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@ofanjous
welcome ISABELLA OF ANJOU. you hail from DUCHY OF ANJOU (FRANCE) and have been risen to the position of a QUEEN. you are a member of the house of ANJOU and will go down in history as the SHE-WOLF. though you are MANIPULATIVE & CONCEITED , you are blessed with being ASTUTE and REFORMIST.
–––– biography.
despite the vast sea that separated england and france, there were many ties that bound them together. the most notable were the alliances forged through marriages between french provinces and the english throne, which only added further tension to the ongoing unspoken conflict between the countries. from what he had heard, england had been facing internal turmoil lately, as if that came as much of a surprise, particularly with scotland becoming involved. louis himself did not hold a particularly fond view of the english, but with his brother inviting them to the summit, at least any existing friction would be temporarily set aside. it was intriguing that all of them were present at the summit. isabella of anjou was a name he had heard echoing through the halls of hôtel saint-pol, being a former french queen of england who, ironically, had been replaced by another french queen. the duke had never had the pleasure of meeting her until now. “my apologies. i did not mean to disturb,” louis apologized, stepping out of the shadows of the chapel to make his presence known. “i was unaware that someone else was inside.” there was a section of the chapel that had recently been renovated, and louis had come to inspect it, especially with the delegates from the summit arriving. it took a moment for louis to recognize the exiled queen, but he offered her a small smile. “welcome back to france, queen isabella,” he greeted her, acknowledging her former status. the duke wondered how long it had been since she last set foot on french soil. “i hope the journey went smoothly. please know that you are more than welcome here in paris, and if you need anything, do let me know. i should leave you to your prayer
placated by the man's greeting, isabella warmed ( as much as she could ) to the intrusion, turning to greet him with a gracious incline of her head. it was then that she recognised just who stood before her, the princely cousin she had last beheld as a babe in arms. her father's rancour towards the crown in their failure to support him in his endeavours of jerusalem had soured relations between the crown and their angevin cousins, yet isabella was not so unwavering in their familial disputes that she could not see the potential in forming stronger bonds of kinship – after all where had her father been when her crown had been pilfered ?
"please, remain a while, cousin." she spoke finally as he made to leave. moving towards one of the pews, isabella motioned for him to join her. "it has been many years since i last laid eyes upon you – in fact, i do believe you were merely an infant." a rare but small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. isabella had, of course, heard her fair-share of tales about the french prince from ambassadors and her spies alike and although it would be his brothers support she would need to covert, louis would not be a hollow piece upon her chess board. "i do pray that my father has not been so odious that it might hinder our chances of friendship – and if so, know that i do not concern myself with his petty grudges. i wish to mend bridges during my time in paris."
placated by the man's greeting, isabella warmed ( as much as she could ) to the intrusion, turning to greet him with a gracious incline of her head. it was then that she recognised just who stood before her, the princely cousin she had last beheld as a babe in arms. her father's rancour towards the crown in their failure to support him in his endeavours of jerusalem had soured relations between the crown and their angevin cousins, yet isabella was not so unwavering in their familial disputes that she could not see the potential in forming stronger bonds of kinship – after all where had her father been when her crown had been pilfered ?
"please, remain a while, cousin." she spoke finally as he made to leave. moving towards one of the pews, isabella motioned for him to join her. "it has been many years since i last laid eyes upon you – in fact, i do believe you were merely an infant." a rare but small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. isabella had, of course, heard her fair-share of tales about the french prince from ambassadors and her spies alike and although it would be his brothers support she would need to covert, louis would not be a hollow piece upon her chess board. "i do pray that my father has not been so odious that it might hinder our chances of friendship – and if so, know that i do not concern myself with his petty grudges. i wish to mend bridges during my time in paris."
Though not particularly devout, Isobel knew how to play the part of a devoted servant to the Lord; members of the royal Scottish household could report, if asked to do so, that the Lady Douglas prayed for the health of the king daily, asking God to grant him the strength he needed to lead his people and keep their country safe. Only a few knew that Isobel did not believe that James needed a higher power to direct him and lead him to success - he possessed those gifts all on his own. In a foreign place, however, with the pope walking the very same halls as the assembled heads of state of Europe and beyond, an extra prayer or two could not hurt.
Her eyes were immediately drawn upward as she entered the chapel; it was as elaborately designed as the rest of the palace, quite different from the architecture of home, where structures were first and foremost built to protect and sustain. This was type of place that could make a person believe that God’s glory was to be celebrated and revered. In a bit of a stunned silence, Isobel quietly made her way towards the altar, so fixated on the beauty of the room that she did not realized she was stumbling upon someone at prayer; she began to retreat, but the voice of the other occupant froze her in her tracks.
It had been quite some time since Isobel last laid eyes upon Isabella of Anjou; any relationship they might have had was tainted, of course, not only by the fact that her husband’s troubles had caused infinitely more for the kingdom of Scotland, but also by her daughter’s marriage to the only man who had ever claimed Isobel’s heart. After a moment, Isobel dipped a curtsy. “My apologies, Your Grace. I did not see you upon my entry.” Isobel fixed a neutral expression on her features, then clasped her hands in front of her. “How nice it is that you were able to make this journey. It must be wonderful to be home after such a long while.”
nerves burned with a searing intensity of displeasure as the woman made herself known to isabella. the douglas girl had been an uncomfortable thorn in her side ever since elizabeth's marriage to the scottish king. hypocrisy failing to cauterise the wound of injustice she felt for her daughter at isobel's continued presence at court and in james' bed. then again, it mattered not her own sins – they always seemed to matter little when faced with a slight upon her person or her kin. yet such was their predicament in scotland, that isabella's tongue ceased the onslaught of insults that beckoned upon its tip – as of present, isobel remained an inconvenience, one that would be dealt with in time, but that was not that moment. "home..." isabella mused, the word feeling foreign upon her tongue. "i have lived longer in england and scotland, than i ever did in france." a fact that meant little to those who continued to brand her the french she-wolf.
"yet, i suppose it still is." turning from the candle lit in the memory of her son, isabella turned towards the woman, regarding her with a gaze of indifference. "yet i am surprised to find you here, isobel, i did not take you for the reverent type." her head tilted in regal curiosity, she studied the woman before her. "tell me, what is it you seek to find here? an answer to your prayers, perhaps?"
nerves burned with a searing intensity of displeasure as the woman made herself known to isabella. the douglas girl had been an uncomfortable thorn in her side ever since elizabeth's marriage to the scottish king. hypocrisy failing to cauterise the wound of injustice she felt for her daughter at isobel's continued presence at court and in james' bed. then again, it mattered not her own sins – they always seemed to matter little when faced with a slight upon her person or her kin. yet such was their predicament in scotland, that isabella's tongue ceased the onslaught of insults that beckoned upon its tip – as of present, isobel remained an inconvenience, one that would be dealt with in time, but that was not that moment. "home..." isabella mused, the word feeling foreign upon her tongue. "i have lived longer in england and scotland, than i ever did in france." a fact that meant little to those who continued to brand her the french she-wolf.
"yet, i suppose it still is." turning from the candle lit in the memory of her son, isabella turned towards the woman, regarding her with a gaze of indifference. "yet i am surprised to find you here, isobel, i did not take you for the reverent type." her head tilted in regal curiosity, she studied the woman before her. "tell me, what is it you seek to find here? an answer to your prayers, perhaps?"
tagging: @stewahrt !!
location: scottish apartments, hôtel-saint-pol !!
the sojourn to france had been an interesting venture thus far filled with the expected and unexpected. in the lead-up to the summit, there had been some trepidation for isabella, the prospect of returning to her homeland surprisingly daunting. it had been some-twenty years since her pious feet last stepped foot upon the soil of her homeland and whilst heiress to the duchy of anjou and with royal blood within her veins, her father's tempestuous relations with her sovereign cousins, were seemingly the least of her problems. needless to say that the opinions of others mattered little to the she-wolf of france, yet her return as an exiled queen cast a glaring shadow upon the sense of entitlement she often exhibited. it would not take a mystic to determine her motives in paris, she would be expected to humble herself before the monarchs of europe ( and potentially beyond ), to curry favour in hopes that they may lend their coffers and swords to her cause. a daunting endeavour lay before her, yet if any of it weighed upon isabella's mind, she gave little insight that night.
the evening was spent in the company of her daughter, a favoured past time of isabella's laid before them on a ornately decorated chequered board. figures of gilded ivory and embossed mahogany moved across the board with great skill by the elder of the two women. "you are distracted, elizabeth." she spoke, breaking the comfortable silence within the room. she need not glance at her daughter to deduce such a fact, she could sense elizabeth's troubled notions across the small distance between them. "is it our presence here ? or perhaps the presence of another..." raising her line of sight to fix upon the younger, isabella's look was knowing. "the king has brought his whore with him – something i find as distasteful as you do, my dear. but do not take my apparent tolerance as acceptance to your plight."
You are a sort of angel, a frightful one.
Iris Murdoch, from 'The Philosopher's Pupil'
Though she was one to prefer frequenting the library over the church back in England, Katherine did seek out the hôtel’s chapel that late evening. She had no clear reason. Perhaps it had been the sighting of the most Holy that inspired her, or the ever growing unrest that refused to settle within her. Whatever it was, it drew her in through dim-lighted stone hallways. Away from the noise and into a more secluded area of the grounds. The nightowls did not to favor this part and the devotees seemed more the early-riser type. Leaving her to think she was alone to be with her thoughts in the presence of the Lord. As she entered the chapel, her gaze was immediately captured by decorative ornaments and paintwork. It was lavish, in similarity with the rest of the building, and yet there was a sense of tranquility in the air. It almost managed to untie the knot in her stomach that had been present ever since they set foot on french soil. Almost, had it not been for a voice calling out to her. Coming from a kneeling figure that gracefully rose to their feet. The image of a woman, close in age to her own mother, whom she had managed to overlook entirely.
Katherine was left breathless for a moment as she recognized the woman’s face, as its contours were lit by the candles offered to the statue of the slain martyr. For a moment she was at a loss on what to even say, or if she even dared to say anything at all. She had considered having to face the enemies of England in France, but she had not thought it would happen so soon. So she swallowed, straightening her back and attempted to remove emotion from her gentle features. Facing the ice of the woman before her fearlessly. The woman’s quarrel was not with her person, but Katherine was certain she was part of the bane of her existence. “My apologies, your grace, I was not aware that this chapel was only allowed a sole visit. Nor was I aware one was still allowed to bare the title of queen, when they no longer have any claim to it.”
even within the dimly lit gloom of the chapel, isabella could tell the girls progeny with ease, the mouth on her merely a morsel in deciphering her identity. the lancastrian seed was strong, favouring her father in appearance and yet still inhabiting the impertinent audacity of her mother. in another life isabella may have been impressed, amused even, by the self-righteous credence in which she presented herself. the world detrimentally lacked strong and forthright women, those daring to utter the truth no matter the cost, nor whose fragile egos they should willingly shatter in the process. yet rarer still, was a woman who did not suffer the same follies as men, a woman who could steel herself behind iron and stone to remain unfaltering in her stoicism – unflinching, yet not forgetful. it was something she had tried to instil within her own daughter to varying degrees of success, and it would be something she would test within the lancastrian girl.
"what a barbed tongue you wield." stepping forth, isabella closed the gap between them. a finger, beneath the girls chin tilting her head aloft - the touch mimicking that of a mothers, yet lacked the warmth of any maternalism. "which one might you be, child, margaret perhaps? i do hear her beauty surpasses her sense. or constance, she is said to be forthright and indignant - you possess all of these qualities but no, you are not them. you are katherine, the usurpers heir - i can sense the sentiment of unworthiness from here." isabella's touch dropped, her dainty, yet imposing stature casting a looming shadow upon the musty walls that encompassed them.
even within the dimly lit gloom of the chapel, isabella could tell the girls progeny with ease, the mouth on her merely a morsel in deciphering her identity. the lancastrian seed was strong, favouring her father in appearance and yet still inhabiting the impertinent audacity of her mother. in another life isabella may have been impressed, amused even, by the self-righteous credence in which she presented herself. the world detrimentally lacked strong and forthright women, those daring to utter the truth no matter the cost, nor whose fragile egos they should willingly shatter in the process. yet rarer still, was a woman who did not suffer the same follies as men, a woman who could steel herself behind iron and stone to remain unfaltering in her stoicism – unflinching, yet not forgetful. it was something she had tried to instil within her own daughter to varying degrees of success, and it would be something she would test within the lancastrian girl.
"what a barbed tongue you wield." stepping forth, isabella closed the gap between them. a finger, beneath the girls chin tilting her head aloft - the touch mimicking that of a mothers, yet lacked the warmth of any maternalism. "which one might you be, child, margaret perhaps? i do hear her beauty surpasses her sense. or constance, she is said to be forthright and indignant - you possess all of these qualities but no, you are not them. you are katherine, the usurpers heir - i can sense the sentiment of unworthiness from here." isabella's touch dropped, her dainty, yet imposing stature casting a looming shadow upon the musty walls that encompassed them.
Under a silver, celestial moon, the votive candles of the chapel glowed radiantly, a thousand honeyed flames, like the eyes of a cat, prancing in the cool draft. The acrid, musty fumes of so ancient a dwelling pricked at the King’s irises as he entered, veiled with the rich aroma of perfume. It was a scent that Henry recognized with alacrity: musk melded with incense and infused with a flavour uniquely regal, though its familiarity brings little comfort. It is the odour of decay, of the fallen Lancastrian branch, rotting into the earth; the revoltingly sweet scent of wilted roses. The kneeling figure of Isabella of Anjou is no surprise, for he has been instructed to find her here: the she-wolf in repose, lips uttering forth solemn prayers, indulging in something of a depraved comfort in her own holy grief –– the loss of the Lancastrian saviour. Was it Henry’s throne for which she sought divine communion, or would his death be sufficient?
The King of England’s heavy footfalls reverberate about the stone chapel, followed by the faint rattle of a ruby-encrusted sword, sheathed within the folds of his robe. Enveloped in a cloak of dignified silence, Henry chooses not to correct her, now, as he ambles toward the altar, a crusader’s cross resting in his hands. The church is a sanctuary whose power Henry recognizes, fears – it is God’s will that his kingly knee bends to, that Heavenly figure who cradles his beloved prince in his sinless embrace. ‘Is this how you greet a friend, fair lady, after these many years apart?’ The King asks, now standing by her side. Thunder howls, buzzing with impending rain, stirring through the arched chapel windows; inky tendrils at the nape of his neck stand on end as he casts a sidelong glance at the former Queen.
‘It appears you are now more Scot than your native French, yet do we not pray in the same Latin? Do we not yearn for the same prosperity for our kin? Circumstance hath transformed us into adversaries, yet there was a time when our noble Lancastrian cause bound us as one.’
The King, with his dark head bowed low, lifted one candle and with this lit another, its feeble flame a pathetic offering to the Trinity. ‘I offer my condolences on the passing of thy boy,’ He speaks, softly, turquoise eyes fixed on the candle, struggling to ignite anew. When, at last, it fumed with smoke and sputtered a magnificent yellow glow, he utters: ‘know that our shared loss extends beyond the mere passage of time.’
isabella had often contemplated death, morbid and peculiar postulations that verged on being preternatural. death was a spectre to all and yet for some, its icy embrace seemed to haunt with a greater ferocity. the queen counted herself amongst these few. she had seen it all, from pestilence to war and everything in between, both victim and perpetrator, the foul odour of decay and the darkening abyss ever lingering within her presence. she felt at once to be the harbringer of death and another servant awaiting its final command. rarely did isabella delight in the former, yet she prayed for a morsel of truth whilst setting her sight on the man beside her. allow him to suffer brimstone and hellfire and she would gladly suffer such a kindred fate once her husband sat upon the throne once more.
"friend..." it fell from her lips with acidity, bile rising in her throat with an uncompromising churn of her stomach. "you should know better than i that there is no such things as friendship around the throne. only vipers, vicious and venomous, awaiting to sink their fangs into your flesh and allow their poison to penetrate deeply." dark hues bore into him as she spoke, juxtaposing his vibrant own. cerulean hues almost childlike, relaying innocence and kingliness, yet isabella saw through the facade as many did not. henry was no sovereign, no glorified saviour of the realm, nor godly interventionist. he was a usurper, and the lines around his innocent eyes foretold the truth. the burdens of the crown were heavy for the rightfully appointed monarch, for the pretender they weighed heavier still.
she watched as in struggled to alight the candle, her rage festering within, threatening to boil to the surface as he dared to utter his condolences for the loss of her son. as though a manifestation of her own inner-turmoil, thunder clasped beyond the confines of the chapel, a chill creeping along her spine as words continued to spill from the queens ravenous lips. "does it torment you, hal? he was just a boy, my sweet, innocent son who parted this world with a blade in his gut...your blade." turning to face him, she stepped closer, tilting her head so that her gaze never faltered in its direction. "the boy who would run to you in jubilation, the boy who sat upon your shoulders. he died frightened in my arms, tearful at the notion your men had done that to him."
isabella had often contemplated death, morbid and peculiar postulations that verged on being preternatural. death was a spectre to all and yet for some, its icy embrace seemed to haunt with a greater ferocity. the queen counted herself amongst these few. she had seen it all, from pestilence to war and everything in between, both victim and perpetrator, the foul odour of decay and the darkening abyss ever lingering within her presence. she felt at once to be the harbringer of death and another servant awaiting its final command. rarely did isabella delight in the former, yet she prayed for a morsel of truth whilst setting her sight on the man beside her. allow him to suffer brimstone and hellfire and she would gladly suffer such a kindred fate once her husband sat upon the throne once more.
"friend..." it fell from her lips with acidity, bile rising in her throat with an uncompromising churn of her stomach. "you should know better than i that there is no such things as friendship around the throne. only vipers, vicious and venomous, awaiting to sink their fangs into your flesh and allow their poison to penetrate deeply." dark hues bore into him as she spoke, juxtaposing his vibrant own. cerulean hues almost childlike, relaying innocence and kingliness, yet isabella saw through the facade as many did not. henry was no sovereign, no glorified saviour of the realm, nor godly interventionist. he was a usurper, and the lines around his innocent eyes foretold the truth. the burdens of the crown were heavy for the rightfully appointed monarch, for the pretender they weighed heavier still.
she watched as he struggled to alight the candle, her rage festering within, threatening to boil to the surface as he dared to utter his condolences for the loss of her son. as though a manifestation of her own inner-turmoil, thunder clasped beyond the confines of the chapel, a chill creeping along her spine as words continued to spill from the queens ravenous lips. "does it torment you, hal? he was just a boy, my sweet, innocent son who parted this world with a blade in his gut...your blade." turning to face him, she stepped closer, tilting her head so that her gaze never faltered in its direction. "the boy who would run to you in jubilation, the boy who sat upon your shoulders. he died frightened in my arms, tearful at the notion your men had done that to him."
tagging: anyone !!
location: the chapel within hôtel saint-pol
it had been some thirty years since isabella had departed her homeland for a throne she no long coveted and a husband no longer compendious. within that time, she had returned to the country of her birth only once, then she had been a queen as radiant as the sun in splendour, basking within the regality of her status. now she was naught more than a pitiful exile, shrouded by grief, vexation and an all consuming hunger for vengeance. the experience, may have been humbling to most – a prime example of how fortunes wheel could cast even the mightiest into the murkiest of waters – yet for isabella, the turning of the wheel had only heightened her own hubris. ardent in her belief they would one day bask in the sun’s rays once more, she had fortified, exerted patience and watched henry’s court as though a predator stalking its prey, awaiting the opportune moment to strike.
such a moment had finally arrived, after twenty long years she had the opportunity to flex her political prowess within the court of her french relatives. her letters of support may have gone unanswered in the past, but to hear her pleas parted from her own honied lips was something no king nor emperor could disregard. whilst it was true that her position had been weakened since the death of her son, her husband still breathed and as greatly as she wished their roles had been reversed, at the very least he was still a direct threat, if only in theory alone. it was for them both that she had taken to her knees in prayer that morning, the quietude of the chapel soothing her tormented soul and offering guidance for a woman who had long-since lost any semblance of sainthood. with her final declaration of devotion uttered, isabella made the sign of the cross upon her person, raising to her feet in order to light a candle for the slain martyr sprung from her own womb.
“ hasten to tell me what should be so important as to disturb a queen at prayer.” she spoke to the figure looming within the shadows. there had been a time when tears stained her cheeks upon her solemn reflection into all that had been lost and she would have confronted any trespasser, friend or foe, with the damnation of fire and brimstone, lest they gaze upon isabella in anything but her queenly regality. tears had long since ran dry, the drought of emotion hardening to icy glaciers.
