johnseymour

[johnseymour]

John Seymour, Earl of Hertford as Hyperion

John's outfit is simple, and yet does stand out. He has come as Hyperion, the Titan associated with brilliant light and father of the gods of the sun and moon. As such, his plain white layer is accentuated with gold, including a golden sash, a golden chain with sun emblems, and a golden laurel which almost blends into his blond hair.He has chosen a lesser-known figure of mythology, in the hope that his connection to Amelia's Theia will be glossed over.

[johnseymour]

He felt a pang of guilt at how her face fell, at how his own sadness had bled into her. At once it made him move to cup one cheek gently in his hand, tender as he met her gaze. "My love, do not even think it. Nothing shall pull us apart. I swore it the day we were married, and I swear it again now. Nothing can separate that which God has united." He stroked a thumb over her skin, ready if her tears spilled over, his other hand still clutched tightly in her own. She had always been his rock, a place where he might rest his heavy heart, and even this proved to be no exception.

"You need not worry about what must be done. Just now, what matters is that you and Jack are safe. If I can provide nothing else, I wish to ensure that you both feel secure, and loved. The performance is tiring, but it must be continued a little longer." He took a deep breath, gently tugging her so that they were sitting together on the edge of her bed. "I am sorry to bring you worry. You are so good to me, and so brave. I am ashamed to cause you even the slightest ounce of pain." With a faint, tender smile he studied her, soft. "You must be of good cheer. That is all I ask of you now. And to maintain your strength. I know that you can do so."

As their fingers intertwined, the secret countess pressed the pad of index and thumb to trace the outline of the ring he wore, a symbol of his unwavering loyalty to her. The same gold donned in the sanctity of a small country chapel, sheltered from the untamed wilderness and wildness of man beyond its stone walls. Amelia couldn’t shake the memory of their frenzied defiance: driven in a drumbeat quickened pace to matrimony and marriage bed, seeking solace and blessings from above, even as they defied their king's orders and declared allegiance to each other, first and foremost. God blessed their union despite such treasonous action by granting them a son, and thus, as Amelia kneeled beside the king’s own sister in silent prayer day in, day out, she only beseeched the Lord to soften King William’s heart and give them a chance at a life. That life so tangible she could feel it, that life and potential so beautifully lingering in the perhaps. 

The once serene smile that used to grace her lips, the same that could effortlessly transform into a feline smirk, as if she held a secret amusement that teased the world, slowly faded as her husband spoke of the bleakness that lay ahead. That glint in her eye so similar to that of her mother's, or perhaps her grandmother's, extinguished, left a smoke hazed expression  of fatigue from endless longing. But now, the weight of their secrets and the fear of being discovered pressed heavily, escalating anxiety. Of course, John was right. Dire circumstances only compounded their waiting game. Stay silent forever, or admit truth and face wreck. Still, the naive girl within her - who took John’s hand and ran to rebel for love - felt a pang of restless rebellion, still. Combatting logic that she wished she’d followed more carefully, and action she knew was unavoidable from the moment she first kissed John Seymour.

“We live on borrowed time, John. The longer it stretches, the more I fear we’ll be torn apart forever, or  —“ Her words trailed off, her tongue pressed against the soft plush of her cheek, unable to voice the gruesome thought of their ending. She tightened her grip on John’s hand, as if to anchor herself to him, to keep them both from drifting away from each other. “No. For Jack, I shall not say it, either.” She mumbled to herself, to the room, to bring her back to present. Blinks back the blur in her eyes, willing them not to spill down the arch of her cheeks. “We are the writers of our tale! From the beginning, we’ve held the quill, together, have we not? Thus-“ she whispered,  nodded, energised with frenzied determination. Her hand, adorned with Tudor, Brandon, Grey, and now concealed Seymour embellishments, brushed against her eye to conceal the tears that threatened to fall.

“Thus- ensure the king sees the light within you that I do. Prove to him your worth- you, John Seymour, bring such value, I see it. Even across a room - when I cannot look at you - I am compelled. We must turn the tides to get what we want, there must be a way. What shall I do, to aid our cause? Tell me - for I’m a wife in a maiden’s guise, a wolf in a sheep’s wool, and I am a poor minstrel. My performance grows stale, dear one. How shall I serve you?” 

[johnseymour]

"For that, I thank you," he assured, his gratitude genuine. Since his stepmother had died some years ago, he had found himself devoid of any sort of maternal figure, another name added to the list of ghosts that trailed after him. It was a void which Katharine had filled in some respects, a spirit of experience to her that he appreciated.

He smiled slightly at her teasing but was too distracted to engage with it, shuffling his cards carefully. "From Florence," he said, quiet as he met Katharine's gaze. "Or so it is claimed. Asking on behalf of the Medici if I could be counted upon to provide comfort to my supposed cousin's cause." He looked down then, swallowing a sudden sense of anxiety. "I have no intention to do so. And I would not even if the man were truly my blood. But I do not know what to do. I am regarded with suspicion by my name alone."

It was not dislike Katharine felt toward John, nay; the sentiment that burned in her breast at mention of his name – a name that betokened treason and disfavor – was complex in the extreme, a Byzantine mosaic forged of a thousand little shards of amethyst and emerald.  He’d run roughshod over the King’s sovereignty by taking her daughter as a bride, but in nearly other aspect had proven himself an amenable, honourable subject, and to Katharine an ever-loving son-in-law.  Where his marriage was concerned, though some might whisper such a match was doomed, for love matches were not the natural order, the affection he so clearly bore Amelia had delighted Katharine.  So it was with this odd alchemy of feeling that the Dowager received Hertford, pleased that, at the very least, he possessed a fine title to his name; one fit for a grandson of her royal blood to inherit.

 John Seymour played his cards well – his pasty face, rounded with a healthy padding of baby-fat, blatantly refusing to reveal the royal flushes stashed in his sleeves – but where her son-in-law might be naturally gifted, Katharine could boast of experience.  And experience would win out, every time.  Hesitating to place another card on the board, Katharine’s almond-gaze flickered to John, his tow-head brandished gold in the firelight.  ‘My counsel you shall always have, Hertford.  You have come a long way, I see – a year ago you would have already been marching down the aisle with said letter, with or without my privy.’  The Dowager smirked, teasing John as she laid another card, its glossy face sliding against the table.  ‘Pray tell, who from?  Let us hope it offers some coveted position in the French court; the King and his mother have greatly agitated me of late…’

[johnseymour]

John and Nicholas had forged a fast friendship, even before they had become brothers by marriage. Nicholas had been one of the few to treat him with a measure of respect, something which he had always appreciated. After his nuptials, he had also provided John with comfort and security in terms of coming to be with Amelia, the man's presence an easy excuse for his trips, should anyone take note of them.

Taking a bite of his bread, John pulled a face, thinking for a moment. "That depends on who you ask. He was gone, yes, but he had his sister to occupy his place. It would seem to me that she enjoyed it, perhaps too well." There were few people in the world that John would ever voice such thoughts to, entirely aware of the treasonous bent that could be read into his words. "I am certain that Philippa would have benefited greatly from spending her time in Dover with you. Events here caused her much anxiety." For a moment he paused. "I am not certain that she and I are on speaking terms, just now. We had quite the confrontation, regarding the rumours in Florence."

He nodded, relieved at the notion. "Some sport would be a pleasant distraction. A ride, at least. Though I think the cold is already nipping at our heels. And you can more freely tell me how you found events in Dover. Do you think the Spanish friends or foes?"

@johnseymour

location: bois breakfast!!!! 

 He had time to bathe his eyes before breakfast -- dreams of Pippa as a basilisk, coiled around Edmund, had plagued his rest. Nicholas appeared as serene as any other person; not however, as jocund looking as his brother by marriage, who seated himself in the seat beside his own - who fixed on him, a pair of small eyes twinkling gleefully. Treason and sinful behaviours agreed with John mightily; he had become taller, a freshness of bloom about him. Nicholas did not care for the morning cup of tea; Hampton Court's brewage not being strong or sweet enough to suit his excellent appetites. This mourning he was glad for the draught of hunger - he chose to give his bread to John rather to any other vessel. Nicholas rather liked to let him take the lion's share; whether that of beer, or sweet wine - even when the women wrangled, they were never alienated from one another. 

"How did court fair in his majesty's absence? Was my bride pleased to occupy the space his bravado usually occupies? The Dover affair was full of malice, dramatics, and antipathy; in short, a Grey daughter would have better enjoyed it than I." Philippa and her kin boasted meritorious endowments of a higher nature; a thirst for melodrama, lurked as an interloper in their more charitable traits. "It has been some time since the two of us were engaged in our own endeavours - do you still enjoy tennis, or the hunt? The weather is soon to turn; let us make the best of the remainder of merry weather." 

[johnseymour]

The Earl and Countess of Hertford and their son, John “Jack” Seymour

[johnseymour]

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

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

Upon learning of the claim made in Florence, the statement heralded of the sudden rescue of Henry VIII’s lost illegitimate child of the mistress Jane Seymour, Elizabeth had sent her brother’s most vital and important men South to find the matter for themselves, to report back in haste and then return with the man in chains. So, what else could she have done, but invite John Seymour for a private, intimate audience? There was, clearly, no love lost between the two families after the traitorous plans realised against her mother’s life, and had taken the threat as an immediate offence. She passed this matter of hatred to one of the last Seymours at court, and held him though at arm’s length but also beneath her nose — though Cecil, Walsingham and de Vere were but her brother’s men, they were also to act by the command of the crown, and with Elizabeth acting as a Regent to the country, she could not help but flex her powers before this man in question. 

Had he have any idea of this Seymour boy? Of her half-brother who would put a great, waxing threat on herself and her King brother? Was he indeed smarter than she had once thought him? With a flaring temper only quenched by the tightening of a fist or a yell behind closed doors, she welcomed him to her presence, and stared with a constant glare. “Do you know why I have asked for your presence, Lord Seymour?” She asked, remaining in that very throne as she watched him, her ladies and waiting men lining the walls of the grand hall, the company of awaiting courtiers hushed from the room’s sudden tense air.

[johnseymour]

@katharined , katharine's receiving room , hampton court

Given all that had occurred of late, John was nothing short of reticent to spend more time than necessary near the Greys. The rumours of his cousin's re-emergence, it was said, had proved false, and yet he still remained vigilant of the scrutiny he would face. Nonetheless, when Katharine Brandon asked him to speak to her, he knew well that he must obey. Since he had married Amelia, she had become part of the closest thing he had to family, and he believed firmly, now more than ever, in trying to maintain good relations with the family.

"There is a matter on which I would like your advice," he told her, glancing up from their card game and pausing a moment. "I have received a letter from abroad. And I hoped you might know the course of action I must take with it. Tempted though I am to burn it, I would value your thoughts before doing so."

[johnseymour]

He expected little other than vitriol to drip from Philippa's words, their edges sharpened to cut even moreso than usual. In the best of circumstances, he suspected that she merely tolerated him, but now? He found himself lucky that she did not wield the ability to do him true harm, for he imagined she might very well wish it.

"And why should my actions reflect onto you at all?" He asked her after a moment's pause, the hurt and irritation that he normally went to such pains to suppress seeping into his tone. "I would use any power I have to protect you and your lady mother, should word reach the King of my secrets. I know you think yourself the head of the household, as perhaps you are, and thus you bear responsibility. But Amelia is my wife, in the eyes of God. And in his name, I will die to keep her and our son safe if that is what I must do." His voice had risen now, his cheeks flushed. "Do you not think that I am well aware of where a Tudor's displeasure leads? I have known since I was a child. You may at least take some minimal comfort in the notion of station and allies to whom you may beg, but I have no such luxuries. Now more than ever, it would seem."

He turned away, the heel of his hand pressed against his forehead as he tried to collect himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulled in a deep breath. Her admissions of care did not earn a response from him, John too stressed to take a moment to absorb them. "Yes," he said after a moment. "Of course I would. And burn the letter for good measure, for I have no desire to be party to anything he might desire of me. Though I very much doubt he would come to me as an ally. As you suggest, I clearly neither know nor have anything of value."

if  one  assumed  that  extensive  measures  had  been  taken  to  ensure  that  his  presence  in  the  grey  apartments  and  his  closeted  affections  for  amelia  went  unnoticed  by  the  scrutinizing  gaze  of  hampton's  many  courtiers,  the  recent  news  of  his  reemerged  cousin  saw  additional  steps  put  into  place  to  conceal  the  purpose  of  his  appearance  before  the  duchess  of  suffolk.  when  the  crown  had  called  for  the  heads  of  jane  seymour  and  her  two  brothers,  inspired  by  a  piece  of  incriminating  evidence  provided  by  the  boleyns,  philippa,  like  most  of  england,  had  assumed  that  the  boy - child  she  had  borne  had  been  drowned  or  thrown  out  a  window  to  end  any  potential  threats  to  mistress  boleyn  and  her  dubiously  begotten  children  ─  the  soul  of  edward  seymour  had  been  used  as  kindling  for  the  flames  of  opposition  against  the  king  and  his  maternal  kin  but  now  it  seemed  as  though  the  boy  had  not  perished  after  all,  surviving  and  thriving  long  enough  to  earn  the  potential  backing  of  the  medici  family  in  florence.  she  did  not  believe  that  john  knew  anything  of  the  matter  but  that  did  not  spare  him  from  her  vitriol  as  he  sought  entry  into  the  rooms,  her  sharp  interrogation  quelled  by  his  quick  response.

❝  you  know  nothing  of  anything  so  that  is  no  surprise  to  me.  ❞  she  imagined  that  he  must  be  exhausted  of  the  questions  both  whispered  and  boldly  asked  and  were  she  a  kinder  woman  or  a  more  sympathetic  good  sister,  philippa  might  have  offered  him  something  to  drink  or  a  comforting  word  to  strengthen  his  spirits.  instead,  she  levelled  him  with  a  glare  that  spoke  of  her  anger  and  fear  for  his  life  and  the  lives  of  her  sister  and  nephew,  now  endangered  by  the  reappearance  of  his  once - dead  cousin.  ❝  whether  it  is  him  or  not  is  insignificant  compared  to  what  he  represents  ...  hope,  john  !  hope  and  damnation  for  us  all  if  they  find  out  about  you  and  amelia.  ❞  though  the  room  was  emptied  of  eavesdropping  ears,  her  words  remained  hissed,  low  and  whistling  through  the  air,  cutting  with  a  sharpness  that  he  did  not  deserve.

❝  they  might  not  be  able  to  get  their  hands  on  edward  seymour  but  if  they  learn  of  our  deception  ...  if  they  think  we  conspire  with  him  ...  they  will  make  an  example  of  us.  they  will  pull  the  skin  from  our  bones  until  we  tell  them  what  they  want  to  hear  and  then  hang  us  for  treason.  ❞  he  knew  better  than  most  what  a  tudor  king  backed  by  a  boleyn  puppeteer  could  do  but  still  she  continued,  fingernails  digging  into  the  softness  of  her  palms  ─  the  only  outward  sign  of  her  genuine  terror.  ❝  how  can  you  possibly  protect  amelia  ?  you  cannot  even  protect  yourself  ...  it  has  all  fallen  on  my  shoulders.  it  is  my  responsibility  to  keep  you  all  alive.  it  is  my  head  on  the  block,  john.  ❞  unbidden,  the  glisten  of  tears  pricked  at  her  eyes  and  philippa  turned  her  head  away  to  stare  into  the  flames,  clenching  and  unclenching  her  fists.

❝  you  are  my  brother  now  ...  the  father  of  my  only  nephew  and  the  cause  of  happiness  in  my  dearest  sister.  i  am  ...  not  the  easiest  to  like,  i  know  this,  but  i  do  care  for  you.  ❞  he  was  hers  now,  as  amelia  was,  as  jack  was,  and  philippa  would  kill  to  keep  them  all  safe  even  if  it  pained  her  to  admit  it  to  him.  still,  john  deserved  to  know  the  truth,  just  once,  just  in  case  their  ends  were  truly  nearer  than  first  thought.  ❝  if  he  writes  to  you  ...  will  you  tell  me  ?  ❞

[johnseymour]

HOUSE OF SEYMOUR | Family Tree

(feat. @myladygrey, @thmagdalene)

Notable connected families: Parr, Grey, Tudor Family motto: Foy pour devoir (Faith for duty) Family symbols: Red field with a joined pair of golden wings

[johnseymour]

Jack Lowden as Henry Darnley in Mary Queen Of Scots (2018) Dir. Josie Rourke.

[johnseymour]

And if there's a reason I'm still alive When so many have died Then I'm willing to Wait for it

[johnseymour]

@thunyielding, hampton court audience chamber

since the tumultuous news had come to court, fear had curdled in the pit of John's stomach. Even in the absence of players such as Walsingham, he could not help but feel as though eyes were on him at every turn. It was only a matter of time, he supposed, before answers were asked of him, even though he had none to give. The summons from the princess brought him both relief and dread, the Earl dressed in his best before he bowed before Elizabeth. In this place now, she looked entirely regal, in a way that had only been reserved for her brother in past years. Of course William was still King, but there was no doubting that his sister ruled at least over court in his stead, and there was little difference as to the danger he was in under either's watchful eye.

"Your highness." He straightened after a few moments, taking a deep breath to steady himself, hands clasped tight behind his back as he waited for what she might say as the doors were sealed behind him. "I am at your service."

[johnseymour]

@philippaed , grey rooms at hampton court

"I did not know anything about Edward."

He suspects, naturally, that Philippa is going to ask, and so he opts to cut her off at the pass, as it were. It's all many people have been able to speak about, whether to his face or in whispers. The sudden reemergence of his cousin has been the talk of court, filling John with a mix of emotions he can only attempt to untangle. The added scrutiny on his name is an unpleasant side effect, and there is no denying that he is already growing tired. Still, his guard remains up, even as he steps into the suite of rooms where Philippa has asked to speak to him.

"I presume that is what you want to know, foremost. But - before the news, I thought him dead like everyone else did," he continues, running a hand through his hair. "I still do not know what to believe. If it is truly him." He hesitates, but adds on, before Philippa has a chance to speak: "I will endeavor to ensure this will not hurt Amelia."

[johnseymour]

He could only smile under her tender teasing, John revelling in the soft laughter from her lips. He remained under the sway of love, just as he had in the early days of their courtship together. He had prided himself, always, on maintaining rationality and careful judgment, but Amelia's charm had overridden all carefully laid plans.

"I mean no offense, only I cannot deny the vision I always hold in my mind's eye. Such beauty and sweetness is not easily forgotten." His own tone was light, the words given as sweetly as her kisses. "A most treasured gift, your honour. Within these walls I shall keep it close to my heart." He followed as she led, sitting with her and taking a moment to just memorize the look of her face, treasuring each opportunity he had to do so in safety.

As she spoke, he softened, turning his face slightly into the touch of her hand. "I know," he agreed, quiet. "I miss him as terribly as you must. His joyful spirit. But if I must be parted from him to keep him safe, then it will be worth the price." Meeting her eyes, he hummed, taking one hand in his own. "No news. Only thoughts. I have been so tired of late. Felt so trodden down. These days are so heavy on my soul." He paused then, looking down at their hands. "I do not know what we can do. This stasis cannot last forever, and yet... it seems as if there is no better choice now." He did not have the heart to utter the words that crossed his mind, but Amelia doubtless understood: the bodies in the tower were scarcely cold, and they had committed crimes that were surely lesser than their own.

John is goldspun: Amelia was too transfixed on the notion, swept up in the tides of their early ascent into something inescapable for them both -  of their burgeoning evenings colliding at court, where the second lady Grey failed to avoid watching his glow in her periphery. Cautious of his name, like a curse of misfortune and treachery, hanging across his shoulders, but craving to bask in that light he emitted from presence, alone. Stubborn force veiled under delicacy was in her nature- she evolved compulsive to feeling that same rush of having him near. Craving him all the more from forced absence, seeking fire for a trace of him - that soft radiance. He was everywhere: visible to her eye, hidden under dire constraint of secrecy. The morning’s sun casting rays onto the River Thames through hazy clouds at Hampton. The dying fireglow as her lady’s maids prodded and poked against charred kindling in the thick silence of greeting sleep. Hearth and candles and torches, they paled in comparison for his kindred heart- even stars that dotted the same navy skies that generations of strong-headed women and kings in her bloodline spent nights studying in boundless beauty, dimmed for his impact within her. 

Nothing could smoke out her affections for him, no matter how often she’d tried in vain, secretly within the confines of her own doubt and fear. 

 When the earl closed the scant space between them, and the portraits keeping watch were blinded in the shadow of night, freedom’s seclusion allotted relief. A tease of his touch. His voice, curving like his grin, adding to the soothing rush brushing down her neck, swan-graced in tilt toward him, from mere graze of his fingers. Unable to hold back a faintest of laughter until his mouth met her own, and her eyes lingered closed to remember this feeling, to store it when she had to rely on memory. “You dare to imply such a maiden is memorised so completely by a lover? The princess Elizabeth’s lady? By my honour, I shan’t hear a word of it- lest you wish to keep your tongue- ” Her words, soft and luminous in faint musicality of a tease despite the truth in the gravity, her brows bounced in subtle feline spark of mischief, her lips remained so near to John’s that she planted one more kiss to accentuate her youthful game ending. “Though perhaps luck casts its eye on you, for my honour within these four walls belongs to my husband… Lay down all other thought at the door, rest with me .” Smile shifted into a smirk, tired eyes flashing with life, taking in his visage like it’s home. Gently smoothing her palms along his neck, his jaw, to draw him near and comfort him from the day’s challenge in her embrace, before slowly taking a gentle step backwards, expecting to perch them atop a fine-cushioned bench. 

How did she fare? Days spent in service, carefully remaining under close-eye of her peers, mindful of keeping up appearances but weary of toeing the line of mortal giveaway, ruining her own secret with any misstep. Aching for a son she could not call her own completely, not yet. “This charade, this test we must endure is taking over my days. My mind runs from this court, this place  -  to take you, to flee to Jack. He’s growing, John.. so fast I am told that his nursemaid studies his face and marvels at how steadily he evolves, how his lionhearted behaviour takes shape. With your eyes.” She bragged as she drifted her thumb’s pad across his cheekbone, his brow bone, framing the features he gave to their sweet son. Smiling to herself, as her hands gently drifted to her sides. “When can this end? Will it? What news have you?”

[johnseymour]

"Yes, I think we must hope for it," John agreed, his entire being subdued; even more than it so often was. The events of the day had drained and vexed him, and he also had no eagerness to let the Countess delve too deeply into his thoughts. But in the moment, there was a vulnerability, all masks slipped just slightly in the face of mortality.

"Fearsome, yes," he nodded, thoughtful as he took a deep breath in, hoping fresh air might cleanse his mind and spirit. "But I confess I know much of it, from a distance, and even then it does not help." There was no doubt that she knew this - the death of his father hanging most obviously of all over his head, as it had happened on this very ground. Swallowing a sudden churning of nausea, he looked back to Jane. "Do you need assistance in returning to court? Or wherever you may be headed? To linger in this place is too heavy a weight to bear for long."

johnseymour​:

John himself felt a certain numbness overtake him, the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach one that he had to try his best not to expose. His mind roiled, and he, much like the Countess, stood equally shocked as the pools of blood that still stained the block upon the scaffold. There was no denying that it was a haunting visage of both past and an omen for the future, which the Earl was finally forced to tear his eyes away from.

They found Jane Boleyn, and though the thoughts of someone so close to the throne were something he had no desire to hear, he moved into an instinctive attempt to offer the lady some comfort that was for him as much as it was her. “The Lord still heard them, surely,” he offered, his voice quiet. “He must. Is it not his lot to hear everything, and grant forgiveness to those who sincerely ask for it?”

        with  each  swing  of  the  axe  came  the  same  weight  upon  one’s  heart  for  to  witness  death  cut  away  the  light  of  many  days  was  never  an  easy  thing  regardless of  who  might  have  been  the  poor  lost  soul.  jane  believed  the  safety  of  her  nephew  to  be  paramount,  without  a  single  doubt,  and  yet  a  piece  of  her  felt  for  the  humanity  of  those  men.  for  their  damned  souls.  beneath  every  choice  -  good  or  bad,  right  or  wrong  -  there  was  a  person  who  was,  in  one  way  or  another,  loved.  too  often  had  it  almost  been  one  of  her  own  loves  upon  that  block  and  she  felt  this  day  to  be  a  reminder  of  how  easily  that  could  be  again.

“  is  it  all  we  can  hope  for,  is  it  not?  ”  jane  pondered  as  her  attention  turned  upon  earl  hertford,  a  solemn  nod  in  greeting  as  there  were  no  words  that  felt  appropriate  at  such  an  occasion.  “  that  no  matter  what  our  choices  in  this  life  we  shall  face  fair  judgement  in  the  next?  and  yet  death  is  such  a  fearsome  thing.  “

[johnseymour]

She seemed wary of him, and John could hardly blame her, but it did not daunt him. He had taken his opportunities to win over the Greys, bit by bit, as he needed to, and held hope that he could warm Maria too. He would at least attempt to as he took his visit, escorting her under the waning warmth of the sun.

"I am very glad, indeed, to hear that, though I had no doubt that they would take care of any guest. The Duke is a dear friend, and the Duchess and her family dear as well." How dear, he could not say, he knew that - at least not until he was certain that the Duchess could be trusted with the secret. "I have a country home quite far from London, in Sussex. But a home in London too, to make it easier to maintain my duties." He surveyed her for a moment, her handsome face. "I should very much like to see Spain. I can only imagine, from what I have heard, that even a place as comfortable at this pales in comparison to your home."

It was merely courtly small talk, in which John was well-versed, but he knew that she was doubtless curious about his appearance, and as such he felt compelled to get to his point. "You must forgive my intrusion. I have no desire to act too forwardly. But I had hoped that we could find some common ground. If you are a friend of the Suffolks, then you surely know something of their... sympathies toward your lady's interests, and those of the faith."

The Duchess regarded John’s handsome face with a swarthy brow arched toward her hairline. His voice, musing with warmth and goodwill, called forth a gleam to spread across her face, for it was clear that this pallid gentleman had come to her in peace (or, perhaps, merely under the guise of it) though what he desired of her remained curiously unknown. Callers to Chelsea Place, though few and far between, seldom came without purpose – Walsingham’s unprompted visit, days prior, had wrought Maria’s deepest frustration – for though the walls were hung with lavish tapestries and the orchards were wondrously lush, the Suffolk’s manor was not so handsome as to allure stray admirers, driven to her doorstep without reason. But elegantly, and without an outward trace of her deeply-entrenched suspicion, Maria stretched out her hand to John in a cheery Spanish greeting.

She curled her arm around his, the smell of leather and something earthy (travel, she pragmatically supposed) wafting around them. Humming in response to his words, Maria chuckled lowly. Oh, the Duchess was healthy as a horse! She had never so much as sputtered throughout her life; her finances were clear of extravagant physicians and their cabalistic tonics, each worth a King’s ransom. It was the Boleyns and their preening that caused her stomach to churn. ‘The Suffolks are the perfect hosts. I want for nothing, and my needs be but few – my ladies and I are well content.’ Well-rehearsed words slipped past her lips with practiced ease. Regardless, the depopulated halls of Chelsea Place had suited Maria’s distaste for English puffery, allowing her to relax into what was proving to be a rather tiresome visit to King William's sodden shores. ‘Do you also have a home in London, my lord, or do you prefer the openness of the countryside? I admit I am surprised that so many of the court live take residence in London… in Spain, we long for the warmth of our own cloisters when apart from the court.’

[johnseymour]

John Seymour, Earl of Hertford: an aesthetic.