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𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 / ft. @thunyielding
besieged by beauty and noblemen whose vapid adjectives and prosaic plaudits ring like cannonade within her ears and yet fail to tear down the byzantine walls of her façade, isobel turns to look for her sister in the throng of courtiers only to be betrayed by the sight of vaguely familiar faces, all of which do not match sibella's benevolent countenance. immobilized for an instant, helen senses only the tender furrow of her brow as she offers yet another eloquent response in an attempt to sate the hearts and minds of those in her vicinity, now ludicrously overpowered by a desire to forge a path for herself to a much less crowded corner of the great hall.
catching of glimpse of titian locks, an emblem of the tudor bloodline, she excuses herself with a swift, dignified bow, sauntering closer to the english princess, the all-shining artemis, whose shafts are of gold and arrows of silver, the lunar maiden, untainted beauty. “your highness,” curtsying before elisabeth, she rises to her full height again only after a few moments, pushing back the curtain of long tresses of obsidian hair before subtly pointing towards the formidably jovial group of paladins and lords. “sister of the far-shooter, fair artemis, let your arrow strike true so that you can free me of these men tonight.”
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anne's voice is a pull of the tide, a voice that had shaped her adolescence and broadened her perspective on the world. there is an irrevocable reverence towards anne boleyn that has persisted over the years deep within her exceedingly well-informed mind, for how could she not love such a divisive figure? her inner might, indomitable spirit, the richness of both her unprecedented intellect and soul; she's always been a long-loved image of radiance, at least, that is, in isobel's dark, expressive eyes. to inspire and elicit such love was no small feat; isobel loves greatly, but rare are those who ever truly earn such arduous affection. she turns towards anne as if she were an eternal rose amid copious and heavy dew, dazzling like daybreak. “your majesty,” enunciating the words with sincere cordiality, she smiles amicably before audaciously and yet delicately uttering her name. all that she vies for is a morsel of intimacy. “anne, i trust that's nothing else but a jest, for i have always reveled in your company. truth be told, i hope that there shall be many more nights such as these, so that i could smile and laugh once again by your side. as for the matters of your songbird, i fear that i cannot alter another girl's voice, but i could, of course, compose a song in your honour. perhaps the girl could play it for you, if you ever find yourself missing my presence. my heart will always be with you.”
it's not flattery that she offers, but a confession — for isn't that what all art is? an act of unveiling your personhood and self to the world. it's one thing to be loved, another to be chosen, especially over someone else — a howard no less. “you are right, your majesty. it certainly has been a pleasant affair. i have only remnants of the time that you speak of somewhere in my memory, and yet i am quite happy to be here to witness the glory of king william's court. he has your blood and therefore england shall prosper once again.” she reassures, both herself and the dowager queen, bowing her head slightly. “i can only thank you for keeping me in the forefront of your mind, for blessing me with such hopes.”
for: @truedevotions
setting: a merry feast (which is happening because i said so!!!)
All were a stir; boisterous was the welcome given to all in attendance of the feast. A busy throng of gentleman crowded round the king, alive with the energy and movement of a thousand men; William issued directives, set his shoulders to carry the weight of the crown pressing his brows. Many rose and remained standing; some walked about, all talked and were glad. Anne, perched upon her chair, was a woman of solid charms, and marble; some would say, this being the effects of early bereavement. Oft she bent her head to listen to her lady's remarks, her mistresses desirous to rouse her attentions; invariably her smile relapsed, and she took to marking the crowd. She saw them now, amidst the brilliant throng; she knew those heads, their hair skull-caps of satin. The Percy's had the confidence of conscious wealth in their bearing; perfectly handsome, as far as physical beauty went - chatting with a light-hearted sort of satisfaction with themselves.
Anne was a commanding, perhaps even peremptory woman - but her fetching of Isobel to be brought to her side, was not the demand of a sovereign - but the sweet request, of a lady. Relieved of her escort, Isobel appeared and was seated; here was a neat, well-fashioned little figure, slight and straight. Seated to Anne's right, she looked a doll - her swan neck was delicate as wax - Anne knew Isobel to have a head of silky curls, which increased the resemblance. Isobel's hands, placed one within another, rested quietly on her lap, with an old-fashioned charm most un-childlike. "I am cheated - I both endure the choruses of an inferior nightingale, and must barter with my contemporaries, for your time; but do you mark your night as a becoming dismal, being now brought to my side?"Isobel was a handsome, well-made Englishwoman; wearing always the clearness of health in her pink cheeks, and in its vivacity in a pair of fine, cheerful black eyes. She was of a spirit of tone and energy that were better than a fortune; Isobel has habitually independent of all pretence. "Have you found my beloved King's court to be a pleasant one? You are too young, to remember the bloom of my late husband's; it is William's, where you shall celebrate your youth - and it turn, I do believe, find your charms, wholly celebrated."
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒.
according to court records, in the late november of 1559, isobel percy attended the goddess pageant as the infamous helen of troy, the most beautiful woman in the world. her dress had been inspired by once real grecian fashion, consisting of the traditional peplos and cloak made of swan-white silk embellished with golden thread and flower emblems. her most noticeable feature on that evening had, undoubtedly, been her long hair, the cascade of dark curls that had enveloped her like a cloak— a stark contrast to the fair-haired image of helen. during the beginning of the ceremony, isobel wore a translucent veil that had changed in the light, presumably made of dhaka muslin that was still at the time largely unfamiliar to the english court. later historical facts show that isobel had always been a fashion pioneer, introducing new textiles and designs to england. she was also amongst the last women to perform and had sung only one song, offering the attendants her voice instead of a dance. her veil, during the aforementioned performance, was swept aside and replaced by a golden laurel. there was one thing in particular, however, that had captured the attention of the courtiers from certain angles. isobel wore an emerald necklace, grand in size, wrapped just above her right ankle. only the necklace has survived to the present day and most likely later on belonged to her daughter grace. it's currently being kept in the tower of london.
the resemblance between isobel and the mythical helen hid in their perpetually ambiguous personas. the burden of beauty, the struggle to be seen and not only looked at, and the contradictory interpretations of both women, had only enhanced the painful resemblance. still, the myth of both helen and isobel lives on.
“sweet helen, make me immortal with a kiss. ”
#𝓘 — 𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚 . c . study#bd.event#isobel only performed one song bc#that's exactly what rihanna would do (and just like rihanna she refuses to release a new album)
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overpowered by vast directionlessness, with wilting grass crunching underfoot, she forges a path of her own towards a glistening eden, sequestered and off the beaten track, ascending to join neptune, somewhere between abyss and elysium, on his dais. it's the mellow murmur of foam prayers and wind that tugs at her abundant dark hair like an erstwhile lover that confirm the frivolous suspicion that she's already grown tired of castilian and heavily accentuated syllables, feigning at times a lack of knowledge of the language that she's spoken since she was twelve. left, right, heavenward, she turns towards the sun hovering in the sky only for it to be eclipsed by the sight of familiar wisps of william's titian hair and nonpareil crook of his smile. the magnificent galleons that had sailed all the way from the sun-drenched iberian ports could be reduced to cinder and she would still only look at him; what a frightening thing it must be, to look and know that he would always look back.
isobel stands before him as if he were caesar, or alexander, the adulated felis leo of macedon — and she tells him, jubilant as ever, i will not be your alexandria or gaul, i will not capitulate or surrender. it's a stupefying proclamation, nonetheless, especially when it comes from a woman who has his initials imprinted on her tender skin; the golden pendant he had gifted her hides underneath layers of velvet and silky fur, pressed against her chest so that not even the most keen-eyed courtiers could leer at it. “that is a question i cannot answer. it seems that every step i take, no matter in which direction, leads me back to you.”
“perhaps i may be able to disarm you, but i bare no blade, your grace.” straightening her already faultless posture, she lifts up her hands, the act redolent with playfulness as the material of her sleeves billows and vivaciously forms into swanlike wings. “even with the spanish flotilla docked at this very bay, you think of my letters? be careful with such words, for they could give someone the wrong idea.” surprise seeps into her tone when she joins his side and almost instinctively tugs him closer, their hair awash in light as the dover sun descends to place gilded crowns upon their heads.
“you must not stand so close to the edge of this precipice. but still— i understand. i understand the call of the sea.” the want to be fluid, not static. the desire to seek solace, even in the crushing depths of grey and blue. “my father used to tease me when i was a child and tell me that he had found me somewhere on the jagged shores of northumberland, amongst precious seashells. it's why i've grown to love the sea. it's a foolish sentiment perhaps, especially when most men fear it.”
@truedevotions
Chiseled by Poseidon were the white cliffs of Dover, those jagged edges falling steeply into the turbulent froth below, the surface of the sea glittering, crowded with a flotilla of royal Spanish vessels, gold sails thrashing in the wind. His mother – God’s blood, his entire realm – would slice him with the sharp blade of condemnation were they to see their King thus, craning his neck over the slippery, scalloped ridge of the cliffs, overlooking the turquoise coves below; churning more white than blue with Amphitrite’s wroth. There would be few at court who would not mourn William, he knew, were he to descend here to his death as Narcissus before him; though with his sister’s entourage knocking at his door, there would also be no poverty of support for any number of Catholic adversaries to succeed him – with the rifts his father created still bleeding acid rain across England. For in the end, the same crowd that applauded his coronation would just as likely applaud his execution.
At the sound of fur-lined skirts whipping in the wind, William untangled his mind from deep, brooding thought and turned his gaze to the figure stealthily gaining ground on him – adorned in pleasing shades of cream and silk, a river of onyx-hair floating behind her, rather like the perfumed sails that flapped and billowed bellow, bearing Helen of Troy's ambrosial scent. The smile wreathed across Isobel’s ruby-red lips made the seascape, however, appear pale in comparison – bled of its vivacity and intrigue – as though all the radiance and luster of England’s wintry sun had poured its resources in concentrating on her, making gold the soft angles of her cheeks, glimmering the whites of her doe eyes, the ridge of her collar-bone ignited by its gentle rays. ‘Why is it,’ the King called out to her, beckoning her with a voice that proved teasingly accusative, ‘that you are the only woman in England who manages to creep up on me?’
As she strolled closer, William thrusted out an arm to her, the roaring wind ruffling his shock of russet hair and the costly furs bundled around his neck. He could contemplate his own death, but to incur any measure of harm unto Isobel Percy’s person was akin to torture. ‘You might find it harder to disarm me, Mademoiselle Percy, when I am not so lost in thought.’ Hesitating, Wills softened voice warred with the squawking of seagulls soaring above, the waves raging against the cliffs below, ‘which your letters makes rather difficult for me.’
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. featuring @edmcndd, @truedevotions, @katharined, @boleynsrex. | inspired by the family tree series by cesareeborgia
not pictured: (daughters of isobel and william) elizabeth, princess of england; helena, princess of england; grace, princess of england.
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poise is her first language, passed down from their mother, woven into every well-defined sinew of her body, resembling a golden thread. every part of her trembles, exhorts, strives to tirelessly uphold a preeminent semblance that she’s been taught to exude from the very beginning. she’s never been permitted to cry, to shed sudden, unbidden tears, suffering thrice more than any other girl who had given herself the luxury to weep before the rancorous court. “perhaps” she says, tactful even when the moment doesn’t issue an ultimatum for such sacrifice, having no means to justify the act of obfuscating her sister.
“you’re all the warmth that i have. without you, sibella, not even the sun would rise.” she is her albedo, pureness, clarity, hope, the white swan, all that’s good in the world. languishing in dour silence, isobel pushes a cascade of soft, unrestrained curls away from her sister’s delicate face, her supple fingers refusing to relinquish their anchored spot underneath her angular chin.
“i must implore you now, i must hope that you can forgive me for all the things that i wasn’t able to do, affairs that i wasn’t capable of changing. regret consumes me each time i remember that i had to leave you all those years ago. perhaps i should’ve beseeched mother to let me stay. i had wanted to pray for you to join my side, but i knew— knew that you were much happier under elizabeth’s tender wing.” she lowers her lashes, staining the divulgence with her own tears as she inwardly chides herself for her inconsonant faux pas, the precipitous shift of the topic. she’s meant to be a paragon of stability, elegance, ingenuity, and not a sniveling girl before the one who needs her the most. she’s learned to give, intrinsically, unreservedly, give and lend herself to those she fervently holds dear, brimming with insurmountable love, as though her own volatile heart does not ache.
“there’s only one thing that i so ardently wish for and that is to travel with you. we’ll go to florence, rome, granada, tours, seville, any city or great wen that you desire to see. life means nothing if i don’t get to spend at least some of it with my sister. we’ve wasted enough time.” when she pulls sibella once more in a firm embrace, she does it without arrière-pensée; the impulse and proclivity to cradle, hold, and shield the other have become second nature to her, for who else would care for a child starved for precious love at their mother’s feet, if not the one kissed by the same fate?
yet tears, futile and obtrusive, at the mention of motherhood well up in her eyes again, leaving a glistening trail across her carnation-stained cheeks. “sibella, if i ever have children, i will want to have you by their side. someone so true-hearted and benevolent to teach them of kindness. your profound understanding of humanity has always inspired me. i can only long to see that in my own children.” her unabashed wish, she seals with a kiss upon the younger girl’s hand.
“julian de vere?” seemingly another nuisance, it took lord oxford fewer than twelve hours to turn into a bête noire and elicit ire, even in the magnanimous heart of the middle percy child. “do not allow his cruel opprobrium to wound you. to try to quarrel with someone in a moment of grief is a true sign of cowardice. regardless of that, never underestimate the artifice of a craven. what did he tell you?”
beneath her brocade skirts and learned words written in every fiery tongue of the apostles, therein lied a woman of twenty of two that was still just a child. try as she might to conceal this adolescent part of herself, her elder siblings saw right through her facade; and a part of her detested them for it. sibella longed to complete the percy trinity, to finally walk amongst her siblings after spending her entire life chasing after them, their fingers interlinked and their hearts intertwined even if they were flung to different ends of the kingdom. even now, she could see the pity alongside her own reflection in their eyes. but as she met isobel's eyes, all she felt in her heart was a sincere warmth.
"perhaps they shall grant her a freshly sharpened blade," sibella mused. "perhaps the king might call upon the premier swordsman of france. english executioners are too clumsy and unworthy of the job." her mind immediately returned to the grotesque events of that morning, of how margery hallows wailed as the axeman hacked at her neck multiple times to complete the task. rage and grief tolled wildly within her, crashing against her like waves against the cliffs of dover. her pathetic attempt to say such words with sarcasm were only filled with sordid hope.
they will kill her anyway. no kindness would change the fact that she is to die. there was no point in saying this; sibella only buried her head further into her sister's neck.
isobel's words brought upon the first smile on sibella's face in the long hours since this nightmare began. for once the flashes of memories did not bring with them sorrow, but the warmth of being held by the convicted woman as she was held now by her sister. if sibella closed her eyes, it all felt the same — the splendent brocade sleeves, the warmth of her skin. "my heart feels lighter, even if just a little bit." sibella lifted herself from isobel's shoulder, pushing away stray tears with the hem of her muslin nightgown.
"blessed be the child that is granted the privilege to call you their mother," she says softly, almost inaudibly. she thinks regretfully of their own mother, whose desire to ressurect her family from the bowels of disgrace took up the space in her heart that would have otherwise gone towards affection for her children. while the duchess of northumberland made herself to be an unyielding matriarch, the role of the tender mother was assumed by elizabeth talbot. but too many times as a child did sibella nestle her head upon isobel's shoulder without a second thought— or even a first. isobel was there for her as the sun was suspended in the morning sky. "for they shall be of and loved by the kindest woman to have ever roamed this earth, for that woman is not i. but you, isobel."
"i'm afraid my grief has caused all of the softness inside of me to dry up. i have become a person i do not recognize. i encountered the lord oxford shortly after the announcement of the arrests and we shared," she pauses a moment, searching her mind for the best word. "hostile words. though i do not regret what i said," she continues in a hushed tone, "for i do believe it preposterous that such an arrogant man have the ear of the king not by merit but by blood alone, and i took offense in his making light of our family's strife. i do regret, however, that i allowed the man to beckon this unpleasant behavior from some unknown depth within me."
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the rustle of heavy velveteen skirts over the smooth flagstones, accompanied by a mellifluous, unmistakable rattle of intricate jewelry that clings around her neck and discernible waistline, now only seems to amplify the incessant attention that others so readily bestow upon her, persuading isobel to grow more cautious for her name spreads like quick-fire throughout the tapestried halls of hampton court. people are so easily persuaded, captivated, so fond of flattery and aggrandizement, and yet they only ever see what they wish to see; isobel percy is many things, to many different people. the esteemed percy child, a daughter that's a bargaining tool, devoted sister, gifted comedienne when the moment asks for it, demure, beauteous maiden, and perhaps a venerated whore in the observant eyes of julian de vere.
one of few that she now trusts to get a glimpse into her intimate life is a woman unlike most, the éminence grise of hampton, with each of her advice upheld as sacrosanct. penelope, faithful penelope, the one who always waited, a woman whose multifaceted mind could only be rivaled by that of her husband. as a child of only sixteen at court, isobel had sought guidance and inspiration in other, older, more powerful women, turning both anne boleyn and mistress walsingham into her lodestars, a striking dyad that had without a doubt earned her irrevocable reverence over the years.
“the coldest of them all,” she announces with her lithe hands and fingers extended towards penelope, flashing her a triumphant, teasing smile. “old? penelope, one could call you many things, but merciless time has done nothing to tarnish your beauty or wit. you're as beautiful as the day i met you. i can only hope that i'll look this ravishing when i reach your age.” her untouched beauty, intelligence, vitality, a myriad of qualities all intrinsic to her personhood, the younger lady could name them all, but penelope is a woman of her own myth. “you know i don't prefer to concern myself with the opinions of those who surreptitiously whisper behind my back. they're just noise,” powerful noise, nonetheless, something that she mustn't disregard. of that she's well aware. “but to deny myself the chance to drink from the fountain of your insight is something that i shall never do. tell me, sweet penelope, tell me all, i must know.”
closed starter for @truedevotions !
the older woman hummed softly as she waited patiently for the arrival for her companion, eyes watched the various bodies that strolled throughout the gardens, smiling faintly at the sight of a child making their governess chase after them. penelope's thoughts wandering to her own daughter, praying that she was being mindful currently in her lessons, less she have to play the role of sharp mother as her own had done years before. the sound of gentle footsteps called penelope's attention away from the sight of others, instead resting on the demure, feminine beauty that was isobel percy. while she still carried a few features from her girlhood, isobel had certainly grown into the near perfect image of a lady of court that penelope had seen when they first met previously. the woman took note of the way that isobel carried herself, a sight that certainly must have made other young ladies quiver in fear at such a threat to their own reputation. for how could any of them compare when lady percy sparkled like a ruby within the sun? her expression softened as isobel drew near, hand reaching so that they may clasp arms and press against one another as if they were sisters, a sense of familiar intimacy shared between the women.
" what a cold, uncaring woman you have become within hampton's halls," penelope teased with a mischievous quirk of her lips. " to leave me waiting at your beck and call, do you care not for the old maid that i am becoming in your absence?" their steps are easily matched with one another, the older of the pair discretely leading them towards a less populated path so that they may be granted a brief amount of privacy. out of the corner of her eye, penelope watched isobel carefully. " i shall not ask if your family is well, i imagine you tire of speaking about such incidents. instead, i shall inquire that you fill my ear with your opinions of court. we may compare notes about the particularly dull ones, or shall i warn you of the ones that will certainly soon come nipping at your ankles like a sort of unruly hound?"
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sir,
to express my gratitude with mere hackneyed and trite phrases now seems unfeasible, for they have yet to invent words that could aid me in bearing my tenacious and beholden heart to you. in lieu of platitudinous gramercy, i will only inform you that you bring such sweet calmness to my mind like no other man, i might even sleep well tonight. now, too, i shall happily return to composing a song in honour of your lady mother, hoping that it'll bring her great joy to hear something from me again.
the consideration you've shown me pervades my body, and my pledge to you remains as strong as ever, that much i can assure you.
aut caesar, aut nihil.
the locket, as i write this letter to you, hangs from my neck, and so, each time i think of you, i'll be reminded of all the goodness that the world has to offer, and wish that you were here to tell me the tale of the locket's origin. i marvel at its beauty and the gilded initials that so ardently cling to my skin. forgive my heart and mind for being so dauntless and bold, for now i can only look forward to seeing you again (whenever that again comes, even if i must wait a hundred years.)
your catherine from another life.
isobel in this.
The unmarked missive arrives on an unusually quiet afternoon; the driving rain prohibiting William from hunting and, instead, forcing him to tend to delicate affairs of state (the Spanish matter chief among them). The King slides a ringed finger under the wax seal, embossed with the Percy’s coat-of-arms, and breaks the letter open, expecting Ned’s familiar scrawl and finding, instead, a perfumed cloud of roses, the heady fragrance of Isobel Percy curling around him.
Mistress Percy,
Though delighted I am to be the subject of your – as you say – long writings, your words put me to great agony. On turning over the contents of my mind and heart, I declare to you that there is nothing in this world more worthy of precious protection than your honour, which I know to be boundless. To suffer anything else would be unsuitable for a woman of your charm and goodness, and rest assured that my lord Great Chamberlain will be ordered to cast out all thoughts otherwise. This promise I again surrender into your hands, beseeching you to hold us in the favour you so willingly pledged to me at our last encounter (the memory of which retains my fervor).
I regret that I cannot write to you anything of great length, nor can I be personally present to assure you of my long-standing consideration for you and yours. In lieu of both, I send you the nearest thing to my person, a locket bearing my initials, which as you wear upon your breast, I hope you would wish myself tenderly in its place. I write this letter from my own hand, he who greatly thanks you for some remembrance of your potent fragrance.
Your loyal servant and friend (who very often wishes for you instead of your brother),
W Rex
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in a swift, silent second, isobel thanks the man before her for the unprompted assistance with a gentle tilt of her head, ensconcing herself in the ornate chair before deciding to offer richard another insouciant smile that many, regardless of their adjacency to the percy girl, could seldom see. she plays her games well, even those sans sleek cards, appearing, disappearing, vanishing, forever both guarded and vivacious, a master at hide-and-seek, the timeless game of apodidraskinda. “certainly, lord boleyn. anything else would be a true insult to my skill.”
false bravado, some would call it, but only a fool could belittle a boleyn or dare to dismiss their adroit maneuvers; an idiosyncrasy that they all appear to share to a varying degree. “piquet it is, my lord. the winner gets to decide the next game.” she leans forward, lifting her arms as her brocaded sleeves scatter across the table like the most scarlet poppies, denuded only of an opioid effect. “it did indeed. i spent it with my sister back at alnwick, with an occasional jaunt to our warkworth castle. that, of course, makes me hope that you and your family will get the chance to pay us a visit at least once, lord boleyn. northumberland is known for its unrivaled beauty. especially when the first white winds blow.”
“and what of your summer?”
Richard was entirely pleased as Isobel approached, a glint in her eye that was obvious to any onlooker. She had a refined exterior, that much was true, but he prided himself in the observant eye of a Boleyn, easily able to see that there was more to her than simply a pretty, polished face. It was one reason he found himself enjoying her company. In a man more inclined to retrospection, he would have wondered to himself: what was it about the Percys?
He gestured to the seat across from him, gentlemanly as he stood to assist her. "Not as much as I would have liked, but I confess that I may carry some blame. However, I assure you, I am in quite a mood to avenge myself, so you will find me to be a determined adversary." Gathering up the cards, he considered her question for a moment. "I will leave it to be lady's choice," he offered with a coy smile. "I do enjoy piquet, but it seems only polite to let the decision be yours."
As he shuffled the cards with a deft hand, he offered her a smile. "Tell me, my lady, how you have been. Did summer treat you kindly?"
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EXEUNT OMNES.
The warm strength of her fingertips bleeds into the thick, brocaded fabric of his sleeves. Isobel Percy is, the King muses, a steel magnolia: her lithe frame, impossibly slight, secreting a liquid metal core. Her pretty head nimble with proud thoughts, spooling words only a Percy would dare utter. Her dark, luminous eyes like hooks for the soul, to which men like William Tudor were powerless. His father, God rest his soul, had been bewitched by one such woman of her ilk: a lady who now walked among them a queen, her back unbent by the weight of her station. Casting a sidelong glance at Isobel, glowing like an angel of heaven, one would never know that her own relative’s neck was due to grace the block, to ooze and suffuse it with her noble blood, for she gave no tremor of fear; only placid temerity. William instinctively gives a flex to his arm, a knot of muscles dancing and clenching underneath her grasp, as he relished the sweetly-fragranced solidity of a beautiful woman (of which his court, so the poets rapped, was rather fortunately crowded) floating by his side.
The King arranges his face into a pattern of wry amusement, the mention of their encounter flashing in his eyes, as though he were an eagle soaring and squawking on high, lording over the clandestine meeting like the winged, mythical beasts gliding over the rugged cliffs of Dover – or perhaps Icarus himself, his waxen wings dripping molten gold over England. ‘Aiding, of course,’ He echoes, his mouth pursed. ‘I’d say the debt was yours to repay, but I much prefer the ball square in my court. I might decide to play it at will, Mistress Percy, so you mustn’t underestimate your King.’
Wills' gaiety dissolves into heed, his impassive gaze trained to the empty corridor stretching endlessly before them. The King stiffens, blood drumming to his head, as Isobel speaks: calling down a melodious blessing over that woman, her aunt, who was condemned, by a panel adjured by the King’s own pleasure, to die a traitor’s death. But he is silent, his grave face giving no indication of either clemency or vengeance, growing intent, thinking neither of her delight nor fear. Her words strike a potent chord within him – echoed over and over again like the ominous humming of a Byzantine hymn. To be alone is a cruel fate. How many times had he felt the same, clustered by a myriad of petitioners, foreign dignitaries, splendidly dressed courtiers, appearing to look through him as if he were glass – or at him, as if he were an immovable chunk of marble, no more tangible than a bust of the great Alexander? An Adam’s apple bobs in his freshly shaved throat; a raw, red stitch where his barber’s blade had thoughtlessly scraped.
My King. Dark eyes slide close; prying open at the intonation of his Christian name. William, William, William…
Nearing his private chambers, the King’s footfalls cease until they stand completely still, and he turns to face her, two monoliths joined together. Looming over her like an ancient oak – a shock of copper hair gleaming like a raven snared in the topmost branches – his gaze dark, exigent, pressed into Isobel’s own with a fierceness that belonged to the two dynasties whose blood he proudly bore. ‘Isobel…’ William draws both of her delicate hands into the cusp of his, her fingers warm to the touch. ‘Even if you were Eleanor of Aquitaine herself, the charge… it is indissoluble. An imbecile could see that her actions were traitorous; there is no undoing it.’ He, like his father, bends to no one (not merely because King Henry would have needed to be hauled up by ropes), though his words are swollen with a certain magnanimity that made obsolete any doubt in his strength of character, in the veracity of his piety. This was, after all, the man begotten by the woman every belle in France envied, the King every woman in England revered as the handsomest potentate in Europe, the sovereign every girl dreamed of; a man above mortals, a heavenly body just below angels… and in a confident stretch of silence, Wills’ eyes scan Isobel’s for a mere hint, a sweet whiff, of the trust and admiration he gleaned with ease from lesser subjects.
‘You are unlike any woman I’ve met before,’ the King mouths, suddenly laughing, only promptly aware of the frigid temperatures of his empty, windowless halls, a place where no one dare tread. ‘But you have my word that we will spare your beloved aunt every honour. It will be quick, painless, and private. You have my word.’
Blinking, the King's brow twitches as he unleashes one of his hands from their tangled nest of fingers, using it to brush aside a silken strand of hair tickling the side of her cheek, unbound from the restriction of her headdress. His eyes trace the movement of his thumb, brushing her skin, tucking said ringlet behind the cream shell of her ear; then, gently, assiduously, cradling the side of her face, his palm protecting her jaw as if it were the most delicate pearl in all of England. The nearness of her, the scent of her, the mounting need to slant his mouth over hers pulsed throughout his body; a blinding longing that began to move within him as his tongue outlined the seam of his bottom lip, his intent gaze never budging from hers. His free hand slid toward the small of her back; long, lean fingers furrowing into the fabric of her gown. Yet just as his face was mere inches from hers, their noses nearly touching, his warm breath fanning across the sensuous bow of her lips, a clearing of one's throat broke the spell. William, as though his flesh had been singed by her touch, leapt back and turned his furious gaze to the incomer shadowing the hallway – Julian de Vere.
With a fist clenched by his side, the King dipped his head to Isobel.
'Mistress Percy,' He remarked; a frigid, emotionless parting. 'Send my regards to the family, will you?'
And without another word uttered, the King stalked off in the direction of the council, leaving Isobel in his wake.
#𝓘 — 𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚 . threads#𝒇𝒕. william tudor#i forgot to reblog this but it needs to be on the blog#thinking about eleanor of aquitaine always
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a letter dated back to september 1559, sent to his majesty @boleynsrex
sir,
most beloved and treasured, i sit alone by my bed, writing of my boundless appreciation for the grace and mercy you so willingly offered to my aunt, for never did i imagine that i would encounter hands and a heart capable of extending so much goodness and forbearance, and thus i pray, for your great health and fortune more than my own, knowing that this great country of ours shall flourish even more under your rule. it would be my deepest sorrow to trouble your grace with long writing, as i've already beseeched you for too much, but these tender nights and violent mornings won't let me sleep.
i implore you to think of my honour, for the hearsay at court can be most cruel to women like me, and though i'm well aware that julian de vere is nothing but a dignified man, i fear that our most recent encounter must have misled him.
i can only thank you for the way your hands held me when i needed to be held most, and seeing that i cannot express my gratitude in person, at this very moment, i most ardently desire and hope that my loyalty and earnestness shall shine even on this paper.
i have the honour to be, sir, your majesty's humble and obedient servant.
ever thine,
isobel percy.
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“do i ought to act surprised at your words, teddy? though perhaps i may offer a temporary solution. you can dance with me, as you always do. someone must show these people how to properly twirl,” she proposes, letting a lighthearted laugh trail after her words even as her fingers, pale and gracefully fragile, dig into the handknit fabric of edmund's familiarly blue sleeve. the jejune notion of dancing with her beloved brother again harkens her back to the days of a departed era they can never go back to; days during which they had joyously danced and chased after one another through the snowswept halls of the alnwick castle, their boisterous laughs now but a distant echo, the sudden memory as fleeting as the penultimate note of a sorrowful cadenza.
“sibella's happiness means to me more than my own. i'll gladly listen to our mother if that's what it takes to keep her away from sibella for the evening.” what is it about their youngest sister that makes her so ferocious, sharp-eyed? love, isobel would tell. love that knows nothing of dénouements or flimsy ends. love without an epilogue. “no, i fear. but when it comes to the greys, you'll have to be more specific. there are three of them, but which one does your eye seek?” tugging his arm gently, she gestures toward a cluster of dancing courtiers so that their whispers may be drowned in a gracious sea of flutes, clavichords, harps, and their lilting tunes. “i believe, teddy dearest, that it's time for you to spin me around.”
edmund graced his beloved sister with a melodramatic sigh of sorts, always allowing her to be remain privvy to his unseemingly antics. even as they speak, his eyes do a discrete sweep for any sign of their mother in the throng of people that surrond the pair, relieved to see no sign of their keeper. “ not yet, i have been quite elusive to her thus far. our mother hassaled me earlier while you were preparing yourself, whispering about who i shall ask to dance this evening or accompany me for tea while everyone is at court,” he spoke softly to isobel, less they are overheard. not that their words were unkind or treasonous towards anyone, but edmund hardly needed to be the subject of rumors.
“ i presume you have not been lucky enough to have her words not grace your ears, sweet sister? perhaps sibella is the only child allowed to remain unburdened this night,” he suggested with a faint grin at his sister. a pleasant silence rested between them for the briefest moments, as they walked amongst the cool night air. “ tell sweet belle,” he rhymed with a gentle squeeze to her arm. “ have you caught sight of anyone interesting? lady grey or lady welles? i believe i caught a whiff of her fragrance earlier.” the earl intentionally left vague his question, knowing far too well that isobel had a knack for sniffing out his fraying edges.
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the temporary absence of edmund on her right side and sibella on the left, like additional, precious limbs of her body, certainly does not go unnoticed by the middle percy child as memory falls victim to wistful nostalgia, reminding her of her early days at court spent by anne's poised side. they are, after all, the triumvirate of the north, wrought from luminescent snow, adored by everlasting winter winds that shape and mold solemn mountains according to their own will. the lions of northumberland, to separate them is an odious sin in its own right, one that mustn't be absolved at any altar, and yet, isobel would never so easily let something dull her inviolable charm in the presence of others, no matter the circumstance. men have their blades, but isobel has her grit, lunar grace, gravitas, and ready wit, sharper than any weapon they would dream of wielding.
somewhere between vivacious stars and the moon, with her uncharted thoughts elsewhere, a woman's voice interrupts isobel's golden reverie, tempting her to turn. “of course, lady marguerite. i must admit that everything suited my taste.” she cants her head as a courteous smile stretches across her face that could summon anyone's attention, abandoning her silver spoon and honey roasted almonds within a single moment. “but truthfully, i did not mind the rain. it was quite refreshing and did wonders for my face and skin.” the true meaning of her words she daintily conceals behind a heavy goblet of wine brought to her lips, remaining present and yet out of reach. “pray tell, does life serve you well these days in the company of princess elizabeth?”
& @truedevotions
post-play, pre-execution
The Tudor court was surely in its prime, at least so Meg believed. The most important people from the highest established families in England were in attendance, as well as foreign guests, and many of them young, bright, and vivacious. Though she did cherish quiet moments alone or with the ladies of Elizabeth's retinue, Meg thrived in mixed company, particularly when a large gathering was taking place. Grand suppers were her favorite evening affair; laughter could be heard echoing throughout the Great Hall along with the cacophony of conversation.
As the meal began, Meg turned to regard the lady whom she had been seated next to, Isobel Percy. The Northumberland daughter had long been an elusive figure to Meg; impeccable breeding and manners made reading her thoughts difficult, and she held herself with such grace and poise that Meg often felt the urge to sit a bit straighter and speak a bit softer. She may have been raised alongside a princess, but she was very well aware of her status in comparison to those with storied noble lineage. "Did you enjoy the festivities in the gardens, Lady Isobel?" Meg inquired, leaning in towards the other young woman to be heard over the others around them. "Though the rain ended our celebrations early, I thought it a great success."
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perhaps it should've been sibella instead of her on this path for leniency, a venerable littérateur, homer's forgotten daughter, a pious woman that could embellish any fable or narrative; isobel had seen her scribble away in her diaries and voraciously devour exceedingly rare and large books a countless number of times. it's only sensible to assume that she'd be capable of speaking from the heart on behalf of aunt elizabeth. presumably still, the role could've been edmund's too. thirteen years of camaraderie that stems from the early days of boyhood must equate to more and be of greater value in comparison to whatever she may offer.
“thank you, your grace.” she could be the voice of a haloed cherub in his ear, extol and praise him before the world, shower him with platitudes and reverence that he's bound to hear from every noble that doesn't truly mean it, deceive him with well-crafted and elaborate lies, but she opts for the truth.
“my loyalty,” isobel echoes, playing with the words as if they're iridescent freshwater pearls within her mouth whilst walking arm in arm with him, the very amalgamation of purple and blue making it seem as if they're one. “well you cannot ask for something that is already yours. as for friendship, i've always thought that the most cherished ones must be earned and built, but i'd say that night in the rain gave you a head start. for aiding me, of course.”
a skilled orator not by nature, but proclivity and practice, a master of pace, structure, and phrasing, she had acquired such adroitness as a fledgling by anne boleyn's side, going for perspicaciousness over needlework. “a wise king must know his subjects. he, after all, holds their fates in his hands. that's why i must tell you the story of elizabeth talbot, for she's not just a name on a parchment of paper, and though her treacherous choices mustn't be excused, i believe they weren't necessarily done out of malice. see, aunt elizabeth lost her husband years ago and was left childless, without someone to call her own. it's why she loved sibella dearly, the youngest girl, whom she doted upon, while i was away and serving at your lady mother's court.” she couldn't speak of the way they had sojourned in foreign cities, basked under the roman sun or sailed the azure mediterranean sea. no, that wasn't her story to tell. hers are rare memories, of fleeting cheek kisses, lovely letters detailing her voyages, and expensive gifts she had sent almost religiously often, from venetian silk to extravagant jewels.
unable to hold a distinct opinion of her own and yet unwilling to condemn and castigate the woman even before the king, she opens her mouth once more. “we weren't by definition close, but i knew her well enough to see the profound sadness in her eyes. to be alone is a cruel fate. one could easily say that loneliness begets loneliness. i think that's how she ended up trusting the wrong people. she allowed herself to fall for their ruse, all under the guise of finding comfort.” it's daunting, too, to realize how alone she must've been.
“my king,” raptly, she turns to look at him, forsaking the act of weighing every word as the silken veil of pretense and guise drops ceremoniously.
“william,” his name on her tongue like holy prayer, a midnight hymn, immortal echo, like she whispered it a thousand times before, in a dream, another life.
“think of my sister, someone who's too gentle to know of true callousness of the court.”
“think of my brother, the dutiful man you've known for so long, the same man who has once already faced the brutality of loss.”
“and think of me, a woman most devout to your cause.”
Her words drip with forethought that Wills turns a blind eye to, reconciled with the notion that to be in a King’s presence would always warrant some measure of excogitation: in some it sputtered and brayed like an old mule, repulsively blatant – in others, it slipped throughout conversation with the sleekness of an oiled snake, hissing noiselessly. But it was only a matter of time, thought Wills, before the Percys’ tongues – one, if not all – invoked that condemned woman’s name, already consigned to soak the block and straw strewn across the scaffold with her blood (though he would have placed coin on it being Ned – gallant, sensible Percy). Twisted in his gut was a perverse sort of satisfaction that it was his sister, Isobel, who’d sacrificed herself: her attempts to entreat his clemency buttered with humility and flattery, for to set oneself against a Tudor, as the Percy family well knew, was a dangerous thing.
The King’s jaw opens, then clamps shut. Although he often dispensed with the formality of punctuality, the Privy Council was scheduled to convene within the hour – and with the morrow of Elizabeth Talbot’s execution drawing ominously near, there would be raucous calls for bloodshed from each faction at court, an expectation for the King to resolve the ancient feuds embittering his assemblies. Besides, the engineers behind Talbot’s downfall would expect some kind of reward; scraps of rich meat and haunted manors and former abbeys thrown to them like dogs, omnivorous hounds at his disposal, gnashing at each other's throats. ‘I don’t have much time,’ Wills announces, thrusting out a fig-purple sleeve for Isobel to clutch. ‘Walk with me, Mistress Percy, and I’ll hear your plea – try to make it brief, yes?’
As they begin their stroll toward the King’s chambers – an orchestra of Wills’ heavy footfalls, the clanging of a sheathed sword, and the swish of Isobel’s velvet skirts sounding their journey – he tilts his cuprous head in the direction of Isobel’s pearl-edged hood. ‘I cannot promise satisfaction, but I vow to listen, Mademoiselle Percy, to whatever it is you bring me. May I only ask for the honour of your friendship, your loyalty, in turn?’
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the awful hours of the bloody day, nearly twenty-two of them by now, are both hurried and slow-moving at once, dragging on for far too long and yet making it seem as if there isn't enough time to do what must be done. whatever grievances and worries she may harbor, isobel won't allow them to cloud her judgment or the minds of the percy siblings, offering herself instead as a single pillar that would bear the weight of their anguish and doubt; it's her endless, irrevocable love for them that compels her to move onward.
she doesn't even realize what time it is when she at last returns to her bedchambers, adamantly refusing to trade her gown for a silken robe de chambre and settle down for the night without paying a badly needed visit to her siblings first.
“sibella, my heart,” she calls out and rushes to her side in an instant, her voice low and brittle as she envelops her in her arms and presses a tender kiss upon her sister's forehead, allowing mere minutes to elapse in utter silence. wordlessly, without sparing the worth of her gown a second thought, she extends her cobalt blue sleeve to wipe away her sister's iridescent tears, her sleek fingers lifting her chin so that their eyes may meet.
“i wish i could say that i don't agree with you, but there is always hope that they shall show her at least some kindness.” is the only reassurance she can give that isn't a lie or faux belief. what good would it do to hear of her meeting with william if he decides to listen to his council over her? sibella mustn't know that it was for her. that it was all for her.
“you don't have to carry your sorrow all by yourself. let me help.” they'll grieve together, grieve like storms and wounded animals do, for not once will her sister have to walk alone. “i know how much aunt elizabeth means to you. how much you both mean to each other. but she wouldn't want this for you. think of how much she loves you, all the places where she took you. you are her favourite memory, sibella. no matter what happens, no matter what the volatile future brings for her, she'll always know that she was loved, truly loved by the kindest and most intelligent woman that this country has ever seen.”
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒. closed to @truedevotions
𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. hampton court palace, percy apartments
𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 & 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄. 13 september 1559, evening post-execution
it is a filthy habit — these are most certainly her mother's words, or perhaps they were found in her aunt's rare reprimand of her favorite — to sneak away before the conclusion of any of the courtly festivities. she could stomach watching a volta after dinner; she could navigate a conversation with a courtier drunk on ale and wine with some grace. and yet after this morning's execution sibella found herself repulsed by the meaningless conversation over honeyed ham and the outpouring of wine the color of the blood shed upon the scaffold that very morning. she did not even attempt to distract herself with a word nor a plate nor a goblet, and escaped the great hall as quickly as she had entered it.
she spends the rest of the day sequestered in the family's apartments, ignoring any plea to show her tear-streaked cheeks. indeed, her parents and her elder siblings probably knew best how to face the rest of court as another of their family member fell — it had, after all, happened before. but she could not be peaceable, not yet; so long as her beloved aunt was imprisoned in the tower, a storm would rage on inside of her. sibella had never known this side of herself; there was hardly any reason to release her to the vultures.
nightfall sheaths hampton court palace in darkness and after the last dinner candle has been blown out, all of court retired to their beds. but not the youngest percy. indeed, she laid her haid to rest but her mind did not follow suit. she traipsed out of bed and out of her bedroom into the small sitting room of their apartments, and hoisted herself onto the windowsill that overlooked the knot garden. she curled her arms around herself and without even trying, felt a hot tear stream down her face. she wasn't aware that she'd managed to stop crying. "they are surely to kill her," she mutters to the figure that entered the room.
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rare are the days and nights when sleep evades her, but a change of scenery can pull tricks even on the strongest of minds, reminding isobel that she's now miles away from alnwick castle, from the sheer comfort only a home can give. yet the freedom to roam around great halls in nothing but her faintly scented nightgown and wear her hair down, which in truth has always been a part of her rebellious style, proves to be more gratifying than sleep itself.
“your grace,” she greets, hoping that her light presence, like moonlight on still water, won't deter the scottish queen from gracing the room with a soothing melody. “it appears it has not.” still, she sees no point in dwelling on the matter as she takes a seat by one of the many windows in the vicinity of a gilded harp, resting her elbow on a chair's top rail and her chin and stubborn weariness on the soft palm of her left hand that smells of beeswax and roses. “please continue. i'd love to hear you play. i may even join you.”
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 — isobel percy, @truedevotions.
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 — inside hampton court palace.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 — september 1559, late at night.
* ˛ SLEEP SELDOM ARRIVES GENTLY, or so mary has been forced to conclude after all these days at hampton court, nights full of tossing & turning & staring upwards, empty - eyed & exhausted, as though the answers to all her worries would become visible if she stared long enough. ( perhaps it is merely a strange bed that they are yet to be used to — though taken with a turn a touch different — mary shudders to think of it. )
wandering the halls at night is perhaps not the most advisable of actions. but it is either this or spending the rest of the night lying in bed with her eyes open, so mary silently ventures onwards until they find the virginal they frequent so often during the day, gently coaxing every note from its frame, barely more than a whisper. ❝ my lady, ❞ mary murmurs, fingers pausing their easy glide across the keys, sleep - tinted mind still sharply aware of the sound of approaching steps. ❝ i see that rest has found neither you nor i ? ❞
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