Somehow, I always end up writing Mary Talbot as completely arrogant and impossible. I do feel for Anthony...
The Queen is Dead!: Katherine of Aragon dies in 1518
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Somehow, I always end up writing Mary Talbot as completely arrogant and impossible. I do feel for Anthony...
Either his brother's honoured general or a Cardinal in the mould of Wolsey and Rodrigo Borgia, I think... I can never decide which!
Some day, you'll have to write that particular story, and we'll be able to see what you make of it...
Ah, Boleyn Girl 13 has done it too well in 'Arthur II' and 'The Princely Pope'. I wouldn't want to tread on her toes...
Where can I find those please? Arthur is buried in my hometown and a timeline of him surviving always interested me.
Ooh, you're Worcester based? So was my best friend before she moved north for uni (which is where we met, though I'm a couple of years younger.)
Anyway I digress. The stories are both on FFNet, albeit incomplete. I will find you the links later, when I am not on my phone.
Ooh, you're Worcester based? So was my best friend before she moved north for uni (which is where we met, though I'm a couple of years younger.)
Anyway I digress. The stories are both on FFNet, albeit incomplete. I will find you the links later, when I am not on my phone.
Here, as promised @Ogrebear
The Princely Pope
King Arthur II
Thanking you muchly.
Looking forward to your next chapter.
Thanks. Hopefully up Wednesday - life is a little manic at the moment.
Do you really think he'd know every young woman at Court? I could just imagine Marie thinking "Oh, for goodness sake, take a hint..."
Honestly, I do. The percentage of women at court being in general so small, Henry's early days' court by reputation being so taken with the idea of knightly platonic-ish (wink, wink) love for ladies, and Henry's own notorious interest - platonic of course! - in ... THE LADIES!
But ... it is far, far better to suspend my sense of disbelief on such a small matter in order to get the humor payoff.
Honestly, I do. The percentage of women at court being in general so small, Henry's early days' court by reputation being so taken with the idea of knightly platonic-ish (wink, wink) love for ladies, and Henry's own notorious interest - platonic of course! - in ... THE LADIES!
But ... it is far, far better to suspend my sense of disbelief on such a small matter in order to get the humor payoff.
You have a point... But then, Katherine of Aragon had a household of over 200 at one point, or Anne Boleyn did, I can't remember which one, so I doubted even Henry would know them all by name, particularly given how self-centred he could be... Glad you found it amusing!
Section XCII- February 1522
Feeling generous as I had an interview today, and so I need distracting from possible results...
The lavish christening ceremony went off flawlessly, except for the fact that the star of the show himself, usually quite a settled baby, took a dislike to the incense used in the chapel and made his displeasure known by screeching irritably for the entire length of time that he was within sensing distance of it.
Something the new Viscount Lovell was quick to remark upon in an attempt to break the ice with his new betrothed.
“Well, well, little Lord Branksome was certainly doing his best to imitate his grandfather’s emblem, was he not? That was a mighty fine impression of a falcon mid-hunt he was doing back there, wouldn’t you say, Lady Mary?” he chuckled, taking Lady Mary Talbot’s arm and leading her away from Lord Pembroke’s chambers. She turned flinty eyes on him, but didn’t protest.
“Whatever you say, Lord Lovell,” she murmured tonelessly.
Anthony’s heart sank, but he determined not to despair too quickly.
“I’ve been making enquiries about the houses that go with my new position,” he said brightly, “Middleham is in far better condition than Minster Lovell, so I thought we might begin our married life there, if you liked. I’m sure neither the King nor the Queen would begrudge us a few weeks away from Court to get to know each other once we’re married and the Midsummer celebrations are over.”
He knew he was injecting his voice with more gaiety than the occasion merited, but he hoped that by doing so, he might inspire his companion with some of it, even if it was false. Mary Talbot, however, was having none of it.
“As you wish, Lord Lovell. You’re to be my husband; your word will be my command.”
Anthony paused, glancing sideways at the young girl walking beside him. Her head was up and her jaw set. Her eyes were dull and there were petulant frown lines around her mouth and creasing her forehead. In short, she was the antithesis of a blushing bride.
A sudden wave of fury welled up in Anthony and he found himself berating her, even though he’d promised himself he’d give her time, “God’s Death, Lady Mary! I was as reluctant for this match as you are, yet I’m prepared to try and make it work. Can’t you at least attempt to make it seem as though you’re meeting me halfway or are you too spoilt a miss even for that?”
Instantly her back went up. She glared at him and her eyes spat poison; as venomous as her voice.
“You’re not worthy of me. You’re not an Earl; you haven’t even been a Viscount for longer than a fortnight. Besides, everyone knows the King only titled you so that you could marry me and keep me out of the way. I’m to be kept quiet and bridled while the precious Lady Anne of Ormonde flaunts her happiness under my nose. Her happiness with my true husband,” she sneered, lips curling unpleasantly backwards, “So, no. I won’t meet you halfway. I’ll say the words, I’ll become your wife, because I have no choice, but I’ll be damned if I’ll make it easy for you.”
With that, she plucked her hand off his sleeve and spun on her heel, stalking off with the implication of her words still hanging in the air between them.
Woodstock, February 1522
Little Edmund Boleyn was christened with all the pomp befitting a nephew of the King of England. The Queen, his father’s friend Sir Francis Weston and the Earl of Surrey stood as his godparents. Tom Wyatt carried the chrism and the proud father had another title bestowed upon him by a beaming brother-in-law. He was now Viscount Branksome as well as Earl of Pembroke and so Edmund was Lord Branksome by courtesy, though he would of course, be Lord Rochford as well, once his father succeeded to the Earldom of Ormonde.
The lavish christening ceremony went off flawlessly, except for the fact that the star of the show himself, usually quite a settled baby, took a dislike to the incense used in the chapel and made his displeasure known by screeching irritably for the entire length of time that he was within sensing distance of it.
Something the new Viscount Lovell was quick to remark upon in an attempt to break the ice with his new betrothed.
“Well, well, little Lord Branksome was certainly doing his best to imitate his grandfather’s emblem, was he not? That was a mighty fine impression of a falcon mid-hunt he was doing back there, wouldn’t you say, Lady Mary?” he chuckled, taking Lady Mary Talbot’s arm and leading her away from Lord Pembroke’s chambers. She turned flinty eyes on him, but didn’t protest.
“Whatever you say, Lord Lovell,” she murmured tonelessly.
Anthony’s heart sank, but he determined not to despair too quickly.
“I’ve been making enquiries about the houses that go with my new position,” he said brightly, “Middleham is in far better condition than Minster Lovell, so I thought we might begin our married life there, if you liked. I’m sure neither the King nor the Queen would begrudge us a few weeks away from Court to get to know each other once we’re married and the Midsummer celebrations are over.”
He knew he was injecting his voice with more gaiety than the occasion merited, but he hoped that by doing so, he might inspire his companion with some of it, even if it was false. Mary Talbot, however, was having none of it.
“As you wish, Lord Lovell. You’re to be my husband; your word will be my command.”
Anthony paused, glancing sideways at the young girl walking beside him. Her head was up and her jaw set. Her eyes were dull and there were petulant frown lines around her mouth and creasing her forehead. In short, she was the antithesis of a blushing bride.
A sudden wave of fury welled up in Anthony and he found himself berating her, even though he’d promised himself he’d give her time, “God’s Death, Lady Mary! I was as reluctant for this match as you are, yet I’m prepared to try and make it work. Can’t you at least attempt to make it seem as though you’re meeting me halfway or are you too spoilt a miss even for that?”
Instantly her back went up. She glared at him and her eyes spat poison; as venomous as her voice.
“You’re not worthy of me. You’re not an Earl; you haven’t even been a Viscount for longer than a fortnight. Besides, everyone knows the King only titled you so that you could marry me and keep me out of the way. I’m to be kept quiet and bridled while the precious Lady Anne of Ormonde flaunts her happiness under my nose. Her happiness with my true husband,” she sneered, lips curling unpleasantly backwards, “So, no. I won’t meet you halfway. I’ll say the words, I’ll become your wife, because I have no choice, but I’ll be damned if I’ll make it easy for you.”
With that, she plucked her hand off his sleeve and spun on her heel, stalking off with the implication of her words still hanging in the air between them.