Historians unearthed a letter, penned by the Countess of Hertford, Amelia Grey, concealed beneath the floorboards of Bradgate House. The family owning the artefact donated the letter to the British Library, now showcased beneath glass to the public. Beside its intricately etched words, is a modern translation:
North Star,
You arrived into the world so thunderously, my heart. That very same world I welcomed you into that could not know of your first inhale. The months leading up to your birth, when I carried you swollen-wombed, was a time shrouded in that paradoxical state of fear and elation – my greatest dread and warmest blessedness, spent alone in the hushed silence concealed within the walls of Bradgate House. The only daylight I felt was filtered through iron windows, sun casting that apricot glow Bradgate toys with so well. That warm shade of sun you will grow to become, its vibrant hue dancing across my chamber’s tapestry as the hours passed in solitude. I felt your wildness, then. You would not settle for secrecy, nor anonymity. The kicks, the stubborn reminders to announce your impending fate like a tempest. You moved, and it was my solace. Even when I fell, delirious and overcome with sickness during childbirth, cared for by your lady grandmother, frightened without your father’s secure hand at my side, hazing in and out of sweats and consciousness, I dreamt of you. You pulled me through the agony and trial that threatened to consume me. How fast would you run beside your father? What would your voice sound like? His, or my own father’s depths? Who would you resemble: Seymour, Tudor, Grey? Or, would you become the best of them all, eclipsing your forefathers, and theirs, and theirs, on-and-on, embedded into your glorious soul, with the impact you would surely create from merely existing?
I heard your cries and so much of the girl in me dissolved like parchment to water - though I confess, my son, I am still naive. I am still too sheltered, retaining wonder and hope . Yet in that tender greeting, I held you, and I held the most love your father and I would ever hope to create. Your tiny hand wrapped against my finger, bound wityour father's ring as our clandestine oath, and from that moment, you stole my heart. You are a testament to our family’s destiny. Despite the battle waging in our minds over defying king and country in lieu of our hearts, you, dearest Jack, are proof of our collective strength. You are our peace.
You are growing, Jack. I am told your curls are bright, your smile infectious. I loathe darling Dottie for the privilege of witnessing the subtlest of changes. Every moment, I am with you. Every precarious step, rehearsed to appear smooth, serene, amongst the gnashing teeth of beasts at Hampton. Each day I mourn the distance between us. Each week, I hear of your wellbeing from Dottie, and your father does his best to console. But my son, so too, each night is a silent celebration, for you exist within it. You sleep peacefully, swaddled in love, padded in utmost secrecy, forever your father’s, forever mine. Our North Star. The product of a love so profound, it defeats all constraints.
There is no greater truth, no purpose, than our family. One day, shrouded within the safety of a future when the darkness fades from our circumstance, we shall explain our tale to you properly. Until then, no distance may part us. The silence carries our love to you.
Only when catapulted into the wild masquerade of an evening’s privileged pretenders - courtiers, nobles, pawns, and players combined, each shrouded within their own bevvy of meticulously crafted roles - did Amelia manage to embrace the courage to seek out John's gaze and drift toward him, closer than she had in public since their affection’s dawn and hold his gaze with a spark of mischief for long as she dared, for as long as he’d let her… Bewitched and enticed at seizing the opportunity that presented itself, to behold an instant to converse in public and blame their titan disguises for the pleasantry. Who could be the wiser, when Amelia reckoned so many attendees within the grandeur of the king’s ball were delighted to be consumed by their own preoccupations; their tongues long-now set aflame by ancient tales of passion, desire, wisdom, and turmoil to notice how Amelia strayed to John’s side. Her Hyperion, blinding in gold.
Approaching him was cushioned with excuses in the lead-up to her fellow . Feigned frustration, annoyance that fate had placed her with someone as the sky’s lovers. Theia, titan of sight, and ethereal light, like the blue sky. Her silhouette, draped in layers of exquisite silk and gossamer that barely graced her shoulders, shimmering with hues of gold and blue. She allowed herself to drift from the side of the princess, eventually meandering through the crowd and halting before her husband. Dipping into a slightly curtsy of careful, mock indifference. Amelia felt more the fox stepping up to another fox-like prey, when surrounded by wolves before a hunt. Effort was required for restraint, pout remained subtle, though she couldn’t keep from casting a spark that met her eyes as she peered down the slope of her nose at her husband, a subtle jest woven into the facade of a maiden kindly paying her unexpected partner a visit.
“Titan… I have heard rumours that you and your brilliance may light up the sky for this spectacle of a pageant…? Is this so?” Her words are low teasing, husk, but considerably a shift from the tone she wished to maintain for him when the world slows. “Hyperion, if you were to paint the sky, what would you create? Limitless possibilities! Answer this wisely and perhaps I’ll endeavour to help you.”
She had always been aware of her father’s soft nature for his sister’s granddaughters, for she had heard it gently mentioned whenever they were brought beneath his stubborn nose, when Elizabeth had yearned for her own bevy of compliments. Of course, to her father, there had never been a chance that his children would ever die without issue — but, there had been quiet mentions that if such a hardship ever came to pass, that he would like the crown to pass to them. He was a soft man, she had thought at that age, a soft man to put his trust into the kin of his favourite sister — may she never feel such tenderness, or certainly not to that extent, for in her eyes then Elizabeth only saw a man and not a King appointed by God.
So, she had never grown to love her cousins who were not Tudor at any rate but claimed to be Grey instead. Even as a girl, when brought together at Hatfield or Richmond, Elizabeth kept to her mother’s side in astute loyalty to her Boleyn brethren over her father’s kin whom she had been warned against for as long as she could remember — that royal blood was to be respected, feared and held aside in equal measure. As women not much had changed, though she had since learned to put a brave face on when all anticipation loomed — she smiled, clinked her cup against the others and entertained with the same hand she praised and scolded her other Ladies. Of course, Elizabeth had no clue of what lay beneath the surface when her attention was served towards Amelia Grey, but if all came to be exposed, then only in the moment would she see how one would react.
Whilst preparing for the grand evening to take effect, her entrance with her brother and twin-god Apollo to be set in motion, Elizabeth appealed to her own likeness, softly checking the diadem that lay upon her head whilst fixing the crescent moon that twinkled against any lit candle. She still thought of Robert, of course she did, but all attention was thus set on the evening and how to manoeuvre it to her best advantage. Whilst another maiden tied the back of her dress, yet one more fixing her train of embroidered arrows, Elizabeth almost missed Amelia’s soft voice, her head turned slightly to fix her cousin’s eye.
“That is for me to know and you to find out,” she answered, with little cheer, her eyes then fixed on Amelia in the same way a Huntress would a prey. “And what of you, Theia? Have you a Hyperion in your sights?”
Perhaps Artemis and Elizabeth were equally otherworldly, carrying their godlike authority with a vein of equal parts power and presence, thus, at times, exuding intimidation. Carefully, Amelia watched her princess, allowing herself to take in the subtle contours and angles of her face from her periphery as she fidgeted with a jewel-encrusted clasp settled against Elizabeth’s wrist. Discrete observation - a skill necessity for any wise lady-in-waiting as a matter of survival, the art of silent observation that permitted them to exist within the folds of court life without drawing undue attention. Swanlike in slow-moving grace. Delicate, skimming surfaces, barely causing ripples in their wake. There was no other option. Not when destruction rapped at her door, demanding for a debt owed, unpaid, for rebelling without reservation.
Her father’s daughter indeed. Red, the crimson hair and summer season’s caress of light freckles jutted across where the sun kissed her in summer. The late king Henry once cast similar features in Amelia’s direction as a girl - memories wherein the middle child of the Grey pack absorbed in fragments from her periphery once more, akin to observing a statue, where the entirety was never directly witnessed, but the essence was absorbed within a second’s glance. Henry, who seemed more family than the time that followed, where his descendants were advised to remain wary of such familial blood as Katharine Brandon in lieu of contrasting threats, agendas, hearsay. Stay close, but remain slightly, unavoidably, distant. One day, she could leave. Abandon this post, and join the family her God appointed her. Fulfill duties as wife and mother, evolving from lady-in-waiting like a shedded skin, tired and left to dissolve into a memory.
The second Elizabeth’s striking pair met her own, Amelia carefully reminded herself not to twitch, attempt to show idle habits owned by a woman who would not know the partner awaiting her hand as the music sweeps up. To swallow down all nerves of anticipation, allowing the chance to fall into a dance with her Hyperion. Suppress any flicker of temptation, any slight guilt or fear clouding her eyes into a darker shade of blue. No. Brush away the heat crawling down the pale of her neck from her lady’s speculative assessment, Elizabeth always felt hawkeye in grit, and resolute in aim.
“Me, Your Grace?” Play coy. Offer a tilt of a grin - her mother’s smirk - softened into a half-focussed smile a beat before glancing back at her. “I do not believe a Hyperion exists in this court, my lady. Not anyone deserving of driving the sun-chariot across the sky, or radiant enough to be the sun.” She lilts, and the other ladies smirk slightly at that notion, nodding. “Apart from His Majesty, the king.” A lie, met with a flock of ladies humming in agreement. She lets her lie ruminate, slip off her tongue, down to the floor. For she had seen the court set ablaze in glow, whenever John’s eyes met hers. Pretending to mull over such a question, she withdrew her hand from fabric, stroking her chin. “Should you, huntress, locate a mortal attempting to disguise himself as something so celestial, I *suppose* I shall honour you by acquiescing to some conversation with the stranger.” She sighed, smirking slightly as a familiar flourish. Trying to slow the rattle in her system, she added, “But such surprises may abound, when all mortals act like gods, don’t they? If you know a potential match’s identity with Theia in mind, or scout a Hyperion in our midst, I pray you keep it secret? I shall brave the surprise of a stranger.”
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.
He felt a pang of guilt at how her face fell, at how his own sadness had bled into her. At once it made him move to cup one cheek gently in his hand, tender as he met her gaze. "My love, do not even think it. Nothing shall pull us apart. I swore it the day we were married, and I swear it again now. Nothing can separate that which God has united." He stroked a thumb over her skin, ready if her tears spilled over, his other hand still clutched tightly in her own. She had always been his rock, a place where he might rest his heavy heart, and even this proved to be no exception.
"You need not worry about what must be done. Just now, what matters is that you and Jack are safe. If I can provide nothing else, I wish to ensure that you both feel secure, and loved. The performance is tiring, but it must be continued a little longer." He took a deep breath, gently tugging her so that they were sitting together on the edge of her bed. "I am sorry to bring you worry. You are so good to me, and so brave. I am ashamed to cause you even the slightest ounce of pain." With a faint, tender smile he studied her, soft. "You must be of good cheer. That is all I ask of you now. And to maintain your strength. I know that you can do so."
The earth felt colder daily, ushering ever-closer toward winter’s impatient welcome, chilling window panes and clouding them, and offering a concealed safe haven from discovery. Amelia drifted days without John, instead felt more prisoner than ever - ransomed to remain idle, to consider him stranger. Here, under thick layers of cold rattling the windows, rules were abandoned, truth could be concealed, distorted. Where such a trifling gesture as a touch, a graze of hand against cheek, was a celebration. Freedom. To touch, to love, to exist in tandem.
Hadn’t they always existed in the shadows?
One day, would they ever feel normal, clasping hands, crests imprinted in gold onto their knuckles, within a sea of people?
Nothing can separate that which God has united. Damn him. "I would follow you to Hell with your damned conviction, John Seymour." She mutters before she can help it. Such sentiment evokes a smile, and she blinks away stray tears as though they are insignificant, for they are, the sorrow shall pass if she repeats this mantra. But her cheek's pressed into his grasp, and she leans into him like he can hold her steady, keep her upright, with his words of comfort alone. A lone warmth radiating between the close heat of them. She is tender-moving, malleable on this night, run-down from adapting where she's needed, how she is required, to hold her head high and pretend eliminate guilt, fear, escalating ache of missing a life she hadn't yet fully claimed. Forget the minutes spent sobbing, wailing, when her lady's maid leaves her, carrying another carefully coded letter from the Countess of Hertford to her son's caretaker. Jack, far too young to know, too young to be separated from his mother.
John's voice pulls her back from the chaos, if for a moment's reprieve. Her lips meet his before she can respond, fixated on his gentle smile, and how the joy must sink into her skin from a mere embrace. "Stay with me tonight? If I am to wake tomorrow a maid once more, let me see your face in the sunlight, resting beside me. None shall find us. We can- we can pretend this is our home," She shifts back, laying gently against the mattress to peer up at him, as though it will only cause a more permanent decision on the matter. "We can imagine .... on the morrow we'll ride, come rain or thunder. A feast will await us, my kin shall stay the night in our guest quarters. The home's full, and loud, and the next night, and the night beyond. Dream with me, tonight, on this."
event starter// closed for @thunyielding // preparing the princess elizabeth
Bound. Bound. The word buzzed, a challenge on many fronts, against the curve of her mouth with such incessant stubbornness, that Amelia had to press the plush her lips together tightly shut- grateful to be sheltered from her lady’s hawkeyed gaze as she fastened the princess’ hair for the evening’s pageantry- to swallow down the reminder. Her own intended path was once so clear : second child, second sister, imitating the same steps Phillipa tread by servitude. For no Grey was born without a debt to pay for the good of the family. Following the lead of obligation to elevate the Grey name from risk. Faithful servant, demure maiden.
Attendant to England’s princess, appointed by meticulous orchestration of heritage and necessity, kept at an arm’s length but nestled into the Tudor web, remaining at Elizabeth’s storm-shifting beck-and-call beneath the court’s hypercritical spectators. This was her identity : finding her footwork amongst the ever-shifting tides of Elizabeth’s powerful mind.
Bound. They were bound to each other, Amelia and her lady, by sharing the same ancient blood that soared through sinews and spoke of the same kings, calling upon the same ethereal authority to bless the same ruling ancestors. Shared by Jack, too. How would Bess thunder, lightning strike, should she discover her own lady-in-waiting brought forth to the world a son, both Seymour and Tudor within his bones? Particularly now, as riotous rumours bubbled of another, far more threatening Tudor-Seymour son, haunting Hampton's halls with what if?
Such contemplation felt too loud to even ruminate upon, particularly in the routine order of preparing Elizabeth for the evening’s festivities. Accentuated by a merry hearth, intricately detailing her princess as the huntress, Artemis The silence sounded like it heard every thought. Therefore, the surreptitious Seymour wife, maintaining the guise of a doting young maid, stayed the course… remained shrouded in fine layers of disguise, be it tonight, costume’d and sparkling as goddess Theia, or in plain-dress and skirting throughout this wild court with secrets housed within her.
"My lady, may I ask which courtiers this evening do you wish to turn into stags? Or, shall the goddess Artemis discover a subject to curse into a bear, for the grand entertainment, striking true and steadfast?” There remained a soft fond drift in her voice as Amelia meets Elizabeth’s eye in the mirror’s reflection, smiling gently to herself as she beheld the ethereal awe of Her Highness in Artemis’ likeness.
He could only smile under her tender teasing, John revelling in the soft laughter from her lips. He remained under the sway of love, just as he had in the early days of their courtship together. He had prided himself, always, on maintaining rationality and careful judgment, but Amelia's charm had overridden all carefully laid plans.
"I mean no offense, only I cannot deny the vision I always hold in my mind's eye. Such beauty and sweetness is not easily forgotten." His own tone was light, the words given as sweetly as her kisses. "A most treasured gift, your honour. Within these walls I shall keep it close to my heart." He followed as she led, sitting with her and taking a moment to just memorize the look of her face, treasuring each opportunity he had to do so in safety.
As she spoke, he softened, turning his face slightly into the touch of her hand. "I know," he agreed, quiet. "I miss him as terribly as you must. His joyful spirit. But if I must be parted from him to keep him safe, then it will be worth the price." Meeting her eyes, he hummed, taking one hand in his own. "No news. Only thoughts. I have been so tired of late. Felt so trodden down. These days are so heavy on my soul." He paused then, looking down at their hands. "I do not know what we can do. This stasis cannot last forever, and yet... it seems as if there is no better choice now." He did not have the heart to utter the words that crossed his mind, but Amelia doubtless understood: the bodies in the tower were scarcely cold, and they had committed crimes that were surely lesser than their own.
As their fingers intertwined, the secret countess pressed the pad of index and thumb to trace the outline of the ring he wore, a symbol of his unwavering loyalty to her. The same gold donned in the sanctity of a small country chapel, sheltered from the untamed wilderness and wildness of man beyond its stone walls. Amelia couldn’t shake the memory of their frenzied defiance: driven in a drumbeat quickened pace to matrimony and marriage bed, seeking solace and blessings from above, even as they defied their king's orders and declared allegiance to each other, first and foremost. God blessed their union despite such treasonous action by granting them a son, and thus, as Amelia kneeled beside the king’s own sister in silent prayer day in, day out, she only beseeched the Lord to soften King William’s heart and give them a chance at a life. That life so tangible she could feel it, that life and potential so beautifully lingering in the perhaps.
The once serene smile that used to grace her lips, the same that could effortlessly transform into a feline smirk, as if she held a secret amusement that teased the world, slowly faded as her husband spoke of the bleakness that lay ahead. That glint in her eye so similar to that of her mother's, or perhaps her grandmother's, extinguished, left a smoke hazed expression of fatigue from endless longing. But now, the weight of their secrets and the fear of being discovered pressed heavily, escalating anxiety. Of course, John was right. Dire circumstances only compounded their waiting game. Stay silent forever, or admit truth and face wreck. Still, the naive girl within her - who took John’s hand and ran to rebel for love - felt a pang of restless rebellion, still. Combatting logic that she wished she’d followed more carefully, and action she knew was unavoidable from the moment she first kissed John Seymour.
“We live on borrowed time, John. The longer it stretches, the more I fear we’ll be torn apart forever, or —“ Her words trailed off, her tongue pressed against the soft plush of her cheek, unable to voice the gruesome thought of their ending. She tightened her grip on John’s hand, as if to anchor herself to him, to keep them both from drifting away from each other. “No. For Jack, I shall not say it, either.” She mumbled to herself, to the room, to bring her back to present. Blinks back the blur in her eyes, willing them not to spill down the arch of her cheeks. “We are the writers of our tale! From the beginning, we’ve held the quill, together, have we not? Thus-“ she whispered, nodded, energised with frenzied determination. Her hand, adorned with Tudor, Brandon, Grey, and now concealed Seymour embellishments, brushed against her eye to conceal the tears that threatened to fall.
“Thus- ensure the king sees the light within you that I do. Prove to him your worth- you, John Seymour, bring such value, I see it. Even across a room - when I cannot look at you - I am compelled. We must turn the tides to get what we want, there must be a way. What shall I do, to aid our cause? Tell me - for I’m a wife in a maiden’s guise, a wolf in a sheep’s wool, and I am a poor minstrel. My performance grows stale, dear one. How shall I serve you?”
the apartments had been emptied of straggling servants and favor seekers as eventide dawned upon london, compelling maids to light candles to illuminate the darkened hallways and husbands to return to the comforts of their wives after a day of politicking in the court of elizabeth tudor ─ only a young girl stood before her in plain clothes, poking at the burning embers of the fireplace as the duchess of suffolk finished off her letter with a flourished signature. philippa wanted to avoid rousing suspicion and so would have to entrust the contents of her writings into the hands of the maid that she had brought from bradgate house to hampton court, concealing the recipient of her letter beneath the guise of a note between two sisters separated by distance and duty. it was a pleasant coincidence that young bonnie had an older sister who had her babe around the same time amelia had gone into labor in the privacy of bradgate, allowing the grey women to correspond with the nursemaid charged with the care of jack seymour through the two sister - servants without anyone knowing any better but even with such elaborate steps taken to shroud their conversations, she was filled with an intense sense of anxiety, the trembling of her hand forcing the quill to drag unnecessary ink across the page.
her shoulders flinched slightly as the doors to their apartments parted to allow her sister entry, dark gaze cutting through the dimly lit room to pin amelia in her place as she rose, shoving the letter in the direction of the servant so that it could be enclosed in an envelope and sent out with the first rider of the morning. ❝ you have impeccable timing, sister. i have just finished a letter to dottie. ❞ jack's nursemaid and sister to bonnie. ❝ you may include something in the letter if you wish ... a last note for your son, perhaps, if we are all to meet with our deaths in the coming weeks because of your foolishness. ❞ the gentleness of her tone sharpened at the end of her words, vitriol curling viciously at her upper lip until the disappointment within her was evident on her features. though she had come to like john seymour both as a good brother and a man, philippa knew that all their lives would be easier if her sister had not fallen in love with a seymour, of all people ─ it was unfair that she had to relinquish her grasp on her first love for the good of the family and the future prospects of her sisters, only for amelia to squander the security that she had earned by marrying nicholas sutton on something as insignificant as love.
she could be happy that her sister had found joy in marriage but not at the cost of their lives which, judging by the reappearance of edward seymour, would soon be claimed by the boleyn axe. ❝ a seymour ... a seymour, amelia ! did i not say that this would come back to bite us in the arse ?! ❞ by the desk, bonnie flinched at the crudeness that dripped from her mouth but before her sister, philippa was a storm, a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to uproot everything that held their fragile secret in place if only to save the rest of the family. ❝ we should have told william of the marriage when we first arrived ... how we will do so now without them rightfully suspecting that we are responsible for the man that calls himself edward seymour ? ❞
Her lady holds the throne in their king’s stead. Thick-stoned Hampton walls press ever-inward, though the court of crimson brick and lazy trees should boast of emptier halls stripped of a myriad of faces that Amelia had hovered so near, flittering through duties and dalliances, she could outline their features in her sleep. The young Grey, the secret Seymour, a creature once dedicated to all things seemingly demure, delicate, tailored poise, felt nothing but slow-scratching panic. It gnawed, festered, this fear she could only liken to existential dread resting its weight onto the cold-steel shoulders of young soldiers, conscious they would never return home. At least such souls had earned their honour. What honour was there in this predicament, apart from her own heart’s devotion? Drowning in love, bound to a doomed name still so freshly attached to the monarchy’s threat? Falling so steadfast for John, to the point of clutching onto the ankles of Amelia’s own loved ones - her family, particularly the women she felt were far stronger than herself - and dragging them under to early graves?
Such was the fear hanging in the air. Edward Seymour haunted her - be him alive or dead - slowly attracting the predators to multiply in the excitement of chatter, narrowing her path as she attempted to remain collected within awful predicament. Fear. Guilt. Clinging to her pearls, causing the gold-chain draped over her neck to constrict from the slightest of inhales.
Such was the eve, when desperation accelerated her pace until she nearly ran through her sister’s door. When proximity was a blessing between their duties of separation, Amelia once ambled into Philippa’s bedchamber more nymph-like in her own springtime naivety. She would step with a bounce, the soft sway of her lips would curve into mischief riddled with honey-thick confidence, revelrous mischief, to gossip or confess over trivial topics that felt magnanimous. Her sister, her protector, who could smile and set the world on fire from its glow. Now, she was suffocating. Hand, the very same adorned with her concealed matrimonial ring strewn on her trembling finger, clutching her skirts in silent panic, knuckles white.
“Pippa-” She calls out to the dim expanse of the duchess’ room before she can stop herself, the name shaking, as if just beckoning for her sister could explain the amount of hopeless questions spinning in her head. Greeted by understandably cool reception as Amelia closes the space between them, eyes too blurry to view Philippa clearly. Falling silent, lips pursed for the sobering possibility of never holding her son again. “God, I beg of you, do not speak such words- I cannot – I will not - ” She breathes but can’t inhale. Blinking away a sting to no avail, flustered, prepared to drop to her knees and cry as though they were children once more. But instead she places her hands on each of her sister’s arms, just to feel her, no matter how rightfully scorned she felt. “Tell me what to do? Give me your council? How many years have I asked for the same?” Rambling, foolish, she leans into the elder Grey’s shoulder, trembling a whisper, “I love you Pip– and I do not deserve your devotion, but I’m not above begging for your sharp wit and tactic to quell any rumour. If not for myself, for John — for my son’s sake. For your nephew. How would you navigate this?”
Notable connected families: Parr, Grey, Tudor
Family motto: Foy pour devoir (Faith for duty)
Family symbols: Red field with a joined pair of golden wings
Her gentle nature was exactly what he needed, a comfort that immediately soothed the heavy weight that lingered over his mind. He felt a sense of relief even as he looked at her across the room, her soft smile bringing peace. This was why he had fallen in love with her, he thought; why he had risked so much to take her as his own. She had such power over him to soothe his tired mind, even without meaning to.
"And how may I prove myself to you, my lady?" He asked, playing along with her little game even as she stepped closer. "Shall I speak sweet nothings that only you know? Regale you with tales of nights we have spent in each other's arms?" He stroked back a few wisps of golden hair, uncovered due to the late hour and her status, to all but a few, as an unmarried woman. "Shall I tell you how beautiful you are?" He smiled then, a little coy. "Recount the pattern of freckles that dot your shoulders? Surely that is something only your beloved would know." After a moment, he indulged a brush of lips against her own, soft. "Are you well, my darling? I hate to spend so much time away from you. Not knowing how you pass your days."
John is goldspun: Amelia was too transfixed on the notion, swept up in the tides of their early ascent into something inescapable for them both - of their burgeoning evenings colliding at court, where the second lady Grey failed to avoid watching his glow in her periphery. Cautious of his name, like a curse of misfortune and treachery, hanging across his shoulders, but craving to bask in that light he emitted from presence, alone. Stubborn force veiled under delicacy was in her nature- she evolved compulsive to feeling that same rush of having him near. Craving him all the more from forced absence, seeking fire for a trace of him - that soft radiance. He was everywhere: visible to her eye, hidden under dire constraint of secrecy. The morning’s sun casting rays onto the River Thames through hazy clouds at Hampton. The dying fireglow as her lady’s maids prodded and poked against charred kindling in the thick silence of greeting sleep. Hearth and candles and torches, they paled in comparison for his kindred heart- even stars that dotted the same navy skies that generations of strong-headed women and kings in her bloodline spent nights studying in boundless beauty, dimmed for his impact within her.
Nothing could smoke out her affections for him, no matter how often she’d tried in vain, secretly within the confines of her own doubt and fear.
When the earl closed the scant space between them, and the portraits keeping watch were blinded in the shadow of night, freedom’s seclusion allotted relief. A tease of his touch. His voice, curving like his grin, adding to the soothing rush brushing down her neck, swan-graced in tilt toward him, from mere graze of his fingers. Unable to hold back a faintest of laughter until his mouth met her own, and her eyes lingered closed to remember this feeling, to store it when she had to rely on memory. “You dare to imply such a maiden is memorised so completely by a lover? The princess Elizabeth’s lady? By my honour, I shan’t hear a word of it- lest you wish to keep your tongue- ” Her words, soft and luminous in faint musicality of a tease despite the truth in the gravity, her brows bounced in subtle feline spark of mischief, her lips remained so near to John’s that she planted one more kiss to accentuate her youthful game ending. “Though perhaps luck casts its eye on you, for my honour within these four walls belongs to my husband… Lay down all other thought at the door, rest with me .” Smile shifted into a smirk, tired eyes flashing with life, taking in his visage like it’s home. Gently smoothing her palms along his neck, his jaw, to draw him near and comfort him from the day’s challenge in her embrace, before slowly taking a gentle step backwards, expecting to perch them atop a fine-cushioned bench.
How did she fare? Days spent in service, carefully remaining under close-eye of her peers, mindful of keeping up appearances but weary of toeing the line of mortal giveaway, ruining her own secret with any misstep. Aching for a son she could not call her own completely, not yet. “This charade, this test we must endure is taking over my days. My mind runs from this court, this place - to take you, to flee to Jack. He’s growing, John.. so fast I am told that his nursemaid studies his face and marvels at how steadily he evolves, how his lionhearted behaviour takes shape. With your eyes.” She bragged as she drifted her thumb’s pad across his cheekbone, his brow bone, framing the features he gave to their sweet son. Smiling to herself, as her hands gently drifted to her sides. “When can this end? Will it? What news have you?”
though she would have liked nothing more than to sit dutiful by the feet of her mother as the interiors of their apartments in hampton court were upended to make place for the clucking of french hens and fashions that had been lugged through the countryside of france to dover and then to hampton, certain arrangements could not be so easily disregarded ─ even when she had offered to stay behind and abandon her younger sister to the wolves of court, philippa had been waved off for being a fussing nag, concern furrowing at her brows whenever her mother pressed a bejeweled hand to the span of her belly. the morning had been productive once she had allowed herself to participate in the game of bowls, emerging victorious in three rounds and in rubbing elbows with the scottish guests that had followed mary stuart and appearing without a care, a feat made easier by the presence of her mother, awaiting for them back in their apartments. with her cheeks flushed by the rare sighting of the sun, the duchess of suffolk kept her arm interlocked with her sister as they spoke of the game in hushed tones, whispers punctured only by bursts of laughter after a rather cruel but true observation was shared.
the doors parted to permit them entrance and her gaze immediately took in the gold hanging from the windows, amusement thinning her mouth as she pressed her lips together to keep from giggling at the overt display of wealth and french - favored decor ─ as her eyes fell upon the woman behind such a change, philippa knew that she should have known better than to doubt katherine brandon's ability to get the job done regardless of an unsettled stomach. her mother was unconquerable with an army of servants at her disposal and a sudden burst of fondness for the older woman had her parting from her sister's side to glide ( or run, though philippa would never admit to hastening her steps for anyone if asked ) towards her mother, pressing a quick kiss to katherine's cheek as her fingers brushed against the cloth - of - gold like a raven captivated by a glistening curtain.
❝ mother … ❞ her voice was weighed with feigned exhaustion by the conversation even if the corners of her mouth curled up mischievously. ❝ while i am most delighted by the prospect of new gowns in the french cutting, i am afraid nicholas cares little for my style of dress so long as it remains on the floor of our bedchambers. ❞ turning her eyes to her sister, philippa squinted at the countess of hertford, warning her not to take any sides in the age - old conflict between mothers and their married daughters though, unable to resist biting at amelia, she continued. ❝ what does john think of the french necklines, sister ? perhaps it is you who will sate our mother's unquenchable demand for grandchildren once again. ❞ // @myladygrey
No matter what age, title or circumstance Amelia has witnessed the Grey women face in their glimmering echelons of duty and drive whilst separated, it was their assemblance together- reuniting stars forming one united constellation, that could blind an onlooker ( she’d hoped to blind the many courtiers who observed the Grey ladies glide with baited breath in the evolving midst of seastorm wavering tensions ). Perhaps a meteor shower, forged from both their heavenly birthright and inherited firework wit, was the solution to all their strife - toils and dangers that hung in the air, grew stale from its unwelcome company.
Court’s riotous action, Amelia’s whirlwind agenda of attendance, her efforts to appear as that of a rose-cheeked, virtuous maiden fluttering about with the same spark-eyed innocence she once honed so expertly clawed at her conscience. Nevertheless, she donned her disguise of ease, ripe for public display. Served her princess, participated in games, gossip, but felt the ache for home- for her family, son- softened as she gravitated to the Duchess of Suffolk’s side. As a child, she’d have followed Pippa anywhere. As a woman, she delighted in their bout of sunlit revelry. Whispers in ears, unintended song of laughter bouncing through the archways. The same within he bounce in her lips, easier to form. A laugh, lighter to release. With each tandem step away from crowds, toward their matronly leader, Amelia flashed back through countless memories of the same warmth and life.
Katharine Grey resembled Mother Mary within their familial quarters, the focal point of gold-threaded mastery framing her form with the flourish only she deserved. Amelia’s neck nearly swan tilted with intrigue, gasping at the flamboyant improvement and the delight in seeing her. How deeply she’d adored her lady mother. Stepping into the invisible footprints made by her older sister - the little duckling habit of following Pippa in line- to greet their mother. Stepping with a restrained eager bounce beneath her skirt, failing to conceal a coy smile as she kissed both of Katharine’s cheekbones, pearl headpiece rattling in the embrace before stepping back to shoot Philippa a haughty little smirk.Words lilting in toying merriment, releasing a singular laugh. “With my record thus far? Rest assured, I am sure to build you both an army! Devoted, spoiled grandchildren of our lady mother, but also - undoubtedly - nephews and nieces who favour their aunt? I swear, my feet shall fall off entirely from chasing Jack as he grows. He’ll be hellbent on following you both through life, prepare yourselves accordingly.” Her smile grows at the mere thought of her son aging with spirit, fire: rambunctious, strong, and so loved. Feigning frustration, she placed the back of her hand to her forehead as she swayed toward the pitcher of wine readied for them, pouring three goblets’ worth. “When will you afford me the same luxury of earning your child’s idolisation? I’m owed it!” She winked over her shoulder, retorting in their little game.
Dark circles lay under John’s eyes, exhaustion marking the lines of his face. Any onlooker might be able to tell that he had suffered poor sleep in the wake of the executions that still seemed to ring through the halls of the palace. He suffered, too, in the fact that his sleepless nights were required to be spent alone. For the greater good, he knew, but in the hardest moments, that was little comfort. He had come only because he could no longer think not to - needing to indulge his selfish desires and find some comfort in Amelia’s embrace and tender words.
Dinner had just concluded as he was let into the family’s space, navigating the path which he was finding to be well trod, where he knew his wife would be. The furrow of his brow softened as he pushed the door open slowly, tilting his head as he admired her for a second without speaking, the sheen of gold hair in the firelight. “I hope you will not resent my intrusion,” he said quietly, announcing himself so as not to startle her. “I simply… needed to see you for a few minutes.”
There lingers an ethereal haunt when living in secrecy. Energy- what *could be* manifesting in a lull between an adrenaline compound of flitting throughout a lion’s court in an effort to remain inconspicuous. Fleeting moments within he emptiness of a quiet room, walls padded in tapestry, comforted by hearth’s tangerine light, stark contrast to swish of fine fabrics blending with hot-tongued gossip. A trick of the eye, a sick game, Amelia surmised - for in her periphery, when granted bouts of solitude, Amelia saw him so clearly: the warmth John radiated in presence, alone, gleaming just beyond her reach. Akin to a glittering treasure her mother retrieved from her countless appearances from court to court when Amelia was a child- tempting to hold, yet forbidden to have completely.
Her own mind painted a vision of how every evening should be, imagining him admiring her. The freedom in such action: a husband returning home, a space he had claimed and declared , proudly, as theirs. A son bouncing in his arms, their fresh babe’s laughter enough to revive the most bitter and cold of hearts.
How could she daydream so fervently about a life with him, when time rolled onward and a resolution seemed distant? How could she stand it for much longer?
Such reality was so tangible, so close and thus - so painful in this period of trial and risk - Amelia had to shut her eyes to will away the fantasy. Managing through strict stubbornness to avoid catching his eye in a crowded room, to preoccupy herself with folly of new dresses, rumoured suitors for her fellow ladies, and forced chirping over the latest superficialities of spectacle and performance at Hampton. Rehearsed enough to remain poised, blasé, muting the uneasy galloping of her conscience as it slowly chipped away at her.
Shrouded in her own chamber within the fine Grey quarters, soothed by the beeswax candles, the fabrics reminiscent of her grandmother’s noble birth, ears perked as she heard her vision of John speak. “How can I resent a dream manifested before me? I require proof you are real, sir. This instant, I insist.” She teased, the husk in her silken voice tired, relieved, though retaining her own faint Grey bounce of dark humour. The curve of her lips, pushing up in warm mischief. An arch of her brow, teasing, toying.
Winter eyes held his for as long as she was able. She yearned to stretch out the seconds, if only to keep the view for herself.
Slowly, cautiously, she glided toward him. Drifted her fingertips, knuckles coated in various delicate rings, against the summer hues of his beard, slid her touch against his jaw, curled him closer toward her as though to inspect him. “Perhaps you resemble what’s mine so well… but how am I to know it’s you? Show me.” The smirk stretched, gentle hint of a smile she stored only for him. Offering playful distractions from the sleepless world awaiting them beyond her door as her spare palm drifted to his shoulder.
Amelia : deriving from amal, “work” - connoting industriousness, fertility
pronunciation : am+ EEL + ee + uh, gr + AY.
monikers : Lia, Amy
status : Countess of Hertford (in secret), Lady Grey
age & d.o.b : Twenty-six & 01 January 1533.
status / rank : Nobility, second granddaughter of Queen Mary Tudor of France, Princess of England.
country of origin : England
place of birth : Bradgate house, Bradgate park, Leicestershire.
birth order : Middle daughter of three
mother & father : Katharine Brandon, Dowager Duchess of Suffolk | Henry Grey, 1st Duke of Suffolk, 3rd Marquess of Dorset.
siblings : Phillippa Grey, Duchess of Suffolk, Eleanor Grey, Lady Grey
sexuality : Heterosexual
horoscope : Capricorn
virtues : Courage, Compassionate, Generous
vices : Proud, Impulsive, Rehearsed
marital status : Secretly wed to John Seymour, Earl of Hertford ( c. 1558 )
issue : John “Jack” Seymour ( b. 1558 in secret )
religion : Catholic in secret
allies : The Seymours, the Courtenays
adversaries : The Boleyns and descendants
𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄
1528 : John Seymour is born to Edward Seymour & Catherine Filiol, Earl and Countess of Hertford
1533 : Amelia is born second child and second daughter to the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, Henry Grey and Katharine Brandon, on New Year’s Day, 1533. She joins sister Phillippa Grey.
1534 : Eleanor is born to the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk
1535: Countess of Hertford dies
1536 : Edward Seymour, son of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, is born
1537 : The Seymour Subterfuge at Tower Green: Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, dies
1538 : Amelia commences a strong education at Bradgate House - deemed essential for young ladies of her rank and status - principles of arithmetic, grammar, history, reading, spelling, and writing. Languages. Includes learning the necessary education regarding dancing, embroidery, etiquette, household management, music, needlework, singing, cards, chess. She was also taught archery, falconry, riding, and hunting.
1546 : Phillippa is invited to serve as Queen Anne’s maid of honour. Amelia follows suit later that year, with an invitation to join Princess Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting, venturing between Hatfield House, Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace. A warrant is signed for the queen’s arrest, though abolished through the king and queen’s reconciliation. Thomas Cromwell is stripped of his title as Earl of Essex.
1552 : Catholic and Protestant tensions rise at court
1556 : Henry Grey dies. The Duke of Suffolk title reverts to the Crown, despite protest from the Greys to maintain their title and lands due to such a transition. Phillippa is arranged to marry Nicholas Sutton-Dudley, thus able to retain the dukedom of Suffolk, though the land is tied to her intended.
1557 : Henry VIII dies, William is crowned king. Princess Elizabeth and her ladies join the king at his court, Amelia follows. Phillippa weds the Duke of Sufflolk.
1557: Amelia falls hard and fast for John Seymour, Earl of Hertfordshire.
1557: Amelia weds John Seymour in a clandestine ceremony
1558: Amelia returns to Bradgate, and her son, John “Jack” Seymour, is born in summer. Amelia is back in court by winter 1558.
1558 : Hugh Courtenay, Earl of Devon - a leading supporter of the Grey’s- is executed.
1559 : The court celebrates the marriage of Anne Boleyn to Thomas Wyatt.
𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘
Henry Grey spent the first sundown of 1533, nestled within the warmth of Bradgate House, in mourning: his second child born female, a failed attempt at hereditary security for the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk. Amelia’s bloodline overwhelmed the small vision of a newborn babe: she, the product of the established noble Grey’s and granddaughter to Mary Tudor, the Queen of France. Woven into a family with an intimidating lineage and rumoured Catholic sympathies. No son, no heir, was fated for Henry Grey and Katharine Brandon - instead Amelia, much like her sisters, was equipped with expectation for accolade and influence. Thus inheriting ancestral desire, to achieve a far greater purpose than herself.
Amelia’s transformative years consisted of building education like armour. The middle child trailing Phillippa’s footsteps and learning from her elder sister’s example, whilst guiding Eleanor’s in tow, hand outstretched behind her. Three Grey girls devouring letters sent by their mother spent in rich tutelage within the expansive Leicestershire grounds of Bradgate House. Initially a shy little creature, but perceptive, malleable, curious, Amelia was afforded expansive lessons, her preferred subjects blending with the art of charm- dancing, singing, literature. Desperate for her father’s approval, for her mother’s pride. Anticipating a life of content servitude to solidify her family’s seat. As her age progressed, she sought to emulate the qualities she’d seen her mother master. A necessity for a Grey, lest weakness for a movement’s folly turn ruinous.
As the Grey girls rehearsed their roles, so too did England watch her family in bubbling anticipation: Phillippa served as the queen’s maid of honour in an arranged attempt to quell rumours of rebellion. Shortly after her dear sister’s departure, Amelia joined the Princess Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting at her court in Hatfield House. The world grew wider as she served Elizabeth, travelling between Hatfield, Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace. So, too, did Amelia’s circle of spectators and companions. Ever committed to her own disarming role of grace, gentleness, poise, combatting the unyielding fears of familial ruin that rattled her system.
Upon the death of her father, the Grey’s title and subsequent lands were stripped and reverted to the Crown’s rule. Phillippa is arranged in matrimony to salvage their ties to the duchy of Suffolk - a stark reminder of their servitude to the name Grey. Maintain, advance, thrive. There is no room for otherwise, in such critical times. No. She shall have no mercy, a vow she repeats within the introspection of her mind.
No mercy. Here, the girl evolves into woman, and the story’s pace accelerates- a hum approaching, unavoidable, undecipherable. Racing, racing, toward a fate of a new calibre.
She sparks throughout the new king’s court as the next Grey daughter to wed, lady-in-waiting to Princess Elizabeth and hellbent on tailoring herself as a prime prospective bride. She manages to amass decent traction as arrangements are discussed, teasing in nonsense of courtly love, poetry, delicate dances of targeted admiration.
Fate is twisted, cruel, shifts beautiful amongst the chaos. The warning signs etched into her system fade into the ether as she falls for John Seymour. Avoidant, initially - but unable to deny their disruptive connection, Amelia delves into a secret affair that shatters the years of work she’s spent finessing. The Grey service she’s devoted her life to protect.
John becomes part of what she swears to protect: her purpose strays from the primed path and paves a way with him, together. Rebellious and reckless, the pair wed in secret. The middle Grey daughter flees to Bradgate House, gives birth to their son, John “Jack” Seymour, for only the trusted few and the walls of her family estate to know.
Jack is born, but Amelia still carries with her the fates of all those tied within her web of success and duty, and all the enemies awaiting her demise. Her son’s, her husband’s, her families. Thus, she returns to court for the wedding of Anne Boleyn as Lady Grey, anxiously, agonisingly concealing her marriage and motherhood until the opportune moment arises. Transfixed on aiding her family however she can, when her own actions brought forth a dangerous vulnerability.
