@jamesvstewart
Her father’s preoccupation in rubbing elbows and strengthening ties between himself and the recently crowned English king resulted in Marguerite’s uninhibited ability to relish in newfound freedom. With the exemption of her ladies maids, who followed the princess as faithfully as a shadow in summer, she was enfranchised to rake through the city surrounding the sumptuous Hampton court, combing through the boutiques and caravans flanking streets bustling with the Molesey populace, admiring the lush bolts of brocade and ermine suspended from the windows of haberdasheries and dressmakers. Sparing a glance toward her trio of ladies, Marguerite veiled her distinct scarlet tresses in a nondescript cloak ––– one that did not bear the gold trims and pearlescent accents France’s royalty were known for, so as to be unrecognizable as she slipped away, paving her own path through the city.
In spite of the aplomb that carried her and incited her to put so brazen a scheme into fruition, her confidence soon began to wane away as though the sea from the shore, peeling away to reveal a slightly apprehensive, slightly fearful expression that only exacerbated as the base of her heel became ensnared in a serrated pothole marring the cobblestone pathway winding through a shadowed street. Mere inches from falling upon her palms, Marguerite felt a hand tug upon her elbow and deft hands aligning her upright. Flush against the chest that had rescued her from certain doom, she promptly shrieked ––––– entirely out of her element, she began to pummel her little fists against the commoner’s chest. “I command that you unhand me this–this instant, sir, or my father will have you killed!”