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[devidaure]

ℐ rafael

ℒ For your muse to walking in on mine taking a bath

Lucrezia’s duties had all but tripled during the Parisian Summit, leaving Lucrezia’s heels to burn from weight and exhaustion. She went from palace to palace to concur with various ladies-in-waiting, to collect gossip or trivial knowledge that would do Alexandrina well to know - and so, with quick footsteps she was led to Palais de la Cite. Pushing past guards to meet a Portuguese lady who served the Crown Princess, Lucrezia passed through a series of doors without thoughts before being met by the splash water. 

His voice paused her, halting her misstep - leaving Lucrezia to drop the basket that had once been full to the brim with produce for her Mistress. “Rafael! Why did you not lock the door? You do know that a lock is put in place for such a mistake!?” Lucrezia cried, though as stern as she was, the lady-in-waiting howled with laughter. It was with this moment of pure mistake and honeyed joy that she mentioned her brother, one in which had remained behind such stubborn lips since his untimely death met on the battlefield with her other brother by his side. “Ferrando would have you chased by the hound for letting me see you as such…” 

Then, as if a force came to wipe her from her feet, Lucrezia adjusted - picking up the pieces one by one with her eyes cast downwards in melancholy. “Forget it, mind your lock… I do not want to run into this again.” 

[devidaure]

cristobaltrastamara​:

the prince of asturias had always believed himself more valued than others; but while it might have been untrue in the past, he had learned how valued he was — to his people, to his family, to the court-in-exile he had led since the death of his brother. a man of action, cristobal had learned the art of diplomacy much slower than he’d learned the art of war; it helped, he knew, that aragon needed war to survive, needed to regain its homeland before it was forever lost to the córdobans.

( and with his inflated sense of self, with the arrogance, came a sense of entitlement, that he alone should have free access to information before others, that his niece’s womb was there to save aragon instead of her own marriage. )

perhaps he had been a bit too harsh on lucrezia, but cristobal was not a man who apologized. he did not regret his own actions and would admit to doing so even less. still, his countenance softened as they danced and his head inclined at her words. “i know well that your loyalty lies with aragon, lucrezia,” he remarked, drawing her name out slowly, his voice low so as to not be overheard with the intimacy in which he spoke to her. “but i’m curious as to whether your loyalty lies with aragon first and alexandrina second or the opposite.” cristobal’s jaw tightened at the comment, suddenly incredibly eager to hear the answer even as her hand pressed against his chest, his own breath tightening.

the low chuckle that rumbled up from his chest was a familiar one; cristobal was used to taking part in pleasures of the flesh and lucrezia was a woman who graced his bed on many an occasion. “you know what you can do to please me,” he spoke candidly, his smile wolflike even as he moved with the motions of the dance. “but there are, perhaps, too many in paris for me to take the pleasures i have found myself deprived of in your absence.”

She continued to weave her fingers into the hoops of his jerkin, lacing herself within him as she stared at the stitch marks. Who would she put first? Aragon or Alexandrina? For her, at least, they were two of the same cloth. Alexandrina was where her love for Aragon had begun and it would be where it ended! But she would not admit that; after all, she still questioned Cristobal beneath their façade of admiration; reminding him of so, as she drew her nails against his chiffon undershirt.

“Aragon comes first, the retaking of OUR home and the memory of your brother and his wife comes before all,” Lucrezia wooed, curling her lips as her gaze lifted to his own — watching him, gesturing for him to follow her suit, before pulling on his garment. Cristobal was, without question, a man to be feared and pay attention to. She believed he had the drive to retake their land but — at what cost? At least he was bolder than Mateo, who was her secret treasure. Laying kisses upon the sharp cut of his jaw, Lucrezia hummed and purred, releasing herself off him with tender reflexes. 

Slowly, she moved backwards — slipping from her slippers to guide him towards the bed that took its central place in his rooms. The Abbey was holy, a sanctuary for many; but now? It was an odd place, rooms in which God no longer took residence. Unlacing her bodice that remained tight against her bosom, Lucrezia exhaled. “Have you been too busy for me? Too busy to delight in me?” She teased, dragging back her bottom lip with her pearls before loosening herself entirely of her outer garments. “I hope your time otherwise, my lord, has been spent furthering your ambition?”

[devidaure]

margueritedepolignac​:

——

her countenance remained the same — she had practiced remaining placid at all times at court — though her voice grew tighter, nearly imperceptible to those who did not know her exceptionally well. “one only has to look at who wears queen lianor’s old crown in england to know that it is not an impossibility if i so desired it,” she remarked, her tone somewhat petulant. in truth, marguerite knew that she did not answer to a lady-in-waiting, especially one from a country that had no land to call its own. “and i believe you would find that i’m quite popular at court. my father’s wealth can make even the most conceited individual overlook a bloodline.”

her lips thinned. “if the queen does her duty and gives the king a son, of course my louis will know only the sumptuousness that his father bestows upon him. but if she does not … ” marguerite allowed her words to slow, leaving her meaning handing unsaid in the space between them even as her eyes looked at the portrait on the wall. lips twitched and her eyes narrowed as she turned back at lucrezia, her back straight as can be. “what form of harmony might you be suggesting?” she inquired, rather curious that the woman had sought her out at all. “i know social niceties and courtesy; and you do not seem so insipid to approach me for something akin to friendship.”

marguerite hummed as she moved toward another painting, this one a still life that she found rather boring for its lack of opulence. “have you approached me of your own free will?” she inquired, curious as to whether or not the queen had sent her lady-in-waiting to test the waters. “i do not like to be manipulated, lucrezia. you understand that, do you not?”

It took every inch of Lucrezia to remain before Marguerite. It took every bone within her body to keep her hand from slapping her cheek; and it would've been so easily executed, to turn her cheek a violent scarlet with her hand print in place. It’d be her proudest moment, perhaps. And yet, she tucked her hands behind her, clutching them together as not to rise to her occasion. But even then her tongue remained free to roam; tilting her features up towards the decorated ceiling of the Louvre. “Yes, but their story begins and ends with love,” Lucrezia scorned, looking to the other down her nose before lowering herself to a suitable height. “Or so the rumour says.”

 With the bickering seeming never to end, Lucrezia turned towards one of the framed portraits. Up above lay the King’s grandfather and the husband to the feared Queen Mother who still ruled the court as if she were King instead. Lucrezia quire admired her, for there was more at stake than bastards and pitiful love affairs — she understood that, and so did the lady-in-waiting who had sworn her life to unmask those who had ordered the death of the late Aragonese monarchs. Once more, she had little care to give to the bastard of France’s mother — there were many bastards in France; a more important one being the half-brother to Philip who had turned into a count by affection alone. More would come; they would keep coming. It was the way of the world. 

 “Free will, though I am always happy to do as my Queen asks, I am proud to follow my own nose,” Lucrezia answered, offering her honesty with the wave of her hand before turning to Marguerite — facing her as woman to woman, with little patience to remain beneath her skin. “I think only of your son. Alexandrina has expressed a wish to welcome yourself and your son into her fold; you would be wise to accept it and to take part. There is no reason for the King’s court to remain divided.”

[devidaure]

STATUS: closed to @kingedwardplantagenet​ LOCATION: Tuileries Palace, interior TIMESTAMP: March 1459

England was a country which was shrouded with history. From the tale of Arthur and his Knights to the land of Giants, Lucrezia had all but side-stepped it’s position on the World's stage. Even in Lisbon, where their courtiers seemed to flood over sun soaked soil, Lucrezia had managed to avoid them. And yet, through her desire to unearth knowledge or solace in the murder of her late Monarchs, Queen Alexandrina’s head lady-in-waiting had finally been lead to the English door. 

The rooms were tightly packed to make sure the fire from each fireplace was stoked without fear of dwindling to firewood, the crimson English flags replacing sapphire French ones to stroke their egos that Lucrezia had heard to swell beneath what they deserved. She walked slowly, her eyes peering from beneath heavy lids as various courtiers walked past with daily routine and political inquiries. It seemed that no one would have looked her way — and that was how she liked it. Lucrezia had no need for their attention, she would only required their silence and discretion. After all, her very presence could alter the fragile relationship between England and France. 

 When gained admittance to the meeting hall, Lucrezia waited. She did not expect the King himself to see her — nor in particular did she crave his attention either; for he was all too grand and busy with duty… or, so she assumed (or perhaps even home, for if a King was not busy, then what was the point in them?). So, she expected Isabel, a woman of grandeur and myth herself. So her hands joined, and her eyes watched, awaiting some kind of presence before the heavy drop of boots echoed through the door.. 

 She was taken aback as soon as she saw him, as soon as her dark and deep eyes caught the ones that belonged to the King. Perhaps it was because she had never seen his portrait, or simply because she had not expected to see him — but her stomach twanged and fell, leaving Lucrezia’s lips to part for just a second before she lowered herself into a respectfully deep curtsey — a depth worthy of his person. “Your Majesty,” She purred, her eyes set upon the floor, to the stone that lined the French halls. “Thank you for seeing me, I am… My name is Lucrezia de Vidaure; Aragonese by birth and the lady-in-waiting to the Queen of France…” She paused, an eyebrow raised, only then did she pick up her chin to meet his scrutiny.

 She had travelled to England once on the wings of Alexandrina, when a betrothal was met between England and the late Kingdom of Aragon. She had stood in wait, and watched from the shadows — unheard of, undetected. But much had changed, and now Lucrezia was older, full of purpose and wisdom. She knew what made a court pump and run, she knew what the King would fancy, or what he did not (in a manner of speaking, for she did not know the details, yet). And so, she peppered her lips — full and inviting, her lashes lowering to peer at him through such darkened curls. “I was not expecting an audience with your Royal self, your grace. I thought… Perhaps you would be too busy…”

Lucrezia paused, lingering before the King — meeting his eyes that seemed to enclose the lady-in-waiting... Such eyes that saw into her very soul. "If I had known, I would've brought a gift from the Queen herself... I will come another time, to correct my mistake." 

[devidaure]

week total : 70 complete total : 1115

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[devidaure]

🎧 + mateo

 I Need Your Love so Bad - Irma Thomas

I need some lips to feel next to mine Need someone to stand up to tell me when I'm lyin' And when the lights are low and it's time to go I need your love so bad So now give it up and bring it home to me Write it on a paper so it can be read to me Tell me that you love me baby and stop drivin' me mad Because I need your love so bad

Blue Moon - Elvis Presley

You saw me standing alone Without a dream in my heart Without a love of my own Blue moon You knew just what I was there for You heard me saying a pray for Someone I really could care for Without a love of my own

What Goes On - the Velvet Underground

What goes on in your mind? I think that I am falling down What goes on in your mind? I think that I am upside down Baby, be good, do what you should You know it will work alright Baby, be good, do what you should You know it will be alright

[devidaure]

✿ (for zeynab)

FRIENDSHIP.     childhood friends  /  work buddies or coworkers  /  family friends  /  friends with benefits  /  smoking buddies  /  adventure buddies  /  fake friends  /  recently friends  /  party buddies  /  friendship of need  /  dying friendship  /  circumstantial friendship  /  partners in crime  /  old friendship  /  [ your muse ] is the good influence  /  [ your muse ] is the bad influence  /  [ my muse ] is the good influence  /  [ my muse ] is the bad influence  /  opposites attract  /  ride or die  /  frenemies  /  roommates or flatmates  /  penpals  /  exes to friends  /  enemies to friends  /  other .

ANTAGONISTIC.     dangerous to each other  /  dangerous to others  /  unpredictable  /  rivals  /  petty  /  developing into sexual or romantic tension  /  based off family matters  /  based of off circumstance  /  based of professional matters  /  based off misunderstanding or lies  /  conflict of ideology  /  betrayal  /  hero - villain dynamic  /  enemies  /  fight club  /  friends turned enemies  /  lovers turned enemies  /  exes turned enemies  /  other .

[devidaure]

mateo-trastamara​:

“You would say that,” Lucrezia laughed, her toes curling in elation before rolling her head to the side. “You open your mouth and up comes honeyed milk, you are sweet — you charm with one roll of your tongue… but I see past you, as if you were also made of glass,” she teased; for the lady-in-waiting to his grand sister thought she knew him better than almost anyone else. She felt his ambition, his way of life, and would not ask him for either complete loyalty or a ring (not that she wished for marriage, or even children, her life had been too scarred to ever dream of such). And yet, in one turn, she fell for his ploy — willingly giving herself to him without a second thought, as if he could ever see herself through it; to survive his torment. With the fat petal of his lip pressed upon her velveteen thigh, Lucrezia ran her fingers vacantly through his hair; as if to tangle herself into him, to mix them together, to combine skin, hair and nail. 

“I cannot,” she whispered, hissing through the plump of her mouth and the clench of her jaw as Mateo moved upward, touching and caressing as if she was to disappear if his fingers left her person. The weight of his hand that curved around her breast left Lucrezia’s mouth to part, revealing the enveloping depth of her mouth and throat before releasing a deep groan that travelled up from the embrace of her belly. In truth, she’d share all she had to offer to Mateo, the one person who had ever truly adored her as herself — all he had to do was ask nicely, even without his heat between her thighs. But she had little to work with, and with foul luck she had simply found herself collecting small secrets around the palais that would mean little to an ambitious mind (that, and she didn’t wish to share trinkets about the ladies to Mateo out of pure and direct jealousy — for she didn’t want him to think of anyone but her, not in that moment at least). 

She lifted her thighs around him, her hands reaching to unlace the hose that covered his hardened arousal, refusing to waste such time — after all, she was supposedly only taking a break from a long line of duties; and Alexandrina would want to see both her and Mateo in due time, so she took him in her hand, and caressed his length with slow, meaningful strokes. Fingers etching out every inch of him, before taking his lips against her own, her tongue parting his mouth — allowing him to taste and search her before urging him closer with the tightening of her hips. “You will be called for soon, you know… We both will, we shouldn’t take this peace for granted,” Lucrezia all but warned, pushing herself closer till his being sunk into her own, leaving them with rolling hips and cut-off breaths, the noises that were often heard beneath the clash of goblets and short-lived laughter. “Ugh, merda — I have missed you Mateo… I wish for nothing more than your entire being, your attention, your laughter… I have felt empty without you inside of me.”

[devidaure]

rafaeldeourem​:

𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯

Daylight threaded along the horizon as Rafael strolled the streets of Paris.  Sounds of fishermen and sailors filtered up from the banks of the Seine and he smiled to himself, musing silently on the nature of human life.  At home in Lisbon, such morning walks revealed the self-same actions, those familiar sounds of ships and souls moving this way and that with their wares as they prepared for the hustle of that came with the deluge of daylight.

The fishmongers would, of course, haul their loot to the market and spend much of the day cleaning and hocking it.  Was not his own daily routine much the same?  His wares were merely the intangible currency of statesmanship - prepping kings for negotiating and selling them upon dreams of power: more and more and more of it till their bellies were full to bursting with it.  He did not heave nets over his shoulder, but, rather, cast golden crowns to those who would snatch them from the air.

This was, of course, all a parlor trick.  Much like these fishermen, Rafael could not give what he did not possess, and he wore no crown, himself.  Yet, he could spin a tale, shove troves of men across the world with a slash of his pen, and upend entire ways of life with a few missives.  A man in his position was a strange thing, indeed.  Yet, he welcomed it.  It was diverting work, this: the risk as great as the reward.

Spying another soul moving towards him, Rafael smirked, his eye resting upon the figure for a breath, allowing the other individual to see him.  “Pray, stop with me a moment,” he said, eye twinkling.  “I must bid you walk with me, a moment, and tell me what you see,” he added, gesturing towards the fishers, hard at work.  “What do you comprehend when you look upon them?  Where does your mind venture?”

Sent to the market to organise supper for her Highness, Lucrezia carefully stepped around the various stalls which lined the street; where baskets lay full to the brim with fruit, fresh fish or clothes traded from all areas of the globe. And though the summit had only brought more workload for the head lady-in-waiting of the French Crown, she found herself thankful that there was more on offer. For many tradespersons had travelled with their courts, and where once laid boring French produce had now been replaced by garments from Italy, spices from the Persian Empire and fruits imported by the Ottoman Empire. She scoured with care, eyes narrowed as she spent her mistress’ coin on such delights, a woven basket hanging over her arm as she prepped it full. 

She remained focused on her task, before noting the passing of a ghost. He, coated in a golden shadow, left Lucrezia almost lightheaded — so dearly so, she reached out to her companion and grasped the small, French wrist that had been forced to accompany her on the trip. “no, no pot ser —” she mumbled to herself, leaving the other to question Lucrezia’s right of mind, before the Aragonese lady straightened herself with deep and heavy breaths. “Take this back to her Highness’ kitchen, tell them to prepare tortas de alma and to await my next orders… Go! I am well equipped to be by myself,” Lucrezia ordered, waving her hand aside as the lady in waiting followed suit. The French ladies were stubborn and spoiled, but after a few weeks of training, Lucrezia had managed to work out the kinks. 

With her spirits centered, and her gravity re-calibrated, Lucrezia brushed her skirts down and dipped her head in an effort to pass the man who had once been a great friend of her long deceased brothers. His ghost, or the ghosts of her past, seemed to haunt her there and then — for so long Lucrezia had managed to keep them at bay, to halt them from entering her world in France that was so dedicated to the well being of her Queen. And yet, there she was, when face to face with Rafael de Menezes... Allowing herself to fall into his net, as the fish he was engaged with, did so with foolishness. 

“Why do you ask? Do you not ask for anything else?” She called, taking a step backwards, to face him straight as she squared her shoulders and rolled back onto her heels, to appear graceful or older than she was. “Or would you prefer to overlook the face that now greets you in this market place? Perhaps you do not remember me, for the last time we met I was here high,” Lucrezia smiled, gesturing to her shoulder. She had been all but fifteen years old when he had left with her brothers for the last time; when her life had been taken from her. “And I was still warm beneath the Aragonese’s glow.”

[devidaure]

margueritedepolignac​:

of all the people marguerite might have passed time with, the queen’s most trusted lady-in-waiting was hardly one of them. she felt no love from the aragonese woman, though she had never expected to either. in truth, marguerite was perfectly content to ignore lucrezia when their paths crossed, though she was not so gauche as to deny the meeting. still, she wondered who this meeting was truly for, and words left her mouth as they traversed through the corridors. “if it is the queen who wishes to find common ground, she can speak to me herself,” marguerite commented. “i am the mother of the king’s only son; i will not secure good will through intermediaries.”

she turned. “unless your desire is to foster good will between the two of us.” head tilted to the side and marguerite offered a thin-lipped smile. “i will speak plainly, lucrezia — i have no desire to steal your beloved queen’s crown; who would want such responsibility when they already live in such luxury?”

She remained stoic, holding her hands together, clutching herself from raising a hand to the whore from Polignac. She wondered what a man such as the King saw in her — perhaps it was her mere beauty, for that could not be questioned. But charm and grace, as with many things, would fade. And soon she would be left with a poisonous tongue, with no allies and only the evidence of a child to secure her future. With a grumble rumbling behind her lips, Lucrezia slowly closed her lids, only revealing the deep and ravenous hue of her gaze once her thoughts had been pushed back into line.

Anyone can have a son, she spat at herself ,as she watched the other propose herself. But only Alexandrina wore the crown, and sat by Philip as his equal. This woman, born to produce, would only be a womb.

“Why, bien sûr. You could never steal her crown, ma dame. You are but a Count’s daughter… are you not? Royal blood pumps through my mistress, but you already know that,” Lucrezia answered, watching the Madame de Polignac before beginning her steps — pausing them before the watchful eye of the Queen Mother’s portrait. “And your child, any child that would come from your womb, would never become King or Queen… They are but evidence that the King can reproduce. That is all. But I did not come here to fight, or argue, or even to look upon you with malice. I thought we could find a simmer of harmony — a hint of it at least. For your child."

[devidaure]

STATUS: closed to @margueritedepolignac​ LOCATION: Louvre Palace, interior TIMESTAMP: February 1459, mid-morning

Alexandrina, Queen of France, had demanded that both Lucrezia and herself would love the King’s bastard son and mistress... but how was one meant to do such if they had never been taught how to? She felt no need, no desire and evidently no trust for the King’s maitresse-en-titre — and so was left with little more than an equally spent politeness and hesitant warmth. 

Meeting her amongst the Louvre Palace, Lucrezia held her head high and exchanged pleasantries before looking past the Comte de Polignac’s daughter, to instead gesture them onwards — down a maze of corridors to meet the eyes of various Kings and Queens, painted by the French masters. “I thought it best we meet and… find some common ground, my lady — you see, with the summit, we are to spend more time together.”

[devidaure]

queenalexandrina​:

“we must have pity for marguerite. my husband loves his son and if i indicate any resentments then he will never find it in his heart to love me…” nimble fingers pulled the pins from her hair, unwound the tight braids that made her head ache, soft black waves falling to her waist. “my lady mother, god rest her soul, could not stomach the proclivities of a king and now they are both gone and i am estranged from the siblings whom i was not permitted to know. envy is such an ugly beast as we both know.” bitterness had warped her memories and when she dreamt of her mother, images of the goddess hera merged with her visage, the most powerful woman of them all, a wife of a king and yet so very tortured by envy. was she doomed to such a fate, as well? “france must view me as…gracious and tolerant and formidable for it. i imagine that once upon a time i could have found myself in marguerite’s position, a mother but not a wife, and i wonder if you could say the same? even those of us with the most resolve are only spared by an alignment of the stars and god’s grace among…other things.” alexandrina ventured, a chill running up her spine as a draft blew through, ruffling at the hem of her dress, her balance atop the furniture wavering momentarily. lucrezia’s wary tone when mentioning harry only made her bristle as his name was so often spoken with a keen sense of foreboding, yet another looming threat, one that had simultaneously been an enemy and a lover.

“oh, lucrezia, the prince of wales is…. well, if i must speak of him to others i refer to him as my royal cousin for all the kin we share and no one could ever believe anything untoward of us.” alexandrina laughed, ever in denial about the weapon she had all but handed to him on winter night three years ago and the ways in which he could wound her and her family, “i now outrank him, after all and from the sound of it he is a troubled man in a troubled kingdom and if he does aim to be something bigger than his father’s son then surely i do not fit into such a perplexing equation.” no matter the tender words she’d exchanged with the prince, alexandrina could not stray from her marriage bed nor did she truly believe that harry would wish her to do so for in person they seemed incapable of treating one another with anything but contempt as if they were still abominable brats driving their mother’s mad. “it is strange, isn’t it? how we crave the touch of another human being? a child longs to rest her head upon her mother’s breast, a queen reaches for her beloved lady’s ever-steady hand, a sister massages all the horrid thoughts from her brother’s troubled head and yet…a prince, for the briefest moment, seeks a warm body beneath him even if she is not his to hold nor he hers and this is a sin, a manifestation of evil but it is only my sin for i am considered weak and damaged and he is not. aye, you mustn’t worry, my sweet zia,” she whispered, her veins coursing with uncharacteristic liquid candor, bolstered by the utterly abandoned residence, it’s incomparable limitlessness, “he’s already had me, what use am i now that his curiosity has been satisfied? men and their penchant for novelty…i would wager a man like that could now only think of me with some measure of…well, perhaps the word is disgust so you mustn’t let my terrible secret be a burden to you any longer.”

she stepped down from the wooden chest, gently cradling the other’s face in her hands as if she were the most precious treasure she had ever come across. the queen had come to view her past indiscretions in a different light, an impulsive attempt to cling to waning hope for which she came to regret more and more each day, stirred by cynicism and self-loathing, an enemy to her own emotions, and she was terribly sorry to have ever involved her dear friend. “so i will love my husband and i will try to love madame de polignac and her boy because i will not have anyone feel as cold and alone as i did some years ago in firenze. after all, that is precisely why i wrote to the prince while he was on campaign. despite all the soldiers and working women, i imagined it to be quite a lonely thing and i suppose i felt much the same here in france.” hands dropped to her sides, solemn, dark eyes to the floor and when her gaze rose once more it had shaken off the macabre of her drunken, histrionic tangent and all that was left was longing, for some kind of understanding. “we talk of me and my troubles so often, perhaps, all i wish to know is whether you too have been troubled by such things, by the weaknesses of the heart, the mind, the body.” alexandrina had never imagined such complications even as her elder brother told her time and time again of his various affairs of the heart. instead of learning from it she’d only listened and counted herself lucky that a partner would be chosen for her and it would all be tied up neat and simple. how wrong she had been. 

It was surely a blessing and rarity that the Queen of France, who had been forced to mature beneath the harsh hand of fate, still nurtured kindness. And though Lucrezia knew just how full her heart was, she was still taken aback — she even stumbled, one foot moving backwards as her hands hung by her sides. In truth, Alexandrina’s lady-in-waiting couldn’t quite picture herself practising love and appreciation for the King’s mistress (and in turn, the mother of his bastard child), for how could she? She had heard the whispers and knew that Alexandrina’s French ladies knew and were fond of Marguerite in a way Lucrezia couldn’t fathom. In fact, she wished to shake her friend from her shoulders; to coax any and all softness from her bones — such tenderness would be the end of her, if the pair of them weren’t insanely and devotedly careful to their previous station. 

With a huff offered stubbornly from behind pouted lips, Lucrezia walked towards one of the empty chairs that would’ve been used to nurse hungry babes, falling into its cradle before leaning upon the arm, putting a hand to her mouth to rub fingertips upon her mouth. Alexandrina was of the utmost importance… She was reminded of this again and again, in the eyes of her Uncle or the stern gaze of Her Majesty the late King’s mother. 

“Do not ever think that I do not trust you, for we have been through just enough to know what to do in such situations — but you must remember where we are. What we are to these people. We are not theirs, not till you give them children and heirs — it is a horrid task, but we must”, ” Lucrezia assured, watching as the young Queen passed her, watching as her hair swayed from side to side (she would have to help her brush through it later in fear of knots and stray tangles). On the subject of men and used skin, Lucrezia could not yet imagine that Harry did not think of Alexandrina as a weapon for his success. France and England, of course, were ancient enemies who would fight till both or either were diminished by God’s own strike.

Running her finger along her lower lip, Lucrezia muffled a groan, pushing herself back to the soles of her feet as Alexandrina brought such velvet palms to the sides of her face. Perhaps she could love, perhaps she could offer her forgiveness and unadulterated kindness — but Lucrezia would remain on guard; and if her dear friend’s softness would be returned with violence of malice, oh, she would drive her dagger till the hilt into both belly and throat. She would make them pay, she would get her revenge. 

But she did not let this be heard, and instead, she removed Aleandrin’s hands to hold them between their bodices instead. “I will stand by you, believe me. I will do as you ask, but I will also put your safety and well being above all else,” hinting towards her own plans, before dropping her fingers to take her arm instead. Lucrezia de Vidaure was not troubled by love, for she knew the rules. As a daughter who had grown up motherless, loveless and friendless, Lucrezia had always known that love was not to be on the cards. 

Instead, perhaps not formally aware to Alexandrina, she had taught herself to exchange secrets, lessons, whispers and knowledge with the skin on her body. She had always known that love was unavailable, even when playing the courtier within the Aragonese and Portuguese courts (when dabbling with affection and attention onto Alexandrina’s brother, Mateo). And in recent years, she had realise just what power she held in her figure, her tongue and lips. She would use such a weapon to unmask who killed the late Arargonese Monarchs, and would solidify Alexandrina’s standing with knowledge and intrigue. 

With a soft squeeze to the other’s arm, Lucrezia leaned her head upon her shoulder, and sighed softly as not to disturb her. “My love affairs are non-existent! I spend all my time caring for you, for your court…” she confessed, before moving to begin plaiting her hair, weaving such softness between her fingers in concentration. “But I have fallen to such softness, of course I have. But I have learned that a tender middle does little for the heart — I am not a Princess, I am not a Duchess or even a daughter of someone who holds such power. I am not meant to love in this environment… The closest I have ever been to submitting to such power has been with Mateo — but if anything, I care for him as I care for you... He is a bad influence,” Lucrezia divulged, laughing quietly. 

“I only seek the truth of what happened to your late and well-loved parents. And of course, for your happiness… As of that, I thought that you should direct yourself to a physician, and I wondered, have you thought anymore to looking for alternative methods? I hear the Tsesarevna conceived her own babe due to… sources outside of the norm.”

[devidaure]

week total : 60 complete total : 1045

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[devidaure]

ℛ For my muse to catch yours swimming naked in a lake

NSFW-ish MEMES | CLOSED

Lucrezia had always adored the sea, or any body of water - after all, she had grown up amongst the coast, where the most fertile soil lay for her family’s orange fields. And so, she took to the Seine with little quip, leaving the loud buzz of court behind as she dropped her clothes amongst the slightly mudded blades of emeralds; her shining skin becoming engulfed by water. 

As soon as the height reached the curve of high and full breasts, Lucrezia shudders - her toes lifting from the surface to tread water with gentle waves of her toned arms. Her eyes close, her soul floating somewhere else - despite the noise that ruffles ahead. 

But she misses the sound, as she allows her body to sink, to submerge her face - her two fingers pinching the tip of her nose to stop her gulp of water. 

Adventuring beneath the surface, she missed the voyageur who loitered by the dust-beaten track. She picked up the stones from the river’s bed, she felt the wildflowers drowning in water , she became one with the sea nymphs whispered in old mythology. That was till, she saw a looming shadow up-ahead. 

Without thought, she broke through the surface - where the water rippled around her, welcoming her to the sight of a stranger, as her arm covered her modesty with a shocked expression painted upon a stern face.

“Y-your grace,” she spluttered, wiping her lips with her spare hand, the river suddenly bitter to the taste. “I - may I ask  you to turn your back whilst I get to my clothes, your grace?” Lucrezia asked, commanded, as she waded slowly to the edge, the water running between her thighs before suddenly turning cold to the brisk French air. “What can I do for you, your grace?”  

[devidaure]

Jeffrey Ripple - Plums and Anemone, 2020

[devidaure]

mateo!

When asked about the Prince of Viana, Lucrezia does not loiter. Whereas when asked about Cristobal she recovered a smug and all-knowing look, here, she falters. Her cheeks rise in heat, her eyelashes fluttering by flush alone. She would never share her true feelings with a stranger, and would only admit how she admires and adores Mateo to his own face and opened soul. For she had told him again and again how she trusted him, how she adored him; how she’d openly give herself to his heart if he so asked it from her. But she would never allow anyone else to see her act the fool, and instead raises her head as she sips at her wine before the hearth - after the other lady’s questioning on Mateo’s uncle earlier that evening.

“Why do you ask? Do you fancy his eye?” Lucrezia asked, the birth of jealousy rippling through her like venom, leaving the lady-in-waiting’s teeth to become exposed - like a snake, daring its victim to stray closer to its grasp. So, she straightens herself, appearing all the more important and forthright before crossing her ankles beneath her skirts - skirts made in the French fashion, that disguise the Aragonese wolf, bending its fangs into pearl ivories; hiding its snarl, mixing it into a smile instead. “He is a lone being, he would not settle for you nor I… That is just his nature.”

But oh, how she desired his skin, soul and tongue more than she did any other. What a fool she was, to give access to emotion.

[devidaure]

cristobal

Lucrezia only unwinds five minutes before her eyes close for bed (and even then, does sleep ever reach the woman scarred by life’s terrors? No, though not recognised at that time she suffers from insomnia). Settled before the hearth with a cup of red wine, Lucrezia laughed and rolled her eyes from one side to the other. She sits with one of the other ladies; the only one she pays heed to (or understands in the slightest, the rest are nobleborn and spoiled with treasures that perhaps even the King doesn’t recognise), sipping generously as she asks Lucrezia about the people of court and who dares risk their necks to visit Paris. The name drips from her mouth, teasing Lucrezia forward. But she is trained in gossip, and would not spill his secrets nor even her true reflection on the Prince of Asturias.

In truth, perhaps, she finds him pompous and rude — but such attributes are ideal for carving out the Kingdom of Aragon from the ashes left by the dear last Monarchs. She trusts him to put Aragon forward, but she also holds him by an arm’s length; for she protects her mistress, his niece and the Queen of France, above all else.

She relaxes into the high-backed chair, trimmed in velvet that sat ones of royal blood rather than noble blood (after all, Lucrezia was little more than a daughter of an orange farmer). With another sip, coating her lips in wine, she looked to the other lady, and smiled from beneath its rim. “The Prince of Asturias is one of a kind, madam…” she answers, allowing the other to fill in the blanks. For she was not about to spill her intimacies on how Cristobal loved and touched, how he fueled her with ambition and need .”But I would keep your distance, in fear of being burnt.”