the unyielding bodement

[thunyielding]

the unyieldling bodement , princess elizabeth of england , daughter of anne boleyn

penned by velvet. for bloodydayshq

BULLETPOINTS: 

name: elizabeth tudor age/dob: twenty five / 5th may 1534 status/rank: princess of england country of origin: england place of birth: the palace of placentia, england birth order: she is her father’s fourth child, her mother’s second - her brother edward being only a few months younger than her mother & father: queen anne boleyn & king henry tudor viii ✟ siblings: duke henry fitzroy of richmond ✟ (illegitimate), queen mary of spain, king william iii of england, edward seymour (illegitimate, unknown) sexuality: bisexual horoscope: taurus  virtues: earnest, alleviating, enlightened vices: opinionated, impulsive, domineering marital status: n/a issue: n/a alliance(s): king william iii, the reformation, the boleyn family adversaries: the seymour family, strict anti-reformist courtiers, spain

TIMELINE:

1534 — Born in Palace of Placentia to Anne Boleyn, named after her grandmothers Elizabeth of York & Lady Elizabeth Howard, her godparents were Thomas Cranmer, Henry Courtenay, Elizabeth Strafford & Margaret Wotton 1536 — Moved to Hatfield House for her safety & education after the death of Katherine of Aragon, her mother suffers a stillborn son and Jane Seymour gives birth to a son, Edward 1537 — Edward, Thomas & Jane Seymour are beheaded to secure the rumours around William & Elizabeth’s legitimacy 1538 — Mary Tudor returns to court and marries Philip of Spain, leaving England 1439 — Her first summer is spent at Hever Castle 1545 — A warrant for the arrest of Anne Boleyn is signed, but her death is only just dodged. Elizabeth remains at Hatfield House, but by the end of the year begins to travel to Greenwich Palace and Hampton Court on occasion to see her parents 1557 — King Henry VIII dies, followed by William (her older brother) as the next King of England, Elizabeth moves to court to join her brother’s coronation and present herself as no longer daughter but sister 1559 — Anne Boleyn marries Thomas Wyatt, Elizabeth joins court again to attend the wedding

BIOGRAPHY:

The chroniclers of Henry’s Tudor Court would describe the birth of Elizabeth Tudor for years to come - mostly, her beginning was an enigma; a mythology of its own. Seymour Loyalists would whisper that she had been born from the low-hanging fruit of the Percy household due to her mother’s swindling ways. Others would declare that she had been conceived well before the private marriage between the King and his adored subject, Anne Boleyn. Others, coated in sugar by the royal household, would bear the new Princess as a holy comet sent to signal a new dawn and age upon the English royal throne. 

But beneath each and every whisper comes a slither of truth. She had arrived fighting, her lungs heavy with breath as she took her first screams. Coated in her mother’s blood with the feral instinct of Tudor burning within her eyes, Elizabeth was heralded as the King’s legitimate and most beloved daughter - and in time, as Henry Tudor would insist, a son would follow. 

Separated soon after to be fed by a wet nurse, Elizabeth barely knew her parents as a bairn. Surely, she was visited now and again but to an infant they were but strangers who’d sometimes bring new toys or would influence her household to bow and curtsey with deep admiration. No, she didn’t know them as any other normal child would’ve - but then, Elizabeth wasn’t normal. She never would be. With fire shimmering atop her crown, she was prepared to enlist herself into a lifetime offered for England’s future. As her parents brought forth a new playmate, Elizabeth was taught to give way and stand aside for the baby who was now heralded as the one and true heir of the English Kingdom that had once been ruled by giants - descendents of Troy, or so her nanny would whisper. 

As a girl, Elizabeth grew fiery. In some other lifetime where she had lost a mother and her gilded title, she would’ve been forced to become modest and coy - her own father would’ve named Elizabeth as a bastard after all, tarnishing her to become something quite hidden within the shadows till the ever-loving touch of a stepmother who thought each of Henry Tudor’s children were deserving of a place in their father’s heart. But in this timeline? She had been bolstered by her blossoming relationship with her mother and father, often claimed as Princess of Hearts and future Queen of some far away land (even if Mary had been promised to the King of Spain, it did not mean that Elizabeth would not carry a crown - her governess would insist). She prepared with eagerness, studying attentively - learning foreign tongues and histories, indulging herself in horse riding, poetry and philosophy. 

Though celebrated as a daughter of England, Elizabeth was kept from the haunted gloom of court and instead was held within Hatfield House, where she grew from girl to woman - flourishing in her father’s colours as she took to dancing at balls and hosting elaborate feast days and plays. Styled as the Golden Princess, she would cast a wide net to entertain friends and courtiers, often mistaking true friendship and confidants with people who’d whisper behind sugared palms - this would ultimately lead to another sort of mythology to cloud Elizabeth’s public persona. The forever growing Seymour Loyalists and Anne Boleyn’s enemies would often say that her parties grew thick with the devil’s pleasure - that she bore a witch’s mark upon her navel and danced with unmarried men without a chaperone present. Others would say that her entertainment was heavenly, marked with laughter and prayer. Some wouldn’t care to repeat what they saw or heard. Certainly, the truth cannot be known, but Elizabeth’s reputation was soon taken over by the death of her larger than life father, the King. 

Henry Tudor died by a wishbone - choking till his skin turned purple, grey then a bloated whitish-yellow. Elizabeth, who had been walking the gardens before retiring to her chambers, was alerted by a messenger who had been sent by her mother and brother - or should that be mended to read, King William III. No longer a daughter, but presently a sister, Elizabeth moved from Hatfield to London for both the coronation and to reinstate herself as a woman. Hands clasped, she swore to protect her brother and agreed (hesitantly) to marry if such a union would strengthen William’s reign. Now a sister to the King, and the prize pawn to be sold at market, Elizabeth strains against the rules set upon her - and burns with the Boleyn might that nearly every Englishman has grown to fear. 

Now at court, her toes inching closer to the doomed centre of the Tudor court, Elizabeth must protect herself and her family - what with the ghost of war growing louder with each day that passes. No longer a girl of soft fat and small curled fists, Elizabeth’s reputation is at stake. A maiden of pure white linen and an overflowing cup, the Princess bides her time and holds back any type of suitor in the hope to remain a feared Tudor.

[thunyielding]

starter for @fitzrxyal

Eleanor Fitzroy was a strange creature of olden times, for within the War of the Roses, were there not illegitimate children of illegitimate children at every turn? Indeed, even she was off extramarital stock by the bounty of some claimed grandfather — and so, it was not right for Elizabeth to look down on her niece’s place, even if they remained so close to age. For she was the only child of the long passed half-brother who had been brought into the world by the fair headed Bessie Blount and the glutton of her father. She had never met him, of course, for why would she? Elizabeth was a Princess, and Fitzroy’s place never saw the advantage of being thought of as the next heir to the throne — so, he was kept elsewhere as she remained by her mother’s side of indeed Hatfield House that soon became her sanctuary and sweet haven of protection. But, she didn’t know of him and his daughter, a name being but that, a whisper passed between soft lips. 

Whilst she was under the care of the treacherous Seymours, Elizabeth penned something passively sent beneath the radar of her mother; something laced with promised sweetness, despite the reality that was to keep Eleanor kind and docile if she ever thought of ideas grander than what she deserved. Indeed, thus met at those Yuletide celebrations, the Princess rose to her feet, her hands clasped against her belly as Eleanor Fitzroy’s name and title was announced for all to see, the gaggle of girls that surrounded her seat then directed towards the door to greet the Princess’ niece. Met face to face, Elizabeth looked at Eleanor’s visage, yearning to find something of her father before she gestured for her to speak first, her lip wavering to a stern polite smile. 

[thunyielding]

yuletide starter for @myladygrey

Since the day of their transition from Hampton to Greenwich, Elizabeth had made sure to keep a pristine approach to the every day celebrations that then had the corridors throb with delight at every corner. With the evergreens hung from the ceilings, jugs of spiced wine keeping each room fragrant with luxury, Elizabeth was to become a coy, splendid vision of humble regality. Adorning herself in virginal whites as if to embody the Mother, Elizabeth went to meet her gaggle of ladies in waiting with her chin up-turned, her smile forced into a neutral line when progressing alongside many other hanger-ons. Greenwich and the faux rule of Charles Butler was, by any other name, a joyous ceremony of decadence — even Elizabeth, who had only ever been beneath such a roof under strained visits to her father or when she had been born, overlooked the ghosts of the past to partake in the joy that followed. 

“My Lords and Ladies, do all dance and make merry… I have invited you to my quarters in favour of putting on a display of my gratitude for such a wonderful year. May we make a toast to the King, and the late King himself? Both are to be celebrated, as we embark upon a new year!” Elizabeth exclaimed, raising her cup to the room, her pearls twinkling around her neck as she eyed each singular individual who had been coaxed to her side of the Palace. Time was off the essence, after all, if she was to make her stand before she turned to her nearest lady, the loo, her cup wavering by her lip with hesitance. “Now tell me, what do they say about Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of Henry and Anne, on the seashore?” She asked, the wine having touched her tongue for a little too long as she indulged in its loosening effect.

[myladygrey]

Perhaps Artemis and Elizabeth were equally otherworldly, carrying their godlike authority with a vein of equal parts power and presence, thus, at times, exuding intimidation. Carefully, Amelia watched her princess, allowing herself to take in the subtle contours and angles of her face from her periphery as she fidgeted with a jewel-encrusted clasp settled against Elizabeth’s wrist. Discrete observation - a skill necessity for any wise lady-in-waiting as a matter of survival, the art of silent observation that permitted them to exist within the folds of court life without drawing undue attention. Swanlike in slow-moving grace. Delicate, skimming surfaces, barely causing ripples in their wake. There was no other option. Not when destruction rapped at her door, demanding for a debt owed, unpaid, for rebelling without reservation.

Her father’s daughter indeed. Red, the crimson hair and summer season’s caress of light freckles jutted across where the sun kissed her in summer. The late king Henry once cast similar features in Amelia’s direction as a girl - memories wherein the middle child of the Grey pack absorbed in fragments from her periphery once more, akin to observing a statue, where the entirety was never directly witnessed, but the essence was absorbed within a second’s glance. Henry, who seemed more family than the time that followed, where his descendants were advised to remain wary of such familial blood as Katharine Brandon in lieu of contrasting threats, agendas, hearsay. Stay close, but remain slightly, unavoidably, distant. One day, she could leave. Abandon this post, and join the family her God appointed her. Fulfill duties as wife and mother, evolving from lady-in-waiting like a shedded skin, tired and left to dissolve into a memory.

The second Elizabeth’s striking pair met her own, Amelia carefully reminded herself not to twitch, attempt to show idle habits owned by a woman who would not know the partner awaiting her hand as the music sweeps up. To swallow down all nerves of anticipation, allowing the chance to fall into a dance with her Hyperion. Suppress any flicker of temptation, any slight guilt or fear clouding her eyes into a darker shade of blue. No. Brush away the heat crawling down the pale of her neck from her lady’s speculative assessment, Elizabeth always felt hawkeye in grit, and resolute in aim. 

“Me, Your Grace?” Play coy. Offer a tilt of a grin - her mother’s smirk - softened into a half-focussed smile a beat before glancing back at her. “I do not believe a Hyperion exists in this court, my lady. Not anyone deserving of driving the sun-chariot across the sky, or radiant enough to be the sun.” She lilts, and the other ladies smirk slightly at that notion, nodding. “Apart from His Majesty, the king.” A lie, met with a flock of ladies humming in agreement. She lets her lie ruminate, slip off her tongue, down to the floor. For she had seen the court set ablaze in glow, whenever John’s eyes met hers.  Pretending to mull over such a question, she withdrew her hand from fabric, stroking her chin. “Should you, huntress, locate a mortal attempting to disguise himself as something so celestial, I *suppose* I shall honour you by acquiescing to some conversation with the stranger.” She sighed, smirking slightly as a familiar flourish. Trying to slow the rattle in her system, she added, “But such surprises may abound, when all mortals act like gods, don’t they? If you know a potential match’s identity with Theia in mind, or scout a Hyperion in our midst, I pray you keep it secret? I shall brave the surprise of a stranger.”

```

[thunyielding]

She watched in the same way Artemis would stalk down the hunt, her eyes sharpening to the way she smiled, to the tilt of her lips that revealed something unsaid. But what could it be? Elizabeth had so many ladies in waiting, of both lower and noble blood, that she could barely keep track of who would attend to her on any which day — but, Amelia Grey was just that, more important and more volatile if she dared to stick one toe out of line. Of course, she had expected the correct answer to pass from her cousin’s lips — that was, if there was not a single Hyperion in truth, but rather a mirage of non-consequential suitors to dance with before finally retiring back to Elizabeth’s chambers to untie and brush her hair. So, with a nod of satisfaction, Elizabeth turned back to the looking glass to admire herself before rising to her feet, gesturing Amelia to take a few paces from her side as she stretched her limbs within her white regalia costume; a dress suited to a Princess, perhaps, but not so far from the imagination to evoke a scandal that’d otherwise come from the French visitors. 

In the moment, she thought of Robin, whom she had cast from her audience with a wicked tongue and pouring heart — to think that she would have to play merry before the awaiting couple and their unborn child was quite enough to leave the inside of the Princess’ mouth rotten with ill-tasting fruit. How could it be that she had been afforded everything, every privilege and treasure, yet starved from the one thing she wanted? Of course, she had only allowed Meg Welles to have a peek beneath the surface, to see her anguish and wrath as the news passed from the lady’s mouth — there was no way in which she would reveal herself to Amelia, who fluttered around her like a bird craving crumbs, No, she wouldn’t give the Greys that particular power, not if she wanted to remain above their frustrating desires. 

However, the riddles and sonnets that trailed from her cousin’s tongue only gave way to suspicion. What had she meant? Was there a match awaiting Amelia’s side? No… No, that would not do. Amelia would remain by her side instead, a grumble then passing from her regal lips before she snapped her head towards the other, pinning her cousin to that very spot. “If there is a Theia, a Hyperion — then you must ignore it, your job for the night is to aid my entrance, my appearance at this play-thing organised by ones in want of a dream — do you know something I do not, Amelia? If so, I command you to share it,” Elizabeth’s temper raged, going from the heights of Zeus’ lightning bolts to the calm song of a nightingale, the dark onyx of her gaze directed towards the other, her smile wavering with uncertain strength. 

[semperanneboleyn]

 It was a noisy, wordy scene; for that, Anne was thankful. Cups foamed up high, and overflowed -- the King himself, full of a feeling brimful, and gay. On all occasions of vehement, a lone figure of restraint must shoulder an air of disdain or ridicule -- Anne was one such spectator, but this eve marked a rare occasion, she was not burdened with sensibility. In reception of Elizabeth, her look and manner were most content; Elizabeth. so much in mien and look like her sire, was at once ethereal, and wholly Tudor. She brought Elizabeth into her embrace; for hours neither would need to look or speak to one another, but would remain fiercely satisfied. A resolute compression of the lips, and gathering of the brow, told Anne in an instant, Thomas Wyatt was the topic of conversation. 

"Come dear -- you know my powers to be great; Zeus is my faithful companion, every eve. Will you shriek at me for this assertion? I shall allow myself to remark, how handsome a pair he and I are." Anne grinned a smile of anticipation at coming protests; it was sufficiently comical to invoke Elizabeth's incentives against her bridegroom. Nestled against her, Elizabeth was rapt with cool observation -- she readily evinced sentiments of grandeur and sweetness. "Let us entreat treason, for an eve; it shall hardly be my first moment of such a sinful activity. How I wish I could have stayed by your side, my dear Bessie -- you would be glorious, upon the throne. But my pet, perhaps it is time, we turn our gaze to acquiring you one; beyond the one William holds." What was oft a sad countenance, vanished; a sudden eagerness and expectancy, in its wake. "The summit of my desires lay in you and your brother; to know love and peace, my crown. For you, there is no end to my vision; take my hand, and let us make you a queen" 

[thunyielding]

Elizabeth contained her grimace, keeping it then at bay for the pleasure of her mother who was, above all denial put in place for her mother’s happiness. She knew that their affair had been one long overdue, that the love resided somewhere deep within their hearts — but, still, she could not help but think Wyatt a dramatic poet who would one day spill secrets or shame upon their anointed household. Who ever kept a jouster within their private quarters, after all? If Bess came to power she wouldn’t have allowed it, and would keep Wyatt by the furthest extension of her arm — it was nothing personal, but the wellbeing of her kin was of the utmost importance. Still, she had thought to understand the situation a little more after the break of her heart that still rang in several, chipped pieces — had her mother felt as such when Thomas had been wed to someone else? Or when her father had seen her over the regal nature of his first wife? Upon sleepless nights she dreamed of answers, but barely anything came to the surface, leaving everything at loose ends, like the frayed edges of the tapestry that hung on her chamber walls. 

Arm in arm, Elizabeth tilted her head towards her Lady Mother, squeezing herself against her in a private affair of beloved tenderness. Without the hurrah of either of their ladies, they remained just as a mother and daughter ought to be, recalling the affection that had passed from parent to child made day after day for centuries past to the future. Still, she didn’t take it for granted, even if Anne waxed on about a separate Queenship, something Elizabeth couldn’t quite fathom. “But I do not want to be a Queen of any such place if it is not England. I love William, I love him with such tenderness, but I cannot help but feel within my bones that my place remains here — with my people, with you. I shall never marry, mother, I will be the people’s Queen, a vision of England for all to look to, akin to Gaia and her sprawling land,” she answered, her sigh leaving her chest to fall beneath the gilded visage of her Artemis regalia. “They are my children, as I am yours. Doesn’t that make sense?”

[malerholbein]

JOHANNES COULD NOT HELP but smile. Ever an ill tempered princess, he had dealt with worse. "I have already had my exam for the month, your grace. The physician said that I am quite healthy, and I would not wish to inconvenience him when he has patients with more pressing issues than mine." His tone light hearted, perhaps an odd choice, but artists were known to be odd from time to time. Looking across the your family hall, he had to think of an answer to her question for a moment. "It is beautiful, yes. I am enjoying the beauty of the pageant that your family has put on, Princess. You look splendid yourself. I must confess, I am not familiar with Greek mythology as I am it's terrain- You are Artemis, yes?"

[thunyielding]

If Holbein thought himself exempt from her judgement, then he was wrong. If he thought himself above the scolding of a woman then even then, he was wrong. For Elizabeth carried herself as if touched by God, but hadn’t she been? Her father and now her brother were the heads of the Church, her ancestors guided by holy oil and sacred rights. So, she looked at him as if he had bemoaned her very name, as if tarnished by the foolish way of men. She stared absently as he answered her, proclaiming something about exams and health before she turned her head back to the mirage of prancing figurines that made up that very English court. “I am indeed, the Huntress. And you? Don’t tell me that the most creative man at court — sans say, the bard himself — has arrived without costume?” She began, her tease well-minded despite her previous mood, for hadn’t it always been the way that her temper came and went with the same shift of a rolling sea?

[lareinamaria]

@thunyielding , mary's apartments at hampton court

Weary though she was after retiring from the evening's festivities, Mary knew well that there was a matter of importance to attend to. Despite the years and distance of a channel between them, she bore a deep fondness for her younger sister, forged by the days in her nursery and an enduring correspondence. Strong as her resentment toward Anne Boleyn remained, Mary had never had the heart to blame her children for the situation they found themselves in, and certainly not now that they were among the only blood that remained to her in England. It had been difficult, at first, to acknowlege someone else as England's princess, but her heart had softened quickly as Elizabeth

Reunited, England's princesses might seem a fearsome pair to some; the lion's two daughters, who carried the same red mane and sharp bite. As they say in Mary's rooms, worn from dancing and splendor, they were simply two sisters, sharing stories and a final glass of wine to lull them toward sleep.

The conversation had taken a somber bent after a while, Mary's curiosity getting the better of her as she sipped from her goblet. "How was it, when he died?" She asked, no need to clarify who he might be, the he that had hung over their lives for so long. "Is it true that he choked? I always supposed that to be a cruel rumour, but it doesn't seem unlike him, either. That he would... perish from his own excesses." She huffed a quiet sound, looking away. "I've entertained the thought of visiting Westminster, to pay my respects, but I'm still unsure if I have the fortitude. Even in death, he is remarkably difficult to face, somehow."

[thunyielding]

Elizabeth had loved Mary — as part of her household, Elizabeth thought Mary almost akin to her mother before she was brought before Anne in her earliest moments, corrected to the Boleyn kin as was right. But, still, the tenderness afflicted between them was constant and undying, for who else could understand the weight that tugged on your heels but she who was also a daughter to a man like Henry Tudor? Unlike her brother, who would one day become King due to the luck of his birth, Elizabeth and Mary were to be leftovers — spares in case of illness or something more sinister. By Henry’s own tune, his daughters would be wed well in favour of political alliances, Mary to Spain — Elizabeth, to somewhere yet undisclosed. 

It had been true that Henry had died on a wishbone, a tragic but fitting act for a man who was ruled by gluttony. Mary had not been there, which seemed wrong and unjust, even if Elizabeth sought only to support her own claim over the one of her half-sister. Still, she was his daughter, and should’ve been there. But, she had surely grown from the older sister she had once known into a woman of pious might, with a fist of iron and a brood of her own to protect and nurture as the years went by.

When alone, if not for a few servants who waited upon their masters, Elizabeth took her crescent moon diadem from her head before joining her to a seat, her hand then holding her cup as Mary approached the subject of their father. With a wavering smile, she looked to Mary properly, her nod given in admittance as she took a sober sip. “It is true, I was at Hatfield when it all happened…” she confessed, though there wasn’t truly much to confess about. She had loved Henry in a strange, overbearing sort of way. But had she truly felt the yearn to miss him? No, not like that. He had been a monster of a figure, a tale told to keep her walking the proper line. His funeral had been an expensive, rolling feature in itself — though she still, perhaps like Mary, had not truly put him to rest. “Perhaps we should go together, as sisters. It would have to be planned, with a train of people to escort us. But why not? Who knows if you will be here long, and it may bring such solace,” Elizabeth provoked, the mention of her mother’s grave tickling the tip of her tongue — no, she thought better than to mention that, as she turned her head towards the rest of the room. “It is strange to think that you are a mother to children grown, by all accounts you are a grandmother at the same time… How Spain has nourished you, Mary.”

[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

[zhensarrow]

closed starter // @thunyielding

THE PAGEANT WAS FOOLISH. For a man who was so steadfast in his Christian ways , it surprised Hans to learn that he was to sponsor a pageant based on pagan ways. If he did not like the way that the Catholic church took money for the forgivement of sins and looked the other way to cardinals who had money, Hans would have thought that King William would have fallen out upon seeing the outfits that women participating in the pageant had worn. He had even taken to participating in it. Holbein , in a spirit of festivity , had decided to participate as well.

A drink sat firmly in Hans's hand , one that he was half ignoring and half nursing. For a moment , he had forgotten that he was a respected courtier , until he saw a head of red hair standing by the table he was sitting at. Princess Elizabeth. As quickly as he had started to stop paying attention , he rose from his seat. "Princess Elizabeth. Forgive me , your grace , I had been tuning out the music and seemingly the voices of others as well."

[thunyielding]

Elizabeth had been speaking to a number of people about various costumes and ideas, but mostly she talked about the tapestry she had set in motion — for it’d be a work of art, preserved for nigh on centuries, for her ancestors to appreciate and remember her for the Goddess of the Hunt. But, it seemed, her words had not been hung on by all, for even though she was not only a Princess but the one heir to England, the artist — a foreign patronage by William’s own hand — had seemed absent, and then was apparently so foolish to ask her to repeat herself. Infuriated, Elizabeth looked back at the others who stood around her, her eyes staring with a certain stitch of fury that left her eyebrows to tilt just so. “Indeed,” she snarled, tilting her head then away from Holbein, her attention spared elsewhere. “Do you need your ears checked? His Majesty doesn’t need an inattentive artist at his court, he could get someone who’d actually listen,” Elizabeth stated, before meeting his eye, as if in an astute challenge. “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

[myladygrey]

event starter// closed for @thunyielding // preparing the princess elizabeth

Bound. Bound. The word buzzed, a challenge on many fronts, against the curve of her mouth with such incessant stubbornness, that Amelia had to press the plush her lips together tightly shut- grateful to be sheltered from her lady’s hawkeyed gaze as she fastened the princess’ hair for the evening’s pageantry- to swallow down the reminder. Her own intended path was once so clear : second child, second sister, imitating the same steps Phillipa tread by servitude. For no Grey was born without a debt to pay for the good of the family. Following the lead of obligation to elevate the Grey name from risk. Faithful servant, demure maiden.

Attendant to England’s princess, appointed by meticulous orchestration of heritage and necessity, kept at an arm’s length but nestled into the Tudor web, remaining at Elizabeth’s storm-shifting beck-and-call beneath the court’s hypercritical spectators. This was her identity : finding her footwork amongst the ever-shifting tides of Elizabeth’s powerful mind. 

Bound. They were bound to each other, Amelia and her lady, by sharing the same ancient blood that soared through sinews and spoke of the same kings, calling upon the same ethereal authority to bless the same ruling ancestors. Shared by Jack, too. How would Bess thunder, lightning strike, should she discover her own lady-in-waiting brought forth to the world a son, both Seymour and Tudor within his bones? Particularly now, as riotous rumours bubbled of another, far more threatening Tudor-Seymour son, haunting Hampton's halls with what if? 

Such contemplation felt too loud to even ruminate upon, particularly in the routine order of preparing Elizabeth for the evening’s festivities. Accentuated by a merry hearth, intricately detailing her princess as the huntress, Artemis The silence sounded like it heard every thought. Therefore, the surreptitious Seymour wife, maintaining the guise of a doting young maid, stayed the course… remained shrouded in fine layers of disguise, be it tonight, costume’d and sparkling as goddess Theia, or in plain-dress and skirting throughout this wild court with secrets housed within her.

"My lady, may I ask which courtiers this evening do you wish to turn into stags? Or, shall the goddess Artemis discover a subject to curse into a bear, for the grand entertainment, striking true and steadfast?” There remained a soft fond drift in her voice as Amelia meets Elizabeth’s eye in the mirror’s reflection, smiling gently to herself as she beheld the  ethereal awe of Her Highness in Artemis’ likeness. 

[thunyielding]

She had always been aware of her father’s soft nature for his sister’s granddaughters, for she had heard it gently mentioned whenever they were brought beneath his stubborn nose, when Elizabeth had yearned for her own bevy of compliments. Of course, to her father, there had never been a chance that his children would ever die without issue — but, there had been quiet mentions that if such a hardship ever came to pass, that he would like the crown to pass to them. He was a soft man, she had thought at that age, a soft man to put his trust into the kin of his favourite sister — may she never feel such tenderness, or certainly not to that extent, for in her eyes then Elizabeth only saw a man and not a King appointed by God. 

So, she had never grown to love her cousins who were not Tudor at any rate but claimed to be Grey instead. Even as a girl, when brought together at Hatfield or Richmond, Elizabeth kept to her mother’s side in astute loyalty to her Boleyn brethren over her father’s kin whom she had been warned against for as long as she could remember — that royal blood was to be respected, feared and held aside in equal measure. As women not much had changed, though she had since learned to put a brave face on when all anticipation loomed — she smiled, clinked her cup against the others and entertained with the same hand she praised and scolded her other Ladies. Of course, Elizabeth had no clue of what lay beneath the surface when her attention was served towards Amelia Grey, but if all came to be exposed, then only in the moment would she see how one would react. 

Whilst preparing for the grand evening to take effect, her entrance with her brother and twin-god Apollo to be set in motion, Elizabeth appealed to her own likeness, softly checking the diadem that lay upon her head whilst fixing the crescent moon that twinkled against any lit candle. She still thought of Robert, of course she did, but all attention was thus set on the evening and how to manoeuvre it to her best advantage. Whilst another maiden tied the back of her dress, yet one more fixing her train of embroidered arrows, Elizabeth almost missed Amelia’s soft voice, her head turned slightly to fix her cousin’s eye. 

“That is for me to know and you to find out,” she answered, with little cheer, her eyes then fixed on Amelia in the same way a Huntress would a prey. “And what of you, Theia? Have you a Hyperion in your sights?”

[thunyielding]

It was no accident that the King and his heir dressed as the twin Gods Apollo and Artemis; together they put on a united, splendid front that then led the way for every other resident of Hampton to emerge as grand visions of splendour. The rest of court remained behind them as shining objects, perhaps, but no one sought the spotlight more than they, who entered first as beacons of state, before parting to make their own waves. Making light conversation with the ones she sought to greet, it took a while — but not long — for Bess to finally fall into the seat beside her brother, her laugh still spilling from her lips after a particular conversation shared with her ladies who were given leave for moments of the night to spend on their own making.

By William’s side, Elizabeth removed her hat with care, the crescent moon of Aretemis’ diadem twinkling beneath the light, her smile then pleasantly stuck on her face. “Dear brother, have you danced yet?” She asked, leaning forward to take her own cup, gesturing for a man to fill it as she looked down the table towards their mother and her husband, the dark onyx of her stare fleeting then back to William himself. “Don’t tell me that you are in a sour mood once more? No, I won’t hear it. Have another glass and eat something sweet, then tell me of your plans.” @boleynsrex

[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

[leiccsters]

Robin bore an uncanny talent for reading Elizabeth’s mind, and she his. Perhaps it was that the entirety of their lives had been entwined, like the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, the white and red of the Tudor rose interflowed. She’d been scarcely a girl when Robin, fresher than a lanky-legged colt, first came to court – she, the daughter of Great Hal, and he the son of a gentleman usher with no title, and precious little riches, to inherit; charisma and confidence and drive jostling him to the innermost of her father’s dying flame, the Dudley bear borne with pride on his sleeve. Natural affection and shy-eyed lusting predisposed the pair to friendship. Shared talents and hobbies drew them closer than convention and honour and her mother would dictate. There was no one in the world over, save Amy, with whom he’d felt more at home – and long before his goosequill scratched across the parchment that augured their demise, he’d known Elizabeth would intend to deride him and mock him with her petulance, if only to conceal her own hurt.

Foresight, howbeit, did not prevent her words from stinging.

Dudley had the good sense to hang his head low, shielding himself against the Tudor rage that rushed across him, his narrowed gaze trained to the dust scattered across his boots. It was a rage he knew well – only, this time he found himself at its embittered receiving end, felt its piercing blade etch on his skin, painting a thin line of scarlet across his neck. With great reserve, the earl uttered a gruff ‘yes,’ before his gaze lifted to the vaulted plafond, dredged with cobwebs and ancient carvings of warriors. ‘I imagine there was a time when there was a worthy answer to that question.’ Now the uncertainty of his fate gives him pause, an Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat, exposed to her gore-drenched claws. ‘Though I suspect your calumny rhetorical, is it?’ A way to take the knife that had wounded her and plunge it into his own heart? ‘In any event, both Amy and I have been summoned. You’ll be rid of us yet, Princess.’

Thinning his lips, Dudley regarded Bess directly, his expression pained. ‘But pray tell, Elizabeth, and I will gladly take my leave of you: why do we praise Odysseus for his loyalty, but gnash your teeth at the man who has ever loved you?’ His jaw twitched involuntarily. ‘I have not always been a perfect husband, but to you and to Amy, I have always striven to be a good man, worthy of your affection, and my love has been pure – if not misguided.’ Fisting a hand around Hestia’s rein, Dudley breathed, ‘I would have chosen you. It would have been you, Elizabeth, who I would have taken as my wife, my life and limb. It was you who would not have me. The Cleves duke. The French dauphin. Hell, Northumberland’s boy. How many times do you think your brother has thought to marry you off to one of them? Praying they’ll fetch a pretty price, a firm alliance?’ He brought his chin to his chest, his black gaze burning into her. ‘You have always been out of my reach, with or without her. It is I who has sinned; it is I who repents knowing the taste of you. Save your fury for me, for she has suffered my indiscretions long enough.’

[thunyielding]

She knew that her words would sting, or dive deep beneath the surface to reveal something that had been almost forgotten. But Elizabeth couldn’t help it, for she felt entirely broken, her heart sliced in two to reveal nothing but a yearning for something to fit that very spot. For since she had known him as a girl, when she had been nothing but a bag of bones with coiled red hair, she had felt to trust him entirely. Without truly taking heed or control of her own feelings, she had offered him pieces of her body in return for nothing but his loyalty, for his companionship, and his damned love. Even seeing him there, fitted for his voyage along with the rest of her brother’s company, was quite enough to evoke a desire from within the fiery depths of her soul, and so she put her hands behind her back — as if to straighten her spine, when in reality she began to press her fingers against her wrist to feel the pulse of her veins, to feel something that was not the emptiness within.

How could she ever release him, truly? How could she ever be anything but his devout follower? How could she ever truly be England personified when she was already spoiled for all? Her eyes narrowed to suppress a cry of anguish, her gaze fleeting across his face before settling to a space by his side, her concentration wavering with every beating second.

On one hand she seemed to get what she wanted, she would become a Lady Regent to her people, she would lose the headache of Robin and his swollen wife. But the other, oh the other. To be away from Robert Dudley was enough akin to driving a blade into her chest, enough to riddle her foolish or useless to anyone who may have found themselves in need of a leader. And yet, she stood tall, even if it was he who would be wise enough to see through her facade of cool stone. Pressing her heels into the ground beneath, Elizabeth only stared ahead, her attention then only stolen upon the mention of love once more, the coldness of her gaze pierced through his own eye — her lips down-turned, her misery spilling from one gaze.

“I care nothing for her, but I had your sister send my kind congratulations. Is that not enough? You know very well, no — you know more than anyone upon this Isle — how such a thing tears at my soul? I do this for you, I give my blessing for you, to keep slander from your door and that would be my parting gift, my last omission of love. For I do love you, I have loved you since I was old enough to think of such an emotion. You know, oh you know so very well, that I would have married you a thousand times, in a hundred lives, if it was not for the fortune of my birth. I will never marry, I should never think of it. But if I had had a choice, the merest hope of normalcy, then you are aware that I would’ve chosen you,” Elizabeth hissed, the confession spilling from her lips in an unstoppable wave, her hurt then painted across her face in lines of youthful skin, her weight then misguided as she began to pace that very spot, a single finger jut in his direction.

“You think I rebuke you for my selfishness? For my own satisfaction? Oh, Robert, you are bigger and brighter than that…” With pause, Elizabeth tried to centre herself, her temples aching with the burning of a first headache, “ — but you love her, too. You do not love me alone. You cannot, not with she being with child. No, no. If this it to be it, then know that I must — I will — release you of our past promises. I give you my blessing, I will give Kismet pride of place. But you, do not think that I can stomach your presence. Do not think that you are ever to be invited to my table again. To see you, happy or in love with someone else… No. Not even I could suppress that,” Elizabeth cried, salt-fresh tears then spilling over the high arch of her cheekbones, her head turned away from Robin with a final, silenced sob before she struggled to contain herself. “Burn my letters, burn everything I have ever given you. This all ends here. It must.”

[thunyielding]

PRINCESS ELIZABETH as ARTEMIS

The goddess of the hunt, the wilderness, wild animals, nature, vegetation, childbirth, care of children & chastity. Daughter of Leto, twin to Apollo.

As the highest ranking woman at court, only perhaps overlooked by her Lady Mother, there was but one choice that would make sense to embody alongside her brother. Together, as the twin gods Apollo and Artemis, Elizabeth and William presented a united front before the English court and their continental guests after her period as Lady Regent and his sudden disappearance. Dressed in white spectacular hunting regalia, Elizabeth wore not her uniform for the beloved hunts, but an embellished version that came embroidered with signs of the crescent moon, silver arrows and magnificent deer horns.

Her head piece was spun into the shape of the crescent, her hand occupied by a bow and arrow made simply for the display itself. Though some ladies thought to treat the evening as one may in the Ancient world of Greece, Elizabeth remained modest with a layer of sparkling linen and twinkling jewels intertwined around her costume. Though still not quite over her heart break, and with one eye set upon the sea, Elizabeth ordained a tapestry be made and hung in her quarters displaying Artemis brought to land by a golden chariot driven by four golden-horned deer, her joy at the evening itself clear then to the history books that would go on to describe that evening and its flurry of entertainers.

[johnseymour]

There seemed to be no easy way to answer the question Elizabeth posed him. To say yes, that he knew very well why she had summoned him, might suggest some foreknowledge of the matter at hand, that he was prepared for such questioning well before it was asked. He had no desire to give her the impression he knew anything of the supposed Edward Seymour. And yet to say no would undoubtedly make him appear a fool, and perhaps open him to the accusation that there was more than one reason for the princess's displeasure.

"I suppose, my lady, that you wish to have me speak on behalf of my kin," he finally said after a moment's pause. "Which I will endeavor to do to the best of my ability." Hands clasped tightly in front of him, he shifted, able to feel a prickle of perspiration at the nape of his neck.

[thunyielding]

In truth, perhaps the only thing that would satiate the Princess’ wrath was anger in turn, but no one would risk such a reaction. Not even her closest and most loyal servants would dare think to turn the tides against their Mistress in fear of pushing the line just an inch too far. So, there was little to expect in terms of the Seymour, who stood before her as if caught on the edge of a sheer drop, as if one misstep was quite enough to lead the man to his certain death. Indeed, there was something almost secretive or sheepish about him, but she could only think of Edward, and not the truth that lay behind him. 

“Your kin, yes,” she answered, running her fingers against the rest of the throne as if she owned its crown entirely, as if she were not merely a Regent but a true bloodied King of England. “What have you heard? Lord Seymour, do not play coy. Are you in contact with the Medici of Florence?”

[unconqucred]

sibella's  glance  turned  downwards  at  the  hand  she  was  dealt  and  did  her  best  to  supress  a  grimace.  never  in  her  life  did  she  proclaim  herself  to  have  any  talent  in  fibbing  nor  fiction,  but  she  had  always  considered  herself  an  honest  person,  though  rarely  to  a  fault.  her  inclination  for  truth  was  not  advantageous  at  the  gambling  table,  as  those  who  left  the  table  with  winnings  had  not  lady  luck's  goodwill  but  rather,  a  face  of  stone.  sibella's  face  was  pure  mush;  her  eyebrows  wilted  at  the  slightest  instance  of  misfortune.  her  eyes  mulled  over  the  sorry  stack  of  cards  in  her  hands  once  more  —  she  took  care  not  to  take  too  long,  as  she  quickly  earned  that  the  slower  she  was,  the  sooner  her  opponents  would  predict  her  play  —  before  plucking  a  low-numbered  card  of  clubs  and  placing  it  amongst  the  others.  "i  fear  not,"  she  sighs,  both  disappointed  and  amused.  "he  has  only  left  me  with  misfortune,  though  i  shan't  disregard  him  for  it."

what  came  next  from  the  princess'  mouth  almost  caught  her  off  guard.  by  all  tells,  she'd  meant  it  in  light  jest  and  nothing  more  yet  such  a  statement  held  much  more  than  just  mere  feathers.  sibella's  own  ancestors  were  yorkist  faithfuls,  and  their  mishaps  contributed  to  the  victory  of  elizabeth's  own  tudor  forebears.  only  recently  did  the  howards  —  who  were  once  among  the  premier  ranks  of  court  —  scheme  and  plot  to  undermine  the  boleyn  queen  only  to  find  themselves  in  the  feral  bowels  of  disgrace.  it  was  no  secret  that  the  northumberlands  planted  their  only  son  in  the  then-prince's  household  for  their  advantage;  the  presence  of  both  unmarried  percy  sisters,  too,  was  seeped  in  opportunity.

"one  could  say  ambition  runs  rampant  in  almost  every  bloodline  at  court, your highness,"  she  began  hesitatingly.  she'd  made  her  previous  comment  solely  in  reference  to  the  card  game,  and  yet  she  found  herself  in  midst the  of  the  infamous  boleyn  viper's  nest.  "but  god  cannot  bless  every  family,  and  only  one  head  may  wear  the  crown.  naturally,  if  there  are  winners,"  sibella  watched  on  as  lady  hastings  placed  down  the  final  hand,  declaring  elizabeth  the  winner  of  the  round.  "there  must  be  losers. and if may impart my opinion, if i were to aspire to rise to any height, i would hope it be cause of the contents of my mind and perhaps not the blood in my veins."

[thunyielding]

Elizabeth’s hand was neither good or bad, but perfectly adequate. She was, however, observant and noted Sibella’s misfortune with a sympathy that allowed the Princess to extend a genuine flicker of a rare smile. Of course, if the rumours were quite true, Lady Percy’s sister was growing closer to a matched union with her brother almost daily, thus bringing forth a sombre cloud of rain to darken the whims of her ambitious dreams, leaving Elizabeth only to find contemplation on what her next move would be (marriage, her brother would warn, marriage to someone prestigious to rival the match made between Spain and France). Still, if she could coax forward a strain of friendship, no matter the strength of it, then that would only be a fortune — and so, she smiled slightly, eyeing Sibella Percy with quiet regard. “How dire,” she answered, before plucking her own onto the table, thrilled by the chance of playing with an equal rather than a boot-licker, who often soured her attitude. 

If Sibella had anything to comment on in mention of their hot-headed bloodlines, then Elizabeth would only be glad to see it. Character, when it suited the Princess, was a fine thing indeed for never had she preferred the weak-willed to the bold. So, as the Lady Percy found herself ensnared, the Princess could only batter away a grin laced with hubris, her fingers then rising to dance across her lower lip as she hummed to the tune of her thoughts before the Lady Hastings announced the winner, the victor declared as she. Of course, she was not surprised, and though the hostess seemed in need to snatch the Princess’ attention away from the younger of the two, Elizabeth turned fully to face Lady Percy instead, this singular isolation a beacon of the relationship between their houses that may one day, once again, fuse into one.

“Dear Lady Percy,” she announced, her eyes wild with thought, “I do come to the conclusion that we should see more of one another. Never have I appreciated the facade to what lies within, for unlike my brother I do cherish knowledge and individual skill over the good luck of our birth. After all, he is King because he is a son, but if the roles were reversed by the sheer turn of Fortuna’s Wheel… Ah!” With a gasp, she shared the winnings out with her awaiting ladies, before pushing the rest towards the table for the taking, not truly in want for the golden coins. “There may come a day when I am need of someone full with true intellect, would you be up to the task?”

[bdwilliamshakes]

@thunyielding

  She had penetrated his thought and his wish to be praised; Elizabeth's mocking, but not ill-humoured gaze, was the extent of her conciliation. When he bowed, he received only the stiffest of nods in return; rather than accept pleasure from his banter, Elizabeth found the prospect of regarding him him muted tones, a prospect more redolent of pleasure. Yielding to her influence, mesmeric or otherwise - William looked at her with a mixture of reverence and provocative demurely. He seemed to have a shadow of the idea of the treatment he ought to receive - nevertheless he was cheerful, his merriness being natural, and unforced. "You wound me, your grace; much of my work has been tribute to your beauty and charms, yet you have scarce offered me a moment of reflection - how do I best weather this heartache?"Elizabeth regarded him as born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of faith, and like all her servants, to despond steadily through life. He believed she was the most unfading of evergreens, and the freshest of ladies; she worried greatly his delicate nerves and fragile constitution. 

"I shall pray the King finds me as talented as his own father did -- much homage I have done them both, in my works. To a princess, what is honey? Is it a sonnet, remarking on your beauty and divinity? It it a tale of your enemies demise; pray, tell what it is you would like to hear, and I will readily supply you with words that will give pleasure, as you retire to your chambers." She offered him only humility; he could not rob himself of admiration still, of her graceful mien - of her whole aspect, her soft voice, filled with artful diction. William had always believed her to be a pretty creature; she was a great gem, but in his appreciation of a fine jewel, he forgot not its setting. His attentions would have never flagged from her narratives, and she never spoke with an ounce of passion beneath alacrity. "Would it please you to be fashioned as a mighty queen, in a work of great love and triumphs? Think of it as a glimpse into your bejewelled future; for it is the consensus of the kingdom, a queen shall not be as beloved as thee." William spoke of no country - the painful folds of brows pressed beneath a crown, would sooner come to her in marriage, than in death. 

[thunyielding]

It was the adrenaline of a newcomer that left her upright and poised, her hand extended for his well wishes or audience in part for some expectation. She was in no place to commission him on some voyage to write something splendorous, but her heart throbbed with an opening, her entire body racked to exhaustion over the loss of her most precious love. But, still, where came the opportunity to soften the ache, Elizabeth took it with the will of someone unquenched, and looked to this new bard with the flicker of her dark eyes. Let him play the instrument to charm her wrath, let her anxieties and sadness seep from her fingertips — for she offered her attention willingly then, as if begging for some distraction. 

With little hesitation, she fell back into the cradle of the throne, leaning herself upon its rest as Shakespeare rolled his tongue till all felt well — she had missed him then, from before. To think that her father and her brother had known such an artist was quite enough for Elizabeth to repel his attention in need to quarry her own opinion… but she was a lonely thing, when uncovered from her layers of rich silks and decadent furs, and so the Ladies themselves knew that the Princess would never shun a person with such instinctual attentions. Amused, she looked to the women who waited upon her, all beauties plucked from noble houses but none so attractive to outshine the Lady Regent, or at least that had been the plan. Rising her chin, her lips parted to reveal the royal tone of a girl given her every wish, her gaze flickering around the inner circle that surrounded them upon those last hours of audiences. “But what do you say, my ladies? Would you long for a sonnet? An epic poem perhaps?” As they laughed, their girlish tunes flattered by the mere prospect of the handsome bard’s tongue, Elizabeth smiled in turn — before facing Shakespeare with a renewed sense of confidence. 

Instead, she found that she did not wish for the echoes of a lost future, but rather of something taken from the land of dreams. With a tap of her chin, she rolled her eyes from one side to the other, before meeting the bard’s gentle eye. “I only sit to warm the seat of my brother, dear bard, that you must know,” Elizabeth added, leaning forward by an inch, her eyes narrowing with concentration. “Tell thee a story of Dover, have you ever been? Overlooking the sea, the coast that stretches our shores in waves of gold. Speak of England, and what you have seen. For would it surprise you to learn that I hast barely broken past London’s grand walls?” She called, her smile ever-present upon such a gentle face.