#boleyn.

[gablehood]

nah but for real why have I got so many pictures of Anne Boleyn as portrayed by claire foy in the 2015 series Wolf Hall in my photo gallery that she comes up as a recommended “person” in my phone

[thdilettante]

How long had Thomas Wyatt spent pining over the skirts of one Anne Boleyn before they were joined in harmonious union before the people of London? Too long, some would say — for more than once had their unconsummated affair been whispered about, his flirtatious poems and luring lyrics passed onto the eyes of the green-eyed King in preparation for his visage to be caught behind rigid iron bars. Thrown to the tower when not captured as a hostage of a political affair, part of him could not help but doubt the security that came with being Boleyn’s next marital conquest — second only to the King, and then to her children. After all, he could not help but ponder on whether he was now but a handsome, well cared for, scapegoat? A figure to be used when the time of opportunity passed on to his door? Given luxurious company at Hampton Court, his life was without the desire that had thus taken over his life from before — with sons buried and lifetimes left upon the shores of Spain, Rome and Ireland, there was little to be made in ways of complaint.

But, some would say, that he was a tender figure to his step-children, often providing moments of peace and rest between the often cautious remains of what had once been beneath the hot-heated temper of King Henry VIII. With his soft embrace, he made to curate an affair of gentle qualities among the heavy handed onslaught of rumour or gossip. For he left such affairs to his brother-in-law, to the present greed of the Boleyns who (if the conversation passed over the dining table had but an inch of truth to them) were yet still gluttonous for more. Sprawled across a sunlicked bed, Thomas pondered his day whilst drawing the tip of his pen over a wasted page stained by spilled wine from some previous merriment made in the name of their most recent celebration, his ink then casting his new wife in the shapes akin to their youth — the sea foam left behind upon Calais shores, the robes of a coronation gown and the longing cry of anguish when caught on foreign sand. 

But, even among their private chambers, Hampton remained free for all to wander their merry halls, even if the Earl of Allington rarely sought the council table, leaving such intrigue to the men who had before licked the ears of the late King. Let Anne do what she may, but Thomas would have little say in it, as he drew his head back to allow the late heat of the Autumnal sun to stroke his high sculpted cheeks. “Anne, oh Anne,” he murmured, a hand outstretched towards his dearest wife, long fingers extending before the presence of her ever dutiful maids. “Come, come here.” @semperanneboleyn

[thunyielding]

Though Artemis and Hera were quite possibly the worst of enemies when placed upon that Ancient Realm, Elizabeth refused to stay in character come the meeting of mother and daughter. In her white hunting regalia, the crescent moon diadem balanced atop her head, Elizabeth dropped to a curtsy for her Lady Mother before taking the back of her hand to kiss — leaving much of the court as a participating audience whilst they applauded and cheered to the mother and daughter, to the Dowager and the Princess. As the room erupted with merriment, Elizabeth took her mother’s arm before guiding her away from the hurrah of her step-father, the ever boastful Thomas Wyatt, in favour of a more solemn route. For though she had felt some absolution to her heart break in the past week or so, Elizabeth still felt the ache — a phantom pain that throbbed in her chest — that tightened around her lungs and pushed at the spot behind her ears. 

The royal physician had advised more exercise and perhaps to think of a husband, but Elizabeth had simply wished him away — for she went hunting, dancing, shooting and walking as much as any man would. But she would never yet entertain the idea of courtship, or indeed engagement, even if it seemed vital come the prospective union to be made between France and Spain. “My Lady Mother, though I am not amused, it seems that Zeus has been made faithful by the touch of Hera this eve, surely this is one for legend?” She announced, before they found themselves some inch of privacy, her hand closing around Anne’s. “I wish you had seen me mother, for I do believe I was the best Regent of either sex… It was almost hard for me to give up, to relinquish to your son,” Elizabeth muttered, as if testing the waters, as if provoking the bear with a single notion. “As you would have been, if you had ever been given such a chance.” @semperanneboleyn

[thdilettante]

Before the throws of the court, before the grand spectacle that came with this pageant of merry faces doomed to sow stories all of their own, Thomas sat at the table with his wife in a public display of familial grandeur. With William and Elizabeth also playing their part as deities that could very well blind the entire court with their grandeur, Thomas felt quite content. If only, one inkling thought nagged at him, he could’ve been reunited with his one living son, but that was for another day — one of which was not soaked in the giddy glee of the royal court. With William’s return, and no cause for worry, Thomas played the part of gratuitous host and humble consort, his hand yet carved over Anne’s beneath the table as not to annoy the Princess, whom he had not quite had warm over him despite his many, uncalled for efforts. 

Leaning into his wife’s side, he whispered, his hand then shifting to her garment and the peacock feathers that had been plucked from the bird in order to signify the Queen of the Gods. “Your ghosts sculpt mine memories, I am all that I was during your captivity. You persist, you greedily accumulate… With each name, I step back, I invoke you and I return,” he whispered, it being some snippet he had read, though would probably claim as his own. “Your children look magnificent, my love. A beloved family with adored subjects. You must feel such pride, dearest Hera.” @semperanneboleyn

[thunyielding]

Though Hatfield had been her sanctuary, Hever Castle had been her haven. As a girl she would dream of the building itself being the very idea of splendid intimacies woven into sweet meats and generous attentions. Whilst at Hatfield she was the Gloriana, the Princess and heir to the country. At Hever, under the nourishment of a Boleyn eye, she was a precious niece. And so, she could not help but favour them, her arms extended for their company, her kiss honest and sweet compared to ones manufactured to be anything but. 

“You must tell her how tall I sit,” she cheered, laughing a little over the dream of the situation, as if she had waited her entire life to sit upon that throne of Olde. But, her merriment wavered with the tilt of her mouth, the truth that was to come undone teetering on the edge — she could trust Jane Boleyn, could she not? She could whisper the news from Florence, or the missives sent from Dover. That the Queen Mary was due to make a return on English soil? Elizabeth hesitated for just a moment before leaning into Jane’s intimacy, her eyes flared with importance. “My dear Aunt, you are of my kin, the mother of my dearest cousin… I cannot help but wonder if now is the time where all shall change, that from here henceforth England enters a new age….” With the room splintering into different groups, her own Ladies fluttering around them as a veil to anyone else, Elizabeth drew herself closer, her eyes sparkling with intrigue. “They say that my illegitimate brother lives, the Seymour’s son.” @jancboleyn

[thdilettante]

As the night drew on, the recitals and speeches drawing to a close from the mouths from the fair ladies of court, Thomas had itched to join them on stage. For his life’s spirit, his very soul, seemed unsatisfied by playing the audience when he could spill forth with the poems that had emboldened his being, the published and the rejected, the sentences and full stanzas laying dormant in his books — so, before long, he found himself a place among the last luls of celebration, a hand put to his chest as he recalled something by Aeschylus.

“O’Zeus,” he began, “who’ever thou be, if that name please thee well, by that I call on thee, for weighing all things else I fail to tell, of any name but Zeus, if once for all I seek — of all my haunting, troubled thoughts a truce, that name I still must speak,” he performed, his eyes alight with pride, though his audience seemed of a scant quality compared to the one hushed together to have watched the women. Whilst collecting himself, he met the eye of a man he knew in some manner. A husband to a niece of his wife, perhaps. As he settled on the costume, with his eyes flared with another stanza, he approached, his smile wide and welcoming as he himself stood tall in his Zeus-like appearance. 

“Here was the wondrous mine of souls, like silent silver ore they moved, in veins through its darkness… Among roots… The blood welled up that flows to the humans, something as heavy as porphyry in the dark. Nothing else was red!” He exclaimed, a hand put to his heart, his attention then sought. “A poem for Orpheus! And where is your fair Eurydice?” Thomas asked. @cxvxndish

[thdilettante]

HOUSE WYATT

Despite first impression, the Wyatt family name stretches far back into the legions of history, and has often taken a fine position in the halls of court. Thomas, who's older brother died young and sister married into the Lee family, was suspected to be just the same. Through good luck and genuine charisma, he was made an ambassador, a fine courtier and by all means, a prisoner. To some, not much has changed, even if he was chosen to be the new husband of the eternally famous Anne Boleyn. Elizabeth Brooke was his first wife, a marriage arranged without love or even true understanding. As soon as she fell pregnant, Thomas took various jobs to travel abroad as an ambassador to the English King, sowing wild oats in Spain, France, Germany and Italy as he went. Upon his escape from prison under the watch of the Holy Roman Emperor, Thomas took a mistress as his common-law wife, despite his surviving spouse. With Elizabeth Darrell, he had three sons, two died young whilst one remained - all taking their mother's family name.

And though luck had always shined upon his head, it seemed that the wheel had finally changed. Upon the death of Brooke, Darrell quickly followed before then being joined by the death of his first and only legitimate child. As Boleyn's second husband, he has since informally adopted her two offspring with the late kind as his step-children (William and Elizabeth), and despite general opinion, Thomas does not lure for the throne, but rather offers his comfort and advice, whilst writing his sonnets and lines despite the shaken earth they sit upon.

A formal family free is found here.