𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍, 𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑 / 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀.
written by: di & sunny featuring: edmund percy, katharine brandon, and john seymour (a captive witness).
Though it was strangely out of Katharine Brandon’s character to inch a toe outside of formality, one could argue it was woven in her very blood to marry thus: in secret, without one’s sovereign blessing the union, and with only the ancient chapel walls, the man beside her, and the milky-eyed priest before them soaking up the soft-utterance of her vows. It had been her mother’s fate, and before her, a great-grandmother’s – Elizabeth Woodville.
What, then, could stop a woman whose bones were borne from indiscretion and treachery from taking matrimonial fate into her own hands?
The journey had taken little more than a day, with their swift-footed and silver-tongued excuse from court proving far more arduous than the trip itself. The dense, leafy forests of England shaded their breakneck pilgrimage toward the North, where the Old Faith flourished still, where the trees had withered hoar-white with frost, berries and saplings dripping with crystalline icicles: a daunting harbinger of winter’s premature arrival.
As morning broke across England, the air crisp and pine-scented, Katharine breathed in the sight of the stone chapel, slumping into the near-frozen ground, and carefully slipped her hand into Edmund’s as she alighted from her snow-white gelding.
Some might argue that Edmund attempting to undermine his own father’s hand by marrying in secret was in line with the reputation of a Howard, for he carried the same blood as his mother and grandfather. Destined to concoct dangerous plans to raise himself and those around him to higher status, for it had been whispered to him since birth that he was meant for grandeur, even if at times it felt a curse to be borne a son to a mother who wanted a daughter to make queen.
Every movement previously made had been designed by others in Edmund’s life, calculated so that he may play puppet in hands under the guise of love, only to be freed by the nature of genuine love. The affection born between him and Richard granted him the ability to desire for a life that allowed them to love freer, or the brotherly bond that was bred with William – one that afforded him an unseen position in life, a fresh path.
And now, Katherine, who listened to Edmund’s heartfelt request, an indecent sort of proposal, had given him her faith and trust.
The cold was harsh, seeping through the layers of clothing that he had donned this morning, shades of deep, romantic violet that he’d chosen in hopes of impressing his companion. Edmund’s hand helped her down from the horse, eyes sweeping over the quaint stone chapel, a far cry from anything he foresaw himself marrying in before. Yet, ever a romantic, he could see the tendrils wrapping around of the tale he’d weave when it came time to inform others. Ill-fated lovers, meant to never be together unless they took fortune into their own two hands. He prayed Richard may forgive him for this treason against his own heart, and for God to protect them from the wrath it would surely draw from the rest of the court.
Head turned once more to her, words stolen by the appearance of John Seymour, a man that a few weeks ago he thought little of, till Katherine had informed him that she trusted him enough to bear witness to their union – even if Edmund felt repugnant still at the prospect of owing the man anything. With her hand safely ensnared in Edmund’s larger one, Katharine’s eyes too snapped to the sound of snow crushing beneath hooves, the violent bursts of ivory air blowing out of a stallion’s nose. Her chill-purpled lips formed into a perfect ‘o.’
Jack, her son-in-law, had come; he would bear witness to their union, giving it weight in the eyes of both God and man; his debt to her repaid. The picture of grace, the Duchess extended a silent smile in thanks, releasing her velvet cloak and allowing the chestnut river of brown hair to cascade down her snow-fluttered gown.
With a softer grin directed at Katharine, Edmund then motioned with his head for them to proceed onward into the chapel, where inside waited the priest that he’d sent for. An old, slowly decaying man, with bony hands and eyes that barely recognized the pair before him. A devout man of the Catholic faith, who survived the Henrician rule and would likely survive the rule of his son as well, sworn to allow no slip of his tongue about the traitorous proceedings that would carry out today. Edmund could not help but admire the beauty that Katherine exuded beside him, the strength with which she carried herself, finding no tremble in her frame as they faced the treacherous future that would soon await them.
But where Edmund may have been treading into uncharted, shark-infested waters, the Duchess found herself in far more familiar territory. She had been married already once prior, and had primed her eldest daughter, Phillipa, extensively in her path to the altar, familiar with each trick of etiquette and ceremonial custom that was to follow. Still, she blinked with caution before the atavistic priest, whose blinded eyes leered back at her drippingly, before bequeathing to him a small pouch ringing with precious coins – the only indication that the couple standing before him hailed from noble stock – waiting for another gummy smile to pink across the his cheeks before proceeding.
‘Shall we?’ Kate murmured to Ned, her voice uncommonly soft as she peeled off her leather gloves and exposed her rosy fingertips to the air. For the first time in nearly two decades, her ring finger was unencumbered by Henry Grey’s opal-studded heirloom, with only a bleached circle around the knuckle left in its wake; she’d buried it in the frozen grounds they’d flown through en route to the chapel, Ned and Kate, neck-and-neck.
The Duchess’ ringless hands sought warmth in the soft velvet of her cloak as she moved to stand facing her betrothed, and the priest began to hum the holy ordinances of matrimony to which Katharine had once pledged herself unto for all eternity, her mind reciting the vows she would soon once more utter. Catching a sliver of white out of the tail of her gaze, she instinctively bent forth to brush her fingers across Edmund’s chest, pressing the dusting of snow scattered across the sapphire-fabric of his doublet into nothingness, a moist stain, pursing her mouth into a tight-lipped smile.
It wouldn’t be Ned Percy if he didn’t arrive at his own nuptials in disarray, after all.
A whiff of fond affection struck Edmund at the simple motion, a faint yet genuine smile that overtook his features as he regarded her with a chin tilted downward, focus pulled entirely from the priest as he spoke to them. The Earl found himself barely listening to the lengthy words that spilled from the old man, thoughts drawn to Katharine and her alone, wondering if in another life what words he may have gifted to her on their wedding day so that she felt cherished. Would he wax poetic about the curve of her lips, the sharp edges of her smile, or the siren call of her voice when it wrapped around his name? Certainly not, for all physical compliments paled in comparison to the woman that stood before now, they were shallow, hollow phrases that would fail to encompass every piece of Katharine that Edmund had grown to admire.
To not acknowledge her strength, the steady line of her shoulders against the constant storm that waged against her since girlhood, witty eyes that had raised a flock of headstrong daughters that bowed to no man in this life or the next; it was a cardinal sin to look at all that Katharine Brandon was and name her merely beautiful.
Enraptured by thought, there was a lull from the priest, his tow-head turned to look at Edmund as if he was waiting for his acknowledgement. He nodded his head quickly, pulling his eyes from Katharine to do so, before that cerulean gaze returned to her face once more as they prepared to repeat the words that the man spoke. Edmund prayed that the lord did not allow his tongue to falter as he pledged a life to her in this chapel.
“I, Edmund, take thee to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
His words rang out steady, confident, the words heavy with the weight of the truth within them; piercing eyes that bore into her, a silent vow hidden within that he would provide for her what others had been unable to. The silent pledge of a devotion that rang beyond a simple love affair.
Katharine’s chest untightened as she released a long-withheld breath – the dazed, unconcerned look in Edmund’s eyes vanishing as he announced his vows, a sigh of relief rattling out from her lungs. Sharing a discreet, sidelong glance with John, the Duchess gave a curt nod, with aplomb reciting her own oath. “I take thee, Edmund, to my wedded husband,” Katharine uttered, followed by the same vow as the Earl’s and the time-honoured promise to – ‘be bonny and buxom in bed and board’ – though her lips curled around the phrase with certain animosity. “Till death do us part.”
Her son-in-law, John, shuffled eagerly forth to provide the rings, which Katharine firstly allowed Edmund to slip onto her finger, eyes feasting over the pair of gilded bands admiringly, entwined with sprigs of ivy splashed with roses. She then gingerly retrieved her husband’s ring and slid it onto his digit, her hands folding over his, thick gold bands clinking merrily to their union. “I did not have time to have it engraved.” She found her words convulsing with laughter – nervous, pitchy twittering – recognizing what was yet to come for the new couple; not merely the joining of their body, flesh and soul, but the fallout that was certainly to ensue at court.
Katharine prayed it was not their very necks that would suffer their folly – nor her daughters. “Perhaps next year.”
She then cut her eyes across his, the corners of her lips creasing as she clutched fast to the sleeve of Edmund’s jacket, the trembling of her fingers pulsing through the snow-lined wool. It was well done, now. In the eyes of God, and John Seymour, Lord Hertford, in this frozen little chapel, they were married. “Husband Edmund. Father Ralph. Our good and dear son, John. What say we take our breakfast at the inn, now? I believe we have a marriage to drink to.”
And as her smile met his – this time genuine, as untarnished as the bands that graced their fingers – Katharine felt a trickle of happiness warm her royal blood.
Fin.
