#( thread; thomas plantagenet. )

[ofmarquessa]

LOCATION: Tuileries Palace

WITH: @princethomas​

          Marquessa’s morning had been incredibly well spent, in her opinion. Such a grand summit of the leaders of Eurasia proposed more than just diplomatic benefits. It also meant that she was able to reunite with some of her favourite family members, particularly those on her aunt’s side. The Portuguese retinue had settled in comfortably at their residence in the centre of Paris and it was not long until Marquessa was hastily writing letters to her cousins, confessing her eagerness to meet. Henry and Beatrice had been devotedly accommodating and the Crown Princess had joined them for a morning ride along the river Seine and then a lavish lunch back at the Palace.

Although Marquessa’s journey to Tuileries Palace had caused a wheel on her carriage to become loose and the English staff were working hastily to fix it. The Plantagenet’s insisted she take one of their carriages back to the Palas de la Cité but Marquessa was in no particular rush. She had remained in one of the many grand rooms on offer and her ladies fussed around her, making sure the Princess had no qualms about having to wait.

Footsteps could be heard along the hallway and Marquessa caught a quick glimpse of the passer-by. “Your Highness.” she called out, knowing that the sound of her voice was cause him to immediately retreat to the source. “Won’t you join me for a game chess?” the blonde leaned forwards in her seat, straightening her posture as she awaited his response. “Although I cannot promise it will be an easy game.”

[lady-plantagenet]

Chapter 3 of a Bygone Era -

A Fictionalised Account of Isabel Neville’s life from the point of view of her and those close to her.

Points of view written so far include Anne Beauchamp, Anne Neville and George Duke of Clarence.

26 June 1465 - George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence

The ride beyond the Yorkshire Dales was more than any reasonable man could endure and George’s spirit waned with each passing of the moon. Now arrived, he was glad to be relieved of his riding habit. The summer sun looked upon him, setting his glossy green silk aglow, elevating the golden weaved threads to a glimmer and his persona to a countenance so divine, Paris himself would have payed homage had they encountered.

Now, his cousin of Warwick requested his presence for a private audience before the dinner and George despite his wishes could not feign ignorance to himself. After all the noble blood of the land has been mingled with the Rivers, he intends to woo me himself, for Isabel. He set his cup of Rumney wine on the painted table of his chamber wondering what possessed Warwick to have his wines brought from Wallachia of all places. Mayhaps he has even befriended the Impaler himself. There is not a road in christendom left unexplored by the shadows of his ambitions.

Realising it was nigh time he appeared for the audience, he made his way past the stony winding stairs of what was unofficially called the Guy de Warwick tower and across the gleaming inner court, beset with a sea of jade shards bobbing to the wind in a biddable manner, until he reached the threshold of The Maiden tower. A wry chuckle escaped George. The choice of meeting amused him nearly as much as his lodging arrangements. The thematic allusions to the ancient Neville tale of Guy of Warwick and The elusive and noble Lady Felice did not elude him. While awaiting his receipt, he wondered whether ballads still held court in Isabel’s heart.

A servant he did not recognise before beckoned him into a suffocating chamber of cream and steel where George to his surprise was faced with the Countess of Warwick sitting beside her husband, as if they were a king and queen holding court. So this is how royalty ought to look. George thought back to his brother’s court and how the new queen’s striking beauty and liveliness did not sit well with the austere and mystical nature expected of one who claimed the sacred place next to an anointed king. The Countess, however, appeared as if a part of the room as a whole, as would the queen of heaven in a nativity tableaux.

As he knelt for each of their blessings reminiscent of a bygone era of peace and childhood, he rose with a solemn smile. To his discomfort the Earl and Countess did not avail the room of its stilted atmosphere with their faces remaining taut like sheets of ice.

‘George we are honoured to be having you here again and with us for near a fortnight, truly much time has passed since you were under our guardianship and a mere lad in the courtyard sparring with play swords’ said the Earl neutrally ‘however the time has come for me to address an issue that we had near no time to discuss while at court.’

What in the heavens could he be referencing? I do not remember exchanging anything but pleasantries with him. Best keep my mouth shut and refrain from guessing or else I may be held to have had expressed my willingness to carry out something I would ne’er do.

The Earl was waiting expectantly. George could not help himself and blurted: ‘My sister Margaret is arranging a marriage between myself and Mary of Burgundy, which she hopes will result in a double alliance between our realms when her own betrothal to Charles I is underway’. Just to think! Margaret and I living in the most marvellous court in Europe and when the Duke’s recklessness resolves in death, her and I can rule the Low Countries like two kings. ‘ And so, before you ask me to wed Isabel, I tell you that I cannot regardless of what you may think you have heard me say at court.’

The Earl let out a full-throated laugh so strong that his whole body appeared to be shaking. Even the Countess stifled a chuckle behind her long ringed fingers. Half a minute went by and the Earl’s head was snapped back in roaring laughter revealing the roof of his mouth, which in this moment was opened so wide it resembled a scarlet cave.

George could not understand what was so funny.

‘George, I am not your doting nursemaid concerned with your heart or an up-jumped merchant who is trying to seduce you with sweetmeats to cajole you into a coupling with my daughter, by entrapping you into my home.’ The Earl began. Laughter still seemed to coat his voice like sugary water hiding overlying vinegar. The incredulous tone denoted an arrogance such that it arose an eyebrow even in the Earl’s wife whose reputation for haughtiness cast a shadow that outran even the borders of her own lands.

George looked at the Countess expectantly - the woman who he loved very nearly as much as his own mother. The woman who never derided him for fidgeting with his book of hours during mass, the woman who applied salve to his wounds when he would constantly fall out of bed and vouched for him that they were earned on the sparring field, in order to shield him from Rob and Thomas Parr’s cruel derision and the potential of Isabel’s incisiveness. He peared down at the forest green of his doublet sleeve in shame. Shame for holding the Countess anywhere near in affection to his own wimple-wearing mother, whose frankness and coldness, though honest, rarely elicited charm.

‘And what you are trying to say cousin is that it is I that should be beseeching you to give your Isabel in marriage to me. That I was invited here to offer myself up in exchange for an honour much above me’ George’s face was puffing up into a crimson that stood out markedly against the cold watery colours of his doublet and cape. ‘You forget that though you may have made my brother king, you did not make me a man, and judging by what a king he turned out to be and-‘

‘And what?’ The Earl prodded on

‘-and what is in fact the truth about his and my diverging lineages’ George’s voice coming out as a strangled whisper ‘we both know the truth and how the divine order has been disturbed’

The Earl nodded knowingly, satisfied that he had extracted the confession he needed from his young cousin at his expense.

‘Therefore, I would find it odd that you find it amusing that I would be in good standing to marry the future young Duchess of Burgundy’ George continued his voice gaining courage ‘You dare insinuate that your offer of Isabel would be charitable and that it is I that should haggle for this honour, when dear cousin it is you who should be humbled by such a match’.

Having confirmed his own suspicion that George personally subscribed to that old rumour, the Earl then knew how to proceed further. He was about to express his proposal in full but seemed interrupted by the Countess who shot up as if in shock. The glare from the gilded edges of her caul burned in the hot summer sun, and indignantly she said ‘You would be calling your mother a whore! The one who sacrificed her life for you after Ludlow to see you safely spirited away to the Low Countries... She would have been queen, George!’

George was at a loss for words. The scales weighing up the two factors in his head were shifting in positions like two poles of a weathervane spinning frantically in a violent storm.

‘Veritas Lux Mea, cousin’ said a solemn George crossing himself. Since I was a ninny and blurted that out, I would do well to act ashamed by it. I shall play George the hero who bears the sacrifice of his mother’s dishonour on his weary shoulders and accepts the crown despite the love he bears for his brother.

The Countess who, like most women, raised her defences upon the suggestion of a fellow women’s dishonour - not for want of defending proud Cis’ honour but her own - was now reverting to her typically restrained composure and peacefully reclaimed her seat, while the Earl let out a resounding ‘hmm’.

George who just now realised that he had been standing throughout this entire encounter, made for the other side of the chamber for a heavy oak chair. Mayhaps I should have demanded Warwick give me his seat in deference and as an apology for keeping me on my feet and knees. Instantly regretting not doing that George stopped midway and took a seat on the chair he dragged with him.

‘George’ began the Earl calmly ‘It seems our minds are ad idem, do you recall the feast where you were made Earl of Richmond and John Woodville bested you at hawking?’

George nodded from the chair across the chamber, his previous bout of anger subsiding into a tired acquiescence.

‘I recall asking you whether you thought you could do better as king. Well do you remember?’ asked the Earl.

‘I remember that too’

‘I could make you king. With you on the throne we could cleanse this country’s government of the Woodville filth, restore piety to the court and mend our ties to France. Between us, what Edward did well was all my merit. If I were to be placed beside you as counsel, we could ensure that your reign would be at least an improvement on the current state of affairs’

‘Then you would recall cousin, that I gave no answer to your question about wanting to be king.’

‘You are too modest George’ said the Earl in an a tone so sweet it was resoundingly artificial. ‘I know your brother better than you do, the years between your ages made sure of that. I can tell you hand on heart that at six and ten years he had less of his wits about him than you now do. Besides if what you said about his paternity be true, then we would make god angry by failing to act’.

‘Now now cousin, if you would put me on the throne in hopes of restoring your French alliance I regret to tell you that I would never allow it. You know very well why. Just as I, you lost a brother and father to that bitch of Anjou and the latter’s head ‘till four years past still stood severed atop the gates of York next to my own father’s’ George realised that his tone was rising in aggression at a rate he could no longer contain, much like a wild horse who after daring to descend a steep hill could no longer calm its trot, descending into a grassy grave.

To his surprise, the Earl let out a melancholic sigh leading The Countess to instinctively place both of her hands over his. The crane white of her embroidered cotton chemise fell over both their hands like a bandage and it looked as though her touch was blocking a bleeding open wound.

The Earl’s voice now lowered to a solemn murmer, so much so that even George felt his fiery temper extinguish. ‘Now George, that is precisely the reason we must mend our relations with France. Margaret is but a distant relative of the French queen and given how France consented to me joining Edward and Bona of Savoy in marriage - his very own sister-in-law -, it is clear that the Spider King is eager to forge new alliances that would suit him better. Leaving that aside, you can now see why I laughed at your suggestion of Mary of Burgundy, for what man would want to be a mere consort of a Duchess when he can be King of England? And if that is what you shall become you can now see how a marriage with the heiress of Edward’s future ally would be quite impossible’

George had been flattered by his favourite sister’s concern in suggesting that marriage, but in truth, he was loyal to that match for his sister’s sake not for some idealisation of the future Duchess who was after all, still years away from her own flowering. Her father still entertains my dastardly brother-in-law Henry of Exeter at his court and with his own Lancastrian heritage, he would be far more likely than even the French to turn to Lancaster. Besides, what would I want with an eight year old bride?

‘I would not marry with Bona of Savoy or any other French Princess. I respect your logic but I cannot be bound to a woman who shares any kinship with the she-wolf that wrecked havoc over my life since I came into this earth’ stated George.

George suspected the Earl would arrogantly state that France would not give one of its daughters to a second son like him as an indemnity - a gamble too high even for the most compulsive gambler - which Louis XI was anything but.

He instead said: ‘I know that George. It simply will not do. All you need is here in England - a wife of a family even older than the Plantagenets whose loyalties would run with yours’

‘I know what you will suggest and I would marry Isabel, cousin. But not like this. I would not be your pawn like Edward was and I will not have her imposed upon me from above as if you would be my superior, ingratiating my humble person with so lofty a marriage’ said George

‘My apologies George, if my tone and actions were conducive to you believing me haughty. It is you who is the true heir of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, you would be our king and I your counsel but nothing more - I would not have thought you to accept any different. Now Isabel I recommend unto you for more than her blood. My finest daughter has the bearing of a queen from near birth and is well-read and wise beyond her years. If I may say so at risk of betraying her secret: she took a liking to you long before a marriage has even reached our minds and if I may be so bold, I believe you have noticed that too and care for her affection more than a jot’

‘Indeed cousin, I have always remarked her beauty and despite our familiarity, she still retains an otherworldliness to her that captivates and assures me, that in her, I may find the solace needed to keep my wits about me on the road to kingship’ said George already starting to alight from his chair in order to advance towards the Earl and Countess to ritualistically perform the hand-on-knee proposal for their daughter’s hand.

After once again receiving both their blessings and being brought up by the Countess to be embraced and kissed by her painted red lips as a son-in-law, he added ‘I do not know how strong her feelings are towards me, but at this point I could imagine no one else as my bride. If there ever was a plot concocted since our infancies to bring us together you may congratulate yourselves on your successes. I may not love her yet, but I am sure I shall forthwith. But cousin, you may count on my love and your daughter’s happiness as long as she be my wife and you do not perpetually dangle her fortune in my face to humble me, nor turn her into my keeper or a spy against me. Are we understood?’

The Earl and Countess nodded at what seemed both a reasonable and achievable request.

‘Do invite her to sit with you at dinner tonight, we have arranged a banquet honouring your return and perhaps you may be the one to tell her of your marriage. I am sure she would be joyous to hear it from you.’ said the Earl while the Countess smirked discreetly.

Exhausted after passing through more emotions in an afternoon than he would have in a week, George straightened his Scarlett hose which had wrinkled from all the twitching and tensing. He sauntered off out of the chamber and through the hall leading into the bailey, convinced he held his own as much as any man could against persons as formidable as the Earl and his Countess.

After the banquet George followed Isabel at her father’s behest out into the the courtyard of Middleham castle, away from the prying Neville eyes, yet still close enough that upon a twitch of the thread they would both fall back into their palms.

Isabel who had been so charming throughout dinner was now growing shyer with each miniscule step she daintily took. Her indigo skirts flashed in a dying opulence as the Wensleydale sunset befell the land in all its summer glory, and Isabel as well, as the snowy silk of her henin now appeared a pale orange complementing the warmth of her flushed cheeks where before the wine, were of custom icely pale.

George wondered at the how the hues of those northern lands were subject to the reign of the sun, which instead of setting at this hour as it would in the south, it merely turned all around it darker and in many ways deeper.

Finding it to be a fine time to stop this treck, George beckoned Isabel to sit by him. She happily obliged but said not a word as her gaze remained transfixed on the the juniper-coloured grass below them.

‘How did you find the feast my lord of Clarence? Father knew how much you love venison and Malmsey wine so he was very glad to have procured them for your arrival’ she said courteously yet still not sparing him even a look.

‘It was more than I could hope it to be’ he smiled

‘I am glad of it, my lord’

George ever the impatient man, decided to urge the conversation forwards. He gently yet decisively reached for both her hands turning her ever so slightly towards him. ‘Isabel, it is not my lord of Clarence but George, why would you impose such formalities on our correspondance?’

To his surprise she did not flinch, but rather seemed to expect this sudden gesture of closeness. This he found passing strange. Yet through it all she still feigned a degree of wide-eyed shyness.

‘I suppose you are right... George. You and I are well-acquainted. You just seem so much changed that you appear to me a man of the court now, not the boy who used to play practical jokes on Dickon and Margaret’.

‘Ah yes, remember when I tied Richard’s bootlaces to the stirrups and when he tried to canter, the horse threw him into the lake?’.

‘I felt wicked for laughing, but in truth I laughed so hard that day, that I gave myself a stomach knot’.

‘We were always the most wicked ones, I think’.

‘Me?’ questioned Isabel, smiling and palm on chest as if shocked by such a revelation. The flirt in her is returning, I see.

‘Yes, you. Remember when you thought it would be amusing to trap a frog inside Margaret’s salve. The poor thing decomposed in there and it was months until she realised that at the bottom of her pot, lay the entrails of that poor animal’.

‘Now that I think of it, my transgressions were much more ungodly than yours. Oh George, now you have made me feel bad for the poor frog. I had nearly forgotten!’ She said warmth slipping into her tone like a hot spring over a snowy valley.

‘Yes but you were always shrewd enough not to get caught’. He added with a wistfulness at the tip of his tongue.

Read the rest on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/54573088

All Chapters included :)