]

The Duchess regarded John’s handsome face with a swarthy brow arched toward her hairline. His voice, musing with warmth and goodwill, called forth a gleam to spread across her face, for it was clear that this pallid gentleman had come to her in peace (or, perhaps, merely under the guise of it) though what he desired of her remained curiously unknown. Callers to Chelsea Place, though few and far between, seldom came without purpose – Walsingham’s unprompted visit, days prior, had wrought Maria’s deepest frustration – for though the walls were hung with lavish tapestries and the orchards were wondrously lush, the Suffolk’s manor was not so handsome as to allure stray admirers, driven to her doorstep without reason. But elegantly, and without an outward trace of her deeply-entrenched suspicion, Maria stretched out her hand to John in a cheery Spanish greeting.

She curled her arm around his, the smell of leather and something earthy (travel, she pragmatically supposed) wafting around them. Humming in response to his words, Maria chuckled lowly. Oh, the Duchess was healthy as a horse! She had never so much as sputtered throughout her life; her finances were clear of extravagant physicians and their cabalistic tonics, each worth a King’s ransom. It was the Boleyns and their preening that caused her stomach to churn. ‘The Suffolks are the perfect hosts. I want for nothing, and my needs be but few – my ladies and I are well content.’ Well-rehearsed words slipped past her lips with practiced ease. Regardless, the depopulated halls of Chelsea Place had suited Maria’s distaste for English puffery, allowing her to relax into what was proving to be a rather tiresome visit to King William's sodden shores. ‘Do you also have a home in London, my lord, or do you prefer the openness of the countryside? I admit I am surprised that so many of the court live take residence in London… in Spain, we long for the warmth of our own cloisters when apart from the court.’

[thquldnunc]

Whether Maria de Mendoza knew that Thomas Walsingham had played some role in the family that she felt the deepest alliance for was still up to question, for his name had been left unmentioned and unremarkable till after the death of Cromwell, who in his inflated ego, had been but his own figurehead.

But in truth, was it not Walsingham who had been sent to Catherine of Aragon’s final place of residence at Kimbolton Castle — whom had gone through her final possessions (all but a hair shirt, the last evidence made in light of a good, gracious woman) and then followed her train to Peterborough Cathedral whilst acting as the seeing eye for Cromwell himself. Then, in one turn of his head, he had also been a key pawn in place with the retrieval of her daughter, the Lady Mary. Though, if she knew all of that, then perhaps Thomas would have found himself in a serious, complicated situation. 

And yet, he thought nothing of it, upon approaching the Spanish Mistress, his visit a courteous guise for the name of King William, Thomas asked to be announced before making his entry, his choice of fashion muted compared to the flair that embodied the Duchess of Medina, whom from one look alone was quite enough to make any grand gentleman second-guess all that had once been clear. Hampton to Chelsea had been easy alone, for without the fanfare of carriage and waiting men, Thomas only had to arrive upon his horse, a saddlebag fit with bolts of velvet for her stay in the much colder, fog-drenched climate of their country.

Finally face to face, Thomas could not help but master a smile before making his approach towards her — a bow presented in one deep sweep before rising back to his true height. “It is a pleasure to finally meet your Grace, though I must insist that you would be welcome at Hampton Court just as much,” he quipped, perhaps in jest or even mickery for as the Secretary of State, he may have already proposed as such through papers sent abroad. “I could… stay for dinner, sí — as long as you may repay the favour at a later date,” Thomas proposed, before joining her side, offering his arm in a moment’s intimacy.

“How do you find our fair Isle? I hope Chelsea has been to your immaculate taste… You have already made the place your own, I see.”

[mendozaed]

The Duchess knew Thomas Walsingham to be a devoted servant, but an unfettered one, his reputation for guile and perfidy leaking into the oft-mangled reports her emissaries collected from the rabble of London. Walsingham’s loyalties, like his very faith, blew hot and cold; he swapped masters like playing cards, his former warden having been Thomas Cromwell, who was, himself, sculpted by the fat hands of a butcher’s son – the disgraced Cardinal Wolsey. Maria’s lip curled into an alluring smile as she twined her arm through the crook of Waslingham’s elbow, like a brocade-sheathed serpentine, admiring the blinking chain of estate wreathed reverently around Thomas’ thick throat. She’d met Cromwell, only once, many years ere his neck had been slashed from his body; so long ago that the memory, itself, was pale and warped at the edges, like a damp scroll of parchment. She mustered a diaphanous image of a serious gentleman who was, dare she say – a little dull? His conversation had been well-informed, as one might expect of such an august Caesar, risen from the ditches of Blackfiars into glory-basted eminence, but except with his henchman, Maria found him restrained by his own scheming and servitude.

One could overcome a vulgar tongue, an unlearned mind; but never the perversion of a low-born birth. His fortitude could not disguise the fact that he was a weary man, clinging to borrowed time, grasping at dimming favour, relying on the whispers of his apprentices and acolytes who were already rapidly retreating to the white-hot heat of another master, fluttering like moths to a flame, the tips of their brown wings molten. Walsingham, she found, was nothing like his former employer. His sparkling wit and natural grace might even awe Queen Mary’s stiff – albeit grandiose – Spanish entourage, lending animation to the distinguished furrow of his English brow.

Maria bowed her head to the Secretary’s entreaty, but refused to bend to the Boleyn’s authority; averting the liquid caramel of her gaze in mock-humility. With her hands folded against the dark material of her dress, the Duchess leveled, ‘I should think the Dowager would prefer the jewels I sent.’ She bit her tongue, on which clustered most foul words of condemnation, and simpered. If Maria had it her way, she would have sent the concubine a pair of leather gloves to hide the extra digit reputedly sprouting from the mounds of her palm – a lurid tale spread across the length and breadth of Spain that she took a particularly perverse delight in. In muttered tones, Maria grumbled, though it would appear she would have my written surrender before my goodwill.

‘It would be an honour, Lord Secretary.’ The Duchess spoke evenly, her thick skirts rustling across the pavement as the sun illuminated the rubies inlaid in her hood. ‘I understand you are now one of the King’s chief ministers. If you ever think to come to Spain, I vow to provide my services in turn. Ah, but I know you are married to England, sir, and would not think to whisk you from your post.’ His pleasantries elicited a deep rumble of laughter from Maria’s breast, ringing like the chiming of a Vespers bell. ‘Oh, good sir, flatter me not. My Lady the Duchess of Suffolk is this magnificent manor’s touch of brilliance. My late husband would tell you I have the tastes of a poor man, and indeed I would be contented with bare walls and a warm bed. It is but for the generosity of my kinswoman that I live in such grand estate.’ Her sherry-hued eyes cut across the Secretary, for her words, festooned with gratitude, made her case plain: it was Lady Suffolk, her blood as thickly royal as King William himself, to whom Maria referred to as a sister, confidant, and lodestar in England.

‘And if we were in Spain, and alone, Sir Walsingham, we would eat on the floor, and consume until God himself commanded us cease, speaking only in the rich Italian tongue, for that is how it is done in Alhambra. Instead, I ask you to lay bare to me the many wonders of a true English feast.’

[mendozaed]

@francisodeguzman / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. the duchess' chamber at chelsea house.

The Duchess’ hair gleams a raven-black in the night, inlaid with milky streaks of moonlight pouring in from the windows, as her ladies brush, oil, and plait her silken mane time and time over: an onyx rope tapering the length of her loosely-flowing habito, so thick and creamy as to trammel the embroidery scissors her women attempt to cut it with.  But for all Maria’s extravagant tastes and rich apparel, it was this, her linen shift, gifted to her for the occasion of her nuptials many decades past, that she loved best; it was now too short, skimming just above the nub of her ankle, sewn together in patches of fresh, clean cream and careworn tawn; yet in each stitch a kiss of tender care, twined with her own blood and sweat.  Given both its increasing immodesty and pricelessness to the Duchess, it was, of course, her most intimate of garments, one only her preciosa daughters and beloved women laid witness to… 

And yet… 

‘Francisco.’ 

In the reflection of her boudoir (the mirror cracked and yellowed like rotten English teeth, dissolving into great sculptures of crystalised marchpane) she spies him looming in the doorway, his dark eyes sweeping across the room as a suave smirk curls the corners of his lips.  Half of his face illuminated with candlelight, and the other masked in the darkness of the empty corridor, Francisco de Guzman resembled a phantom, delivering Maria unto a fate eternal. The Duchess rose unhurriedly, her knees suffused with honey, cradling a gold-handled brush in her fist and pointing it in the direction of her brother-in-law’s face like a gilded pistol.  Her heart beat as lustily as the drums of a galliard, as thunderously as the marching of an encroaching army, a thousand mighty Spaniards strong, proceeding across the wizened steppes of Spain, for she knew it was him, Francisco, come to liberate her.

‘Come, Cico. I will have all of you or I will have none.’

She intoned the poetic devices of poets, of artists, those of Francisco’s ilk that disdained Maria’s cunning and calculation.  And as he padded across the room, in her heart she felt a flooding of molten iron; for it was not Francisco’s resemblance to her late husband, his brother, that moved her so, but the unbridled affection for him that beat in her chest like wild stallions.  His scrutinizing gaze made her feel young again; as young as she’d been when she’d first donned this linen shift, delivered until the late Diego as a bride.  ‘My good women, some wine for Master Francisco?’

[philippaed]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡   …   maria  de  mendoza   (   @mendozaed   )   𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞   …   chelsea  house  ,  london  .

the  dowager  duchess  of  suffolk  had  always  spoken  highly  of  katherine  of  aragon  and  of  the  women  that  had  followed  their  princess  from  the  perfumed  warmth  of  the  alhambra  to  the  fever - stricken  halls  of  ludlow  and  then  to  the  foggy  dampness  of  london  ─  weaned  on  her  mother's  esteem  of  the  spanish  infanta,  katherine  brandon  had  filled  the  minds  of  her  impressionable  young  daughters  with  an  admiration  for  their  iberian  neighbours  that  only  grew  more  fierce  with  the  death  of  her  royal  namesake.  philippa  could  still  recall  the  disappointment  that  had  leaden  her  young  body  at  the  realization  that  she  was  much  too  young  to  follow  mary  tudor  from  calais  to  spain  as  part  of  her  royal  entourage,  so  it  was  with  no  small  amount  of  fascination  that  she  presented  herself  before  the  duchess  of  medina,  head  dipping  into  a  nod  of  acknowledgment  as  the  doors  parted  to  announce  her  arrival.  chelsea  house  had  hastily  been  made  available  for  the  use  of  any  spaniards  who  wished  to  elude  the  viper - infested  corridors  of  hampton  court  but  though  it  served  as  an  assembly  of  like - minded  persons,  there  was  only  so  much  that  she  could  offer  to  her  guests  and  her  visit  was  more  apologetic  than  she  would  have  preferred,  hands  folding  above  her  stomach  as  her  steps  quickened  towards  the  older  woman  to  greet  her  properly.  

❝  doña  maria  ...  i  am  certain  that  my  lady  mother  has  ensured  that  you  lack  for  nothing  but  i  would  be  a  poor  hostess  if  i  did  not  inquire  if  there  is  anything  else  we  might  offer  to  make  your  stay  in  chelsea  house  more  pleasant.  ❞  faced  with  such  a  formidable  woman,  philippa  could  not  help  but  be  reminded  of  her  mother  and  her  grandmother,  from  what  faint  memories  she  had  to  mary  tudor  brandon  before  the  queen  of  france  and  princess  of  england  had  passed  just  two  years  after  her  birth  and  the  recollection  brought  a  sense  of  attentiveness  upon  her,  softening  her  sharp  gaze  into  something  that  was  more  watchful  with  a  curiosity  to  learn.  though  her  mother  had  still  held  much  power  as  dowager  duchess,  it  was  philippa  who  served  as  the  figurehead  for  many  catholic  sympathizers  in  england  now  that  mary  of  england  had  left  to  become  mary  of  spain  and  she  wanted  her  foreign  cousins  to  know  that  she  assumed  the  role  with  the  severity  that  it  deserved  in  the  hopes  of  gaining  their  support  or  protection  should  the  boleyns  pass  the  action  to  curtail  her  rights  as  a  claimant  to  the  throne.

❝  i  also  wished  to  extend  my  apologies  for  my  failure  in  finding  a  catholic  priest  to  attend  to  the  needs  of  the  infante  and  infanta  and  yourself,  of  course,  and  i  wanted  to  inquire  if  one  was  forthcoming  from  spain  to  preside  over  mass  services  in  chelsea  house  ?  ❞  it  was  treason  to  celebrate  a  catholic  mass  in  england  and  to  do  so  beneath  the  king's  nose  would  be  stupidity  but  she  was  not  certain  if  exceptions  would  be  made  for  their  catholic  guests  or  if  the  spaniards  would  do  as  they  pleased  regardless  of  the  king's  feelings  ─  either  way,  philippa  needed  to  be  made  aware  if  such  plans  existed,  if  only  to  capitalize  on  the  moment.

[mendozaed]

The days were short in England, Maria had deduced; daylight ebbed at times when the Iberian sun still blazed and bleached the rugged cliffs of Málaga, drawing like an impenetrable damask curtain over the ancient steeples and leaden spires of London. Through the thick windows of Chelsea House, the Duchess’ eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming through the trees of the Suffolk’s vast orchards: lush, rambling branches set ablaze and coated with a fine varnish of gold-leaf as daylight crescendoed and vanished into a murky dusk. But as the September wind still whined and whipped through the parkland, Maria turned her head toward her groom – Don Alcarz – flooding the doorway with his bulky shadow, garbed in a crimson robe and tightly fisting a thick roll of wax-pressed parchments, his tongue announcing the Duchess of Suffolk’s forthcoming presence.

As Lady Suffolk and her retinue pounded past Chelsea’s iron-wrought gatehouse, Maria rose and preened with haste, adjusting the mighty hood and its velvet lapels draping her head, revealing just a sliver of the dark tresses that framed her face. The constant intrigue of the English court (and the ever-present threat of garrulous house callers) required Maria to be splendidly dressed at all hours; though at home in Spain, the Duchess preferred to don her loose habitos, flowing bolts of linen befitting of Lady Godiva; to wear her gleaming raven hair loose, and splashed with damascene roses; to traverse the countless glimmering moats snaking around the Mendozas’ castillos with feet bare, heels suckled by the wet grass, and with only a linen cap on her head – not, as her mistress preferred, these cumbersome headdresses. But a gleam soon wreathed her face as she dipped into a curtsy before Lady Suffolk, herself gloriously frosted with jewels and precious silks. ‘By St Michael’s Sword, you are a vision – a testament to your Lady Mother, I am certain.’ Eyeing the Duchess, Maria boasted, ‘but I see both your grandmother and your cousin Mary in you, for which you must be very proud, no?’

Philippa’s words caused the Duchess’ face to tighten with thought, her cheeks still flushed a deep pomegranate-blush from the pinching of her ladies. The persecution of Catholics in this heretical Realm had given both Maria and Queen Mary reason for grave concern but, as the former was wont to remind her mistress, no servant of God ever entered the Kingdom of Heaven but through trials and tribulations. Faithful believers such as Philippa Grey would be rewarded for her unwavering convictions, and with this reminder Maria’s face softened. She nodded in the direction of her groom, still looming in the doorway, his expression an alchemy of stony and sober heed, ‘Don Alcarz is an ordained chaplain, Lady Philippa, and will lead us in our Faith. But the Queen’s children are aware that the religion of our Holy Vicar the Pope is not tolerated here, and have agreed to take Mass privately. It is the price we must all pay under this Boleyn sun.’

Maria folded her hands over her brocade-cinched waist – wondrously softened by the string of babes borne by her womb – and signaled for her ladies to bring the pair refreshments. ‘Queen Mary is aware that her brother the King has inherited not only their father’s red hair, but his inconcebiblé temper. There is no length she is unwilling to go to make peace with England – even through natural fears for its salvation.’ A knowing poured out of the Duchess; a shared desire for the crown of England to adorn the head of king – or queen – who shared in the Catholic creed thrumming between the two.

Countless years spent as Mary Tudor’s chief confidant emboldened Maria to speak freely with her beloved kinswoman – the woman whom, if push came to shove, mighty Spain would seek to plant on the throne. ‘We all cannot but hope for reconciliation between England and the one true Faith. But pray tell, Lady Suffolk, how do you find it? Your sister was a natural in Spain, a true and illustrious English jewel – except, of course, when forced to endure lessons with my daughter’s formidable bishops.’ Maria tittered, thinking about how the years had changed dear Nel – affectionately called Leonor by members of the Mendoza’s household. ‘Would you ever think to find placement elsewhere, away from England? My doors shall never be shut to a woman with Katharine Brandon's blood in her veins, this I pray you and your beloved sisters do not soon forget.'

[mendozaed]

MARIA DE MENDOZA / THE QUEEN'S BLADE.

[mendozaed]

@sebastiandelorges / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. morning room at chelsea house.

Este es un país empapado de sangre – this is a blood-soaked realm.  Clotted ink flew across the parchment, Maria’s sharpened quill scratching noisily against fresh vellum, consigned – in a secret, byzantine code – to the Queen of Spain, Mary Tudor. 

The King’s great houses, which he bankrupts in order to entertain his guests, are former monasteries, the nunneries and abbeys your Lady Mother promoted; the medicine gardens and old burials for nuns and abbots have been dug out for pretty flowers, and the farms which fed the poor in the hard of winter are leveled into parkland for His Majesty your brother’s voracious hunting.  England is now a superstitious realm, a country of devout Catholics who reject the Pope, and tear down shrines in the belief that it will yield them closer to God; a land of heathens who who crush marble statues and leave only the crumbling feet of saints and angels.  This realm is nothing as you left it, Reina, for there is nothing here but heresy and blood.  The King and the Boleyns go against the interest of their own country, against the interests of their own God, in their indomitable bids for power.  The stink of incense at court mingles, sickeningly, with the putrid rotting of traitors and martyrs spiked above the Thames.  

This, and more, Maria pens in a secret language known only to herself and the Queen: a flurry of strike-throughs and hieroglyphics and a cyrillic-like script, undecipherable to pale English eyes, passed to Mary by her mother, and to Catalina by the wily, cunning, implacable King Ferdinand of Aragon.

But at the sound of footfalls, Maria hastily, fluidly, snatches up her writings and folds them into the secret pleats in her gown, trimmed with lavish Spanish black-work; the schooled arrangement of her black eyes and mulberry-lips free of any traces of anxiety.  She rises to greet the guest at the threshold, clanking of metal and rich collars of estate, with practiced grace –– wreathing her face in a surprised, albeit charming grin, welcoming the Comte into Chelsea Place’s morning room with a swish and rustling sweep of her elaborate bell-sleeves.  ‘My lord Montgomery,’ Lady Medina announces, her voice thickly-accented.  ‘If you are not the most infamous man in Europe… Do you seek me out for respite from the English tongue, or have we more pressing matters to discuss and reacquaint over? I welcome either, but I will not stoop to the nonsensical language of our hosts.’ 

[mendozaed]

maria de mendoza / 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. chelsea house, the grey's riverside abode.

It had been many years since Maria had foot on English soil, and now, back in London –– a place she thought only to return with a warrant for arrest looming over her raven head –– the duquesa had grown to relish retracting the steps of her beloved mistress, familiarising herself with the realm Mary Tudor had once called home. The country, this misty prison, to which Catalina de Aragón had surrendered her fealty, had enriched its barren lands with a bevy of stillborn babes and one miraculous daughter to survive infancy –– Mary, la reina, consort of the richest and most powerful dynasty in Europe.

But with la concubina and her bastards imperiously lodged at Hampton Court, Maria had refused to dance attendance unto the Boleyns with her presence; through Spain's ambassador to England, the duchess feigned illness, a fear of unclean airs, and instead accepted an invitation to sojourn at the Grey's riverside manor, Chelsea House, at the generosity of the Suffolk Dowager –– a kinswoman and, perhaps ever more saliently, a devout ( and recusant ) Catholic. With its red-brick terraces, made a pale pink by the late-summer sun, abundant orchards, and lavish knot gardens, Chelsea Place suited the duchess soundly; reminding her, a mere trifle, of the limestone fortresses and bountiful courtyards of Alcalá de Henares, shaded by ancient trees dappled with ripe apricots.

Taking her morning stroll by the river, Maria nodded determinedly, serenely, when her lady's maid –– Donna Beatriz –– informed her that she had received a visitor. She waited by the entrance of the glass-paned greenhouse for her summons, twisting her crimson mouth into a smile. 'I hope you did not find the journey from Court too strenuous.' Raising her hand in greeting, glittering in the light with precious jewels, Maria swept into a curtsy. 'You are kind to visit me here in Chelsea; I admit to finding my lodgings here much more comfortable than by the bustle of court.'

'Come, we shall take clean airs and walk as we speak. Then, you shall join us for dinner, no? Or must you go so soon?'

[mendozaed]

MARIA DE MENDOZA + AESTHETIC.

[thequeensofbeauty]

SALMA HAYEK by Matt Easton for The Sunday Times Style, June 27th, 2021.

[anneboleyns]