LUST FOR / 𝑳𝑰𝑭𝑬

𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚 , duke of northumberland. associated with bloodydayshqs.

[commiebeatle]

RICHARD PEPPER as daddy/hot THOMAS BOLEYN, EARL OF WILTSHIRE in THE SPANISH PRINCESS (2020)

[ncrthumberlands]

janeofnorthumberland​:

The glass was a welcome one.  Jane inhaled the scent gratefully before sipping delicately at the delicious contents: sweep and ripe and full.

Hearing him own her own opinion to be truest, and making an exception of her own case, Jane laughed relented slightly (such endorsements of her own pride often stimulated a more lenient view from the Duchess).  “I may own, however, that there may be some advantages to the scheme in a stalwart and strident character.  I saw too many of my classmates abroad spoiled by the wantoness of foreign regimes, but to a sturdy character, the viewing of such temptations – and the sorry ends they conjured – many be a boon.  I daresay, I was strengthened in my own convictions, observing such things.  Yet, even so, I do not think that kind of resolve yet belongs to Henry’s constitution – Eleanor, perhaps, could be further promoted by such an experience, but not, I fear, our boy.”

In some ways, Jane had yet to learn that Henry was a man grown and not still a tender babe.  Eleanor’s maturity was all too clear to the woman – striking and clear – but her views upon her son remained clouded by his status as younger.  To the firstborn fell all the responsibilites – too the younger ones, all the joys.  Too lately she had clutched his tiny, chubby fist in her own, too lately cradled him upon her shoulder to sooth his aches and fears.

“But I must agree with you upon that point,” she added.  “If unorthodox, I would not change our ways for the world, for they have yielded results which are, to me, the mark of every good and lovely thing, and which carve out our existence as dear.  Our Eleanor and I may fall into dispute, but I am proud to own her my daughter and believe, fully, that England could not wish for a more splendid queen.”  Smiling softly, she tilted her head, observing her husband.  “And, though our son is to you a source of some…apprehension for the future, is there any creature with a better soul?  No, I would not change a thing.  Besides, even if his nature does not steady, we may rely upon our Eleanor to steer the duchy right, when we are gone.”  She paused.  “And upon Henry’s wife – which is why we must be most scrupulous in her selection.”

Smiling softly, Jane put aside her drink and came towards him, touching his shoulder gently.  “Your mother – dear Lord rest her soul – may have been right in some points, my dear, and you are right in nearly all.  Though I do not much like to admit it, Henry is perhaps not made of the stern stuff which first animated his ancestors, but that may, in itself, be a good thing.  Our young monarch is new and not in need of a Hotspur to entangle his arrangements.  Henry’s nature, in and of itself, may well safeguard him against the errors which brought misfortune upon his forebearers.  But his is capable, too, and may well become a great duke someday.”  

She touched his arm gently and smiled before standing back a touch, her brow arching.  “As one trains a horse, my love – step by step.  We human beings have a love of freedom, so let it be his choice to follow in your footsteps: but see to it that he has no otherr.  Never – and this is most important – let him see that he is being led.”

Smiling softly as Richard spoke of the sweet qualities which Eleanor had from her mother, Jane laughed softly.  “Is that how you see me?” she inquired as, softly, he caressed her skin, and she smiled up into his eyes.  “I find I quite like the portrait.”

“Grand mère,” she mused.  “Oh, yes, I quite like the sound of that.  And what of you, my love?  Grand père?  Or something else?”  She grinned, shaking her head.  “If they all have the good sense of their grandfather, they will,” she laughed.  “But I can say without any trace of doubt that they shall all admire and adore you, my dear, for that is the only possible result of knowing you.”

           Richard’s gaze narrowed as Jane’s lip swept across the rim of the chalice, her dark eyes fluttering closed as she indulged.  Sweetness personified, hearty and full, the blood of Christ stained the crest of the Duchess’ mouth as her gaze lifted up to meet his, head tilted askew on her neck.  His own countenance creasing warmly in turn, the duke proposed, ‘on the topic of the French court, there is talk that the king looks to an alliance with Francis.’  His words were spoken in a flat mutter, divested of any detail that could inculpate the pair of conspiracy.  At any rate, Jane would find little difficulty in connecting the dots: if England did not strike an alliance with France, Spain might – delivering a devastating blow unto William, if not the entire realm of England.  She knew, as well as any, Queen Mary would be the first to clout a country of so-called heretics.  ‘Who he intends to make his sacrificial lamb - himself or the Princess - remains to be seen.’  His eyes seek hers, solemnly.  ‘We will see to it that the decision does not result in a French queen.’  

Richard’s hand reached out to cusp the apple of Jane’s cheek, his thumb roving over her soft flesh.  Sobriety vanished from his face, usurped by something balmy, and affectionate.  ‘In due course, howbeit.  I have every intention of enjoying the imminent festivities.  Perhaps you yourself will even find a moment of undisturbed pastime.  Would that not be something indeed?’  The summer had, after all, not brought with it the usual leisure and placid recreations associated with gentler climes: Alnwick had been abuzz with preparations, making ready for the arrival of the king and his council.  Demurring, momentarily, from her glazed-black gaze, the duke relieved his chalice of its contents with another moderated sip.  ‘I hear that the king is off at Greenwich on most nights, with a cabal of gentlemen. Courtenay, Cavendish.  Has Henry made any mention of such accommodations?’ 

Richard nearly pulled a face at the mention of a Percy queen.  He leant back, cushioned by the high-back chair, and steepled his fingers against its ornately carved, wooden arms – a manifestation of nerves.  ‘Take care, Jane. This court has eyes and ears everywhere.’  Jane’s boldness had veered upon recklessness, her fervor upon mania; though he could never fault her for it.  Temperamentally, they were far cries from one another.  He trekked, carefully, toward glory; Jane trotted on, undaunted.  He both admired and feared it in her.  ‘No harm may befall Nell - not ever.  Nor you, nor our family.’ 

Studying the dark oak table, the knots in the polished wood that appeared to leer at him, Percy leant his head back with a fine crackle of laughter.  ‘Grand-père, certainly.  Robust, stern, yet compassionate.  Of course, they may also address me as ‘papa,’ as the children did ere.’  A wily smile quirked at the corners of his lips.  ‘I fear we will be forever forced to vie for our children’s - and now grandchildren’s - affections, though to your goodness, I would happily concede first place.  There is no one more deserving than you, sweet Jane.’  

[ncrthumberlands]

@eleanor-percy / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.

           The sound of children’s laughter touched Richard’s countenance with a warm smile as his hands came neatly together, clasped with a Tyndale Bible at his centre.  The courtyard was bursting with merriment, teeming with the scent of sweet dew that glittered across the park as the sun’s light caught the edge of sharpened shards of grass.  Beneath, the duke’s boots with fresh sludge, dampened by the bloodshed of a tourney two mornings past.  Such exhilarations had ebbed away, replaced by the children brandishing their ribbons in the square, their little throats reverberating with a shrill glee that brought Heaven itself to its knees.  Coaxed into a moment of reflection, Richard just scarcely took note of the dark-haired figure that crept silently across the lawn toward him, joining him at his side.

His grin grew wider, yet, as he tilted his head toward her.  He’d been faithful to the idea of being an impartial father – though not so impartial, strived he, as to be described as apathetic – but there was little doubt in the Percy family that Eleanor occupied a special place in his heart, unfulfilled by any other.  ‘Ma dame fille,’ greeted the duke, invoking the French tongue his wife had often employed to dote upon the children.  Had he yielded to his mother’s exhortation, Eleanor might have herself been dispatched to Paris – or a neighboring peeress’ household – to obtain an education, but his protestations had seen that proposal swiftly squared away.  ‘I was only just contemplating what else could make this morning more pleasant, save for my own daughter?’ 

Gently prodding for any tidbit of secrecy she possessed, he inquired: ‘I trust you are recovered from the pageant? Your brother is still nursing one of his megrims.  He says the airs overcome him – little wonder, for he reeks of an alehouse.’ 

[ncrthumberlands]

janeofnorthumberland​:

Jane grinned.  “Oh, sin, what of it?”  She shook her head, faintly aware of her bejeweled earrings jangling upon her lobes.  “No.  We are good Christian people.  Our only treachery has been an excess of devotion, I think.  Our children have come to expect it.”  She flashed a smile.  “But I find I cannot rue it.”  Her eyes settled upon his as, slowly, she tilted her head and arched a single brow.  “Can you?”

Love had not, perhaps, been the impetus behind their marriage, but it had come with it.  Yet, it was not simply good fortune which had brough them to this.  Good fortune had not been found, no, but excavated.  A good marriage was not happenstance: it was dedication, and like all partnership, required give and take – which was its beauty, also.  

She laughed, shaking her head.  “Oh, the continent.  Absurd.  He is English, through and through.  The continent, as I myself may testify, can do a world of good for girls, but for boys, I think not.  French manners would not suit the future Duke of Northumberland.”  

But this was an argument she had had before: the late Dowager Duchess making her arguments and Jane making her own.  They had fallen to a manner of blaming their origins for opposing opinions – of Jane she would say ‘it is that Shrewsbury way of thinking which has her muddled,’ and Jane was justify her mother-in-law’s ideas with a similar, if opposite, rebuke, linking her thought process to Devon.  How clear a line of cause-and-effect any of this truly came out to be was uncertain, but it was as clean a method of othering an opposing opinion as Jane had ever encountered, and she had adopted it, immediately.

“He may still aid us, your brother.  That is – whatever sweetness of memory the Queen may yet bear him.  Who knows, had things been different…but, then, they were not.”

Watching her husband’s eyes stray to the portrait of his late brother, Jane felt a touch of sadness and, impulsively, she took his hand.  “Henry will not meet that end.  You and I will ensure it.  He has only the fancies of youth, and youth – as the late king used to say – ‘must have some dalliance,’ and with the right company it may well be sured up.”  She paused.  “I know I am given, much, to defending him, and I may well jest that it is my right as a mother, but truly I see no fault in him that comes from a mean or evil nature: only inexperience, of which time cures us all.”

But this was an old argument, too.  As Eleanor was Richard’s own darling, Henry was hers.  Oh, she did not speak openly of favorites and, indeed, imagined that she had none, but Henry brought ease and comfort to her mind: he was not so purposefully argumentative as his sister and Jane, for one, trusted most in her own counsel, which made the child who was more apt to listen, also more agreeable.

She laughed as he spoke of Eleanor.  “For that much,” she agreed in regard to their mothers.  “We may, all of us, count ourselves lucky.  But you cut yourself short, my love: there is her father, too, in that girl.”  She smiled, softly, shaking her head.  “You are just there in the twinkle of her eye; in the way her mouth curves into a smile, and in the flick of her wrist.”  She touched his temple tenderly with her fingertips.  “And here, and in her brows, and her mind.”  She touched his chin.  “And here.  My own darling, she is not so much her mother’s daughter, perhaps, as her father’s.  It is the reason that, even when she does not listen, I cannot long remain angry with her.”  A smile tugged at the edge of her lips.  “But, yes, I will own that her stubbornness – that is all mine.”

Hearing him speak of his sister, she nodded.  “Oh, quite.  Did they much resemble one another in childhood, as well?”  She smiled.  “I think the two of you must have been quite the pair when you were children.”

Laughing, she tilted her head.  “Both are shockingly informal,” she japed.  “’Grandmama, I have stubbed my toe,’ they shall say, and I shall correct them: ‘Your Grace, Duchess of Northumberland, I have stubbed my toe.’  It will teach them the proper respect that we failed to instill in their parents.”

Grinning, she shook her head.  “I think it rather too severe upon nunneries – and over generous with the ladies of court,” she laughed.  “No, the only thing that will do for our Henry is a sensible woman with a fine sense of humor, but I daresay we may despair already of such a match: those are two fine qualities which, I fear, seldom come hand-in-hand.  We are more likely to see him wed to the Archduchess within the fortnight,” she teased.  “Than see him wed to such a creature from the English court.”

         The discussion called for malmsey.  Richard stood to his feet and walked to the corner of the chamber, where resting on the windowsill was an English-cut crystal decanter.  He availed himself to a chalice – but not before fixing Jane with one of her own – and drank from it quietly, heartily.  As the sweetened, slightly tart brew lapped at his lips, the duke’s head cocked in contemplation.  His Parisian sojourns were infrequent, encouraged by royal decree, but still he bore little good-will to the traditions of hedonism therein.  Few souls entered and exited the court with their virtue and their honour intact.  Thinking on it, Richard’s shoulders loosened. ‘No,’ he admitted, resolved.  ‘I cannot imagine bringing up the children in any other method than ours – though the great joys and happiness in our family may be unorthodox.  On the contrary, exposure to the French court at such an impressionable age may well do more harm than good.’  

Percy’s lips fashioned into a generous concession as he touched the rim of his chalice to hers, affable.  ‘Not, of course, in your case, my darling.’

Neither priests nor apothecaries could have liberated Henry Percy from the perils of an untimely death, this Richard knew, yet he also knew that the glories and positions of power he’d been lavished with in this world were consequences of his brother’s demise.  The cloth – or perhaps a vocation abroad – would have beckoned Richard had it not been for Henry’s passing, though no one could have accused him of failing to make the most out of the opportunities Henry’s tomb unleashed to him.   He’d been ever a consummate duke.  A loyal Englishman.  Doting spouse; generous father.  Richard could only fathom to what unknown ruin Henry would have brought Northumberland – and shuttered to think his own son would tempt the same fate.

Richard exhaled sharply.  ‘He has had more than enough time,’ he countered gruffly, ‘he does not have the constitution to be stiffened up.  I do not begrudge his generosity, his unworldliness… but I will not have him play the part of a fool.’  With the pad of his thumb, Percy rubbed away the crease forming betwixt his brows.  ‘Listen to me - I sound like my mother, God forbid!  You are more patient than I, Jane.  Council me, how do I mold the son I cherish into the duke I would will him to be?’  

‘But Eleanor does not have my dark moods.  Nor my tendency to retreat into my study,’ he mused aloud.  ‘She is all light and wonder.’  Setting his chalice aside, Richard brought his hands to rest on Jane’s shoulders, brushing aside the dark hair that tumbled down her neck, relishing in the softness of her skin.  ‘I have it.  What about grand mère?  That would suit you, darling.  Certainly less stilted than ‘my lady grandmother.’’  He leant down and brushed his lips against her cheek, before seating himself once more.  ‘Regardless, I have little doubt that our children’s children will adore you.  How could they not?’ 

[ncrthumberlands]

janeofnorthumberland​:

Despite herself, Jane laughed.  Hers was no twinkling bell, no twittering rhythm to charm the senses without merriment, no.  It was a real thing, solid and broad, and her lips quirked quickly into a loop as she shook her head.  “Poor boy,” she commented, tone turning teasing as she continued to speak.  “He does not have that trait from me, so you must be at fault here.”  Yet, the jest lay in the truth they both knew, that if either of his parents were like to evoke the king’s ire from a lack of forethought, it was, indeed, Jane – but the comparison between mother and son in that line ended there, for garrulous she had never been, if perhaps at times she had been rash.

Their children were, of course, entirely their own souls, but – though in this instance she was certainly jesting – she did, indeed, enjoy tracing those lines that ran between the generations, linking them across the spiritual plane, across time, across all uncertainty.  She remembered well and good when first she’d held her squalling babes to her breast, each in turn, how she’d traced her fingers across their own tiny digits and thought how time would see them grow, grow, grow until they were quite themselves.  She’d imagined, then, that the changes wrought would see them turn less like their forebears, but in that much, at least, she had proven quite wrong.  Though their children rarely took note, Jane was forever catching an expression that was Richard’s in their eyes or a tilt of the chin inherited from herself – when most they tried to pull away from their parents, she found, the similarities appeared most striking.

“He is young, yet,” she added.  “There is time for him to learn.”  This was an eternal hope, but one which promised much hope.  Indeed, his spontaneous nature was one of the things she most loved about her son, but she did have her concerns.  What sort of duke would he make?  And, perhaps more to the point, with a tongue like his and a king like theirs, how long was he like to last as such?

“Oh, it was yesterday,” she purred.  “I think it they who have forgotten it, which is why it is so irksome to them that we must recall.”  Chuckling, she shook her head.  “But I have no intention of allowing any willfulness of spirit in them to clash long with our own,” she added.  “Upon that you may depend.”

Smiling, Jane laughed again.  “Grandchildren!  Now there is a thought, indeed.  I confess, there is a small part of me which will relish those moments when, inevitably, our children come to us complaining of the willfulness of their children.  But, then, if all goes to plan, a little willfulness of spirit will do well in our daughter’s offspring.  After all, who would not applaud a child of such a bloodline who knows their own mind?”  A prince, she thought.  A princess: our efforts enthroned.  Yes, she liked the thought of that very well, indeed.

“Speaking of such inheritance,” began Jane, thoughtfully.  “It is doubtless well past time we return to the topic of Henry’s marriage.  Is there any young lady, as yet, who strikes your fancy as a match for him, this season?”

         Jane’s laughter brought fond memories to the forefront of the duke’s mind. Christmastide, in particular, held a warm place in his mind; a cherished place, furnished with recollections of the children ranged about a blazing fire in order of birth.  Each year there was grumbling over which child had been more amply lavished with presents, but by the descent of twilight Eleanor had curled in her father’s lap whilst Henry burrowed into Jane’s side - lulled into slumber by the wind’s howl, buffeting against Alnwick.  Richard blinked away the haze of nostalgia but still a faint echo of affection for times past haunted the curve of his mouth.  Brought squarely to the present by the clipping of the king’s destriers riding out from the royal stables, Richard looked to Jane, the reddish undertone to her hair glinting in the blaze of sunset saturating Hampton’s halls.  When the children had been, indeed, children, a striking union of pleasure and hope had constantly been with them.

Richard hesitated, but with a heave rejoined, ‘the good Lord knows I repent for whatever sin has led us here with each day.’  He jested, but a little truth had eluded from betwixt the parting of his lips.  ‘He is like my brother. Drawn to the flame of notoriety. Perhaps we should have sent him to the continent, as my mother insisted.’  A sullen expression casted over Northumberland as his eyes beckoned to the portrait that still hung of his late brother above the doorway.  Master Holbein had given him no flourish; only a thousand-yard stare that looked on eternally weary. Their son cut a far sprightlier countenance.  ‘God rest his soul. Eleanor is, of course, her mother’s daughter, in both wit and beauty - but from time to time, I see Jocasta in her. Thankfully, neither of our mothers.’ 

‘You would relish the title of grandmother? Or would you have them call you something inconspicuous, such as my lady Jane?’  He asked, flashing his duchess a wink. It would have greatly pleased Richard to have had more children, if God would have willed it, though he receives the possibility of being a grandfather with an equally bountiful joy, a fine opportunity to extend the ample love he bore his own children to a succeeding generation.  Jane, too - for he knew her to be as hopeful as he where the future of Northumberland was concerned - and far more willing to stick her neck out to ensure it lay at the great navel of court.  ‘I am fearfully ambivalent, dear Jane.’  He wagged a finger at her, wry in his voice.  ‘I cannot think of which punishment would be worse for Henry: a wife who puts him in his place and is capable of matching his absurdity, or an anemic duchess who looks with disdain upon tomfoolery. For the former I would look to court; the latter to a nunnery. Do you think my ruse wretched and cruel?’

[ncrthumberlands]

dnorfolk·:

closed starter for @ncrthumberlands.

The procession throughout the northern counties had enthralled Jocasta with a sentiment of nostalgic reverence, something that their return to Hampton Court had dampened with surge of sadness that coveted her usual pleasant demeanour. Little took her to the lands of her forefathers since marrying into the Howard family, Arundel castle and the children diverted much of her attention and time away from her beloved lands, with her presence as a courtier demanding much of what time and energy she had left. Yet none could accuse Jocasta of being a mournful character, she had known sorrow in her life and knew that wallowing accomplished nothing. There were always ways of improving ones spirits, no matter how dire the circumstances may have been.

With the ambition of rectifying her sullen mood, the duchess strode with purpose along the corridors to where the Percy apartments were located. Though they were kin, she had sent word ahead instructing Richard to expect her – she loathed nothing more than inconveniencing people, or being inconvenienced, with an unexpected visit. “Brother.” She announced affectionately, stepping through the door with extended hands for him to take as she neared. A kiss place upon his cheek, Jocasta smiled at his ever comforting visage before her, “appease my morose enterprise and tell me you also long for home.” Alnwick had not been home for decades and yet within her heart it remained eternally steadfast within her warmest affections. “ – no…” she spoke again before he could answer, “…do not entertain my sullen approach, there is little I loathe more than self-pity. Let us talk of more pleasant topics, how are your children and our dearest Jane?”

        Even Northumberland had forgotten how numerous the agitations of the court were. The summer had granted the Percys much needed leisure - save for those weeks in which the king and his parliament ran amok in Alnwick’s halls - but like his daughter Eleanor, who was eager to embark on her service under the sparkling Princess Elizabeth, Richard was hardly immune to the immense lure of court.  Hampton Palace failed to furnish the tranquility of a country manor - or the private company of his beloved wife and children - but certainly there were those present who were eager to relieve Richard of his influence at court and for that reminder alone, he persisted.  What else was there to do?

As he had done nearly every morning since King William rose to power, the duke had attended morning service with the boy - roused by the blazing late September sun and the Archbishop Cranmer’s apocalyptical sermon.  He returned to the Percy’s apartments, splendidly embellished with effects of Alnwick, flush with a solace that his prayers had indeed been heeded by the Good Lord.  Yet, as he skirted Henry in the corridor - the brown-haired, brown-eyed boy who would be his heir, tripping down the curved staircase - his convictions crumpled, and the line of solicitors awaiting him at the threshold clamored wretchedly for his appraisal.

One in particular took precedence.  Richard sought to swiftly smother the look of surprise that rippled across his countenance as Jocasta waltzed toward him, but already the astute duchess had caught wind of it.  God’s blood - was it already time?  As Jocasta linked their hands together, the gentle waves of stupefaction etched upon his skin were ebbed away by unfeigned joy.  ‘Jocasta.’  Northumberland gave a warm smile, and enveloped his sister in a familial embrace.  ‘Be of good cheer, my darling sister.  Hampton is home.’  For now, thought Richard, and if Jane’s prophesies proved true, the Percy family would be forever memorialized within its spectacular halls.  ‘If the children had anything to do with it, we would never depart. Have you seen Nell, yet? She is the most exquisite jewel; she will do you proud.’ Mention of Henry was absent - but perhaps telling.  Richard stabbed at a grin that rotted into a grimace. 

With an incline of his dark head, Richard wafted a hand over Jocasta’s spine, ushering her into the depths of his sunlit study.  He had always felt entitled to speak freely in his sister’s presence, for time had scarcely flouted the close relationship they enjoyed.  ‘Jane is more than a trifle perturbed to have been relocated further away from the king’s lodgings.’ He lowered his voice a hair, brows sinking.  ‘The Lord Wiltshire now occupies our former residences here at court... and every other insalubrious crevice he can fit his nose into...’  

A glimmer of wryness crept into his gaze, paired with a wink that kept his words light. ‘Perhaps this is William’s subtle way of reminding me of my age. God forbid, soon Jane will decide to put me to pasture if I keep forgetting my wits.’ 

[ncrthumberlands]

janeofnorthumberland​:

The scene was one of ordered confusion.  Liveried Percy servants marched and assembled this way and that, moved by the flick of the Duchess’s finger.  Two yeomen heaved a massive, ivy-and-pomegranate carved hutch up a foot into the air in order that they should convey it a mere few feet over without scratching the floors or even, in truth, disrupting the rushes on the floor.  Two more stood at attention, ready for the piece to pitch this way or that during its progress, and were meant, one could only suppose, to hurl themselves beneath it and catch it with nothing less than their own prone forms, rather than allow it to crash haphazardly to the floor as gravity plainly intended.

Hands on her hips, Jane supervised this activity.  “No,” she said as, at last, the men straining to place it on the floor, again.  “Another inch over.”

Jane was angry, angry at Wiltshire’s growing hubris.  The nearness of their apartments to those of the king were, in her own estimation, nothing short of a snub and, further, complicated matters.  Ensnaring the boy’s heart for her little Eleanor would require much less prodding, were they stationed more closely together.  Oh, the little challenge of it would disrupt nothing, but Jane felt the irritation notwithstanding.  It felt, to her, a step back following the Progress, and Jane despised double work.  All this was, of course, Wiltshire’s fault but, given his lofty position, Jane was conscious that she was quite unable to assail his desire to expand his own apartments.  Her frustration was, therefore, brought to bear upon the backs of those unfortunates who were, indeed, within the sphere of her influence.

“Oh,” she conceded at last, as the colossal piece once more touching ground.  “That will do.  Harold,” she addressed one of the loftier servants.  “Make me proud with the rest.  I’ve no more leisure for the supervision, tonight.”  Placing a hand to her brow, she shook her head and passed into the next room where her husband had been busily attending to his correspondance.

Hearing his voice, she smiled slightly and moved deeper into the room.  Slowly, she approached the chair.  Here was sweet tranquility, she found, with a glance out the windows into the gardens beyond.  The sun cast gilded radiance across the room, bathing it in a sea of starlight, and she exhaled slowly to breathe in it, and remember that – whether slight or not – George Boleyn was hardly here gloating over them now, so the matter might be let, at least for a moment, to rest.  Pacing to the space where Richard sat, she placed a hand upon his shoulder in greeting, raising her eyes to the window and its scope.  The world hunkered at the edge of something.  Though the day was still hot, she imagined she could see the hoary frost edging every line into quicksilver.

Laughing, Jane stepped away again, trailing a single finger across his desk as she moved.  “They’ve got too old, Richard,” she quipped.  “I can only hope they’ve got up to some amusement with our young king – they’d do well to place themselves early amongst his set here.”  She sighed, sinking into a nearby seat, and arched a brow at him.  “Somehow, I doubt they have.  Doubtless Henry is bewtiched by some spectral light over a brush and Eleanor has…” she sighed.  Though an obedient child, Eleanor turned to prickly argumentation when her mother tried to direct her destiny.  If Jane was to be any judge, Eleanor was likely doing her utmost to avoid William Tudor, hoping to frustrate her mother’s regal plans for her.

“But perhaps you have a better idea of her whereabouts than I?” she inquired, hopefully.  “I’ve not seen her since early this morn.”

–

          Bless her soul, Jane possessed a patience that even the Virgin would marvel at - one her husband could only aspire to emulate.  Her presence, all these manifold years, had been a comfort to him; a solace the clergy provided some men, the drink others.  As she settled into a seat across from him, Richard leant back, his fingers forming a steeple in contemplation.  Decades of cherished matrimony had been especially kind to Jane, who was as fair and good-natured as she had been when they were wed.  Those harbingers of age that had gracefully etched upon Jane’s countenance were plainly ignored by Richard, for he could not fathom that her goodness and mercy were not to be evergreen. 

He tightened at her suggestion, albeit.  ‘I should hope not,’ the duke made his protestation with a wry scoff. ‘The good Lord knows Henry would say the right thing to evoke the king’s temper.’ William is no better than his father in that respect, mused Richard, and on second thought, neither was the mother.  For his part, he had wished to see a little more of himself - the diligent, sensible half of his disposition - in his own son.  Alas.  Henry appeared to make a sport out of flying in the face of his distinguished breeding.

On the other hand, their daughter was Richard’s own darling.  Yet, Eleanor was determined to entitle herself to an independence that disquieted him.  Jane’s designs upon the throne, too, caused him to tense - at those times in which he contemplated the thought of Eleanor in positions of power and influence, he imagined the virtous lady of Wulfhall sitting upon his shoulder, headless and pleading ‘o, Jesu,’ with ominous repetition.  ‘No,’ he said truthfully.  ‘But if she has her wits about her she’ll return before supper. How is it, my dear, that our children are now themselves grown? It seems just yesterday they were running in the fields, commanding us to watch as they toppled one another. If Henry ever comes around to the idea of inheritance, we may even have grandchildren.’

[ncrthumberlands]

@garrlous​ / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.

           When Henry had been a boy, the Duke had taken him from Alnwick into the village green, where a trial was being presided over.  Town Hall was teeming with spectators, including members of the city guild and merchants who possessed a vested interest in the hearing, in which a minor peer of the realm was being tried upon pains of death.  As it were, the usurer’s suit ended in execution.  Richard remembered well how Henry had flinched beside him as the axe swung over the convicted’s neck - and now, albeit older, taller, squarer in his shoulders, and more physically capable than before,  Richard could only see in his son the vestiges of boyhood.  Adolescence had latched onto him like a foul cough. 

The duke stood from his study as Henry waltzed past the threshold into his privy chamber, all bluster and braggadocio, swaggering with a confidence that even on Richard’s best day he did not have the mettle to muster up. Richard squinted - a result of tawdry eyesight, rather than scrutiny, and clamped his mouth into an austere line. ‘Ah, Henry. Late - again.’ He tsked as his hand reached out to settle upon the earl’s arm, ‘pray, sit. I have a task for you, if your lordship will humour me. But first, how was tennis? Did you do your lord father proud?’ 

[ncrthumberlands]

@janeofnorthumberland​ / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.

           As the wilting September sun - embarking upon its hazy descent into the Thames, and coating Hampton’s brick exterior in a wash of red-golds - oozed through the windows, Richard Percy could avail himself to a breath of relief.  The fevers of summer were now well into the distance and real work could be done,  for the time had at last come to gather in the young king’s palace,  where artwork and smartly livered yeomen of the guard adorned the walls - stationary, unflinching.  The Percys were now, more or less, reunited.  Henry had found a place under a tree, with an inevitable sketchpad;  Eleanor had dropped her things in her chamber before bounding down the halls, and Jane was certainly, somewhere, directing the traffic of the halls.  Richard had even been apprised that his sister, the duchess Jocasta, had arrived shortly before.  Cards were one again falling into place for the family - save the trifling affront that the Percy’s apartments had been moved further away from the king’s, to accommodate Lord Wiltshire’s growing entourage. 

Once the last of the Percy’s personal effects had been unpacked, quiet descended over the apartments, the evening birdsong and the creak of the wood thrumming through the silence.  The duke’s face wrenched into a grimace when, peeking outside of the window, he could spot neither hide nor hair of the son he’d last seen writing, or sketching, or musing, beneath the Queen’s Oak - or whatever it was Henry Percy amused himself with these days.  It was hardly the time to grouse,  howbeit.  The king would anticipate their entire retinue to join him in the Great Hall for supper and the duke was of a mind to be merry.  Richard rose his voice a touch,  addressing the duchess who stood in the doorway,  aglow with the gilded trappings of sunset.  ‘Have we any idea where the children are now?’ 

[kathrynhoward]

RICHARD PEPPER as THOMAS BOLEYN THE SPANISH PRINCESS (2019-2020)