#Michaelmas term

[baynton-nation]

Mathew Baynton at The Oxford Union for their Michaelmas Term

Source: The Oxford Union on Facebook

[tiramisuglitter]

a couple college snaps for ya 🤍

[yiddishknights]

This is a friendly heads up that the Oxford School of Rare Jewish Languages has opened applications for their language classes beginning in Michaelmas term (October) 2023. They offer classes in 18 Jewish languages, including Old Yiddish. Classes are on Zoom, so applicants can live anywhere in the world. The deadline to apply is September 5, 2023.

[sharkiethrts]

hi! speaking of ur modern sunday…i’d like to request sunday x reader, where reader is absent because they’re sick and sunday just spends the entire day trying not to mope before he visits them. just smth rlly silly where he’s on student council etc having to try to subtly text his s/o.

robin is kind of over him but who cares‼️

prompt: highschool!au reader is sick and responsibility ridden Sunday must ensure that the assembly goes on without a hitch, despite his worries for her.

warning: none.

relationships: modern!sunday x gender neutral!reader (highschool!au)

author’s note: so sorry for the late response! I was eagerly awaiting for the day when I can finally work on this! :) (Two more exams to go, exams should end by Friday. Wish me luck!)

This is also not reread and is posted late at night, so do forgive me for any type of grammatical or spelling mistakes or if the pacing of the story is too rushed!

- Highschool au! Sunday is so obviously the president of the student council

- He is popular among everyone and when it was announced that he was running for president, everyone accepted defeat and simply resorted for vice presidents and secretaries roles instead (the surplus of people that signed up for vice presidents that year were daunting, hoping for a chance to work closely alongside him)

- Prior to his appointment as president (which he was rightfully confident in winning), he had always made sure to spend time with you after school (even going as far as to not sign up to any clubs for the michaelmas term after you jokingly chastised him for ‘prioritising Mrs Burns, TA of the reading club’ instead of you)

- However, post appointment Sunday found it difficult to make compromises like so, much to his chagrin- with the added rewards, the necessary expectations would naturally accompany and hence his dilemma:

- Oh, how the thought of you ailed with a cold squeezes his heart so, his hand itching towards his phone every second

- He’s sure that his composure will fall soon and that it’d only be a matter of time

“Please ensure that the seventh up until the twentieth seats are marked, it’s reserved for the parents visiting today,” Sunday reminds the flushed boy, clearly not used to the responsibility he is expected to conform to and although Sunday attempts to maintain a composed facade throughout, it’d be a lie to say that he isn’t positively frustrated by how incredibly slow he is. Seriously, the drink aisle should clearly be placed inside the auditorium, not outside. It’s summer for goodness sake, by the time the guests arrive, the drinks will be diluted with ice and the honey would have been completely dissipated.

Speaking of honey, perhaps he should consider saving some for you. The Manuka honey booked specially for this occasion is known for doing wonders for your throat. Perhaps he should ask kitchen staff to pack a bottle or two for him? They quite adore him so, it shouldn’t be difficult for him to ask for a favour or two of this size. Interrupting his train of thought, it seems that the incompetent boy couldn’t stand having a supervising eye off him for even a second. Sunday watched in controlled horror as he dropped a tray or two, effectively denting the sides of the perfect sliver.

“Miss Amelie,” Sunday calls, his hand reaching for the back of the boy’s waist, helping him up, “Help him with relocating the treats, we can’t have dented sliver wares front and centre in the room.”

The said girl quickly arrives, her head down and stressed, “I’ll tell him what to do, don’t worry-“

“-I should hope that this predicament ends soon, I do have quite a few appointments to attend to,” Sunday cuts her off coldly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. It’s not uncommon for Sunday to become cold at times, if not outright off putting. With uneducated rumours of his OCD and what not. However, it seems that this doesn’t seem to be one of his tangents, rather, he seems… occupied.

Sunday mulls over the thought of your upset face, further dampening his mood. How incredibly horrible of him, despite his previous talks of marriage with you during your late night calls- he only feels more incompetent and ineligible for the title of husband. He’s not only inattentive but outright unsupportive. What type of boyfriend who asks for your hand in marriage would leave you all alone in your bed fighting a cold alone? His frown deepens and he catches a few of the volunteers flinch due to it, clearly worried that they may have triggered him somehow.

He flashes them a friendly smile, to which he sees them relax slightly to before tending to their duties quickly.

While making haste with the decorations and reading over the script he had prepared for the following speech (god forbid he reads off a script, it’s one his many pet peeves and he is not willing to entertain the thought of slacking off in his chase for perfection), he thinks of your voice when you had greeted him this morning via phone call. Despite your obviously tired disposition, you had taken the initiative to call him to motivate him for the following day, you seem to know him well enough to realise his unending infatuation with your voice (how embarrassing for him but he’s far too touched to care for it for now).

Despite your well wishes and intentions, the phone call left him with more guilt and worries than assurance.

‘I’m fine’, you had insisted, saying that you had managed to snack on cut apples for breakfast.

By the moment Sunday snaps out of his thoughts, he notices a crinkle at the side of the paper where his thumb laid.

He’s not composed at all.

“ Sunday?”

By the time the clock struck ten and the assembly had concluded, Sunday took it upon himself to rent a bike at a nearby bus stop rather than waiting for his driver, hoping to make a quick detour to your house instead (his adoptive father would never have allowed him to do so). He had recognised your address from your first date, where he dropped you off by your neighbour’s house to prevent you from getting teased by your parents (you had insisted and he obliged). Your mother was there to greet him by the door, clearly whiplashed by the sight of a disconcerted, red faced handsome boy standing at her front door. She quickly flashes him a look of familiarity, to which he feels happy at (you must have shown your mother pictures of him, his ears redden at the thought).

He could only hope that you showed her the good ones and that despite your mischievous peculiarity, you’d care enough to help him make a good impression.

“You look much handsome in real life,” Your mother comments when he enters.

Never-mind. You definitely took it upon yourself to show her the worst ones. He could only pray that they don’t include his baby features, where his bangs were chopped short, “I apologise for coming so late, I came as soon as the assembly had finished-“

“- I understand,” Your mother chuckles, “I’m more impressed that a teenage boy would make so much effort to care for a partner with a flu when it’s so close to midnight,” She hands him a glass of warm water, urging him to walk up the stairs to your room, “They’d heal in no time after all.”

He shakes his head decisively, “That’d be an unfitting behaviour for a husband.”

The once vibrant mood turned quiet in no time and realising what he had said, his cheeks flushed a vibrant red and his ears burned incessantly.

Your mother watches him with shell shocked expression, thankfully the glass had been on Sunday’s hand at this point, judging by how her hand had loosened immediately he had blurted the words out, the glass would have been on the floor otherwise. Which would have been unsightly for a first impression.

“SUNDAY!”

He hears your familiar yell, clearly happening upon his arrival and his words.

He had planned to scold you for your misdemeanours (showing your mother terrible pictures of him) but it seems that he had committed a far graver crime than you did: an impromptu proposal at hours so close to midnight.

“… I sincerely apologise. Please pretend you didn’t hear anything.”

Sunday wishes for the concrete floors to eat him alive.

[victoriansecret]

Servants and Upward Mobility

This is focused on paid servants in England in the mid-late 18th century. One thing I find fascinating about the structure of domestic service roles was the existence of what essentially we might call a career ladder today. It was not uncommon for a servant to start their career near the bottom of the hierarchy as, say, a boot boy who cleans the shoes and boots of the household, or the scullery maid who does all the dirty kitchen work like scrubbing iron cooking vessels or plucking chickens, but progressively move up the list to better positions.

Part of why this was the case was that it was typical in England to hire servants for one year terms at a time. Often they'd be hired at festivals on the quarter days of the year, which as part of the festivities would often include what today we'd call a job fair. For some reason, Michaelmas (September 29) seems to be the most common as far as I can tell. I had never really thought about why that might be until I started planning this post, and I now wonder if it might have something to do with that being right around when harvest time usually comes in England. I could easily imagine people, especially young people, being on the cusp of another labourious harvest and thinking that maybe they could find another job instead. Related tangent: There are a number of remarks in the period that servants from the northern parts of England were considered to be much more respectful than servants from more populated, urban areas. Those communities were (at least considered to be) a lot stricter about remembering one's place and respecting your social 'betters', and their behaviour as servants was believed to reflect that. Some people would actively have their agents look to hire people from those rural areas, and apparently it was easy to attract potential employees: there are a number of remarks about how when a fancy carriage would drive through a small town, with the fancily-liveried footmen riding on the back, it would bring young people to stare in awe and want to be part of that. Which as someone whose interest in domestic service started in part because of my obsession with livery, I can understand. Anyway, back to the main point: because they often served one-year terms, there was an annual chance for both parties - the servant and the served - to review and determine how to move forward. A servant who was favoured might negotiate for a new position in the household, at least one step higher on the ladder (if not more), and they had leverage because they could leave the field entirely or possibly go off to a new household and find a higher position there. There was also a practice of asking for your master or mistress to provide a "character", essentially what we would today call a reference: a letter to show potential employers detailing their behaviour and skill in their role. Certainly there were times that some employers refused to give a good character, and sometimes that was explicitly because they wanted to keep the servant because they were a valuable asset to their household, but it was considered part of the obligation of the master class to be honest in these.

And it is not at all uncommon to find people who have served many different people/households throughout their career. The most I have seen is 28, although that's slightly misleading: that was a man who decided he wanted to travel, so hired himself to gentleman going on journeys for the duration of the trips, many of which were only a couple months. (The book he published, which he wrote about his travels and the "exotic" places and people he encountered, is interesting, and for my purposes super helpful because he turned out to be a narcissist and wrote a lot about himself, including his career as a servant. It's the only quasi-memoir of a paid servant from this time I am aware of. I might write a post about it/him sometime. I digress.) [continued in next post]

[citrusses]

As you know, I am the president of your fan club, but I'm willing to take the hat off for five minutes so that you can answer this question:

What do you think is the best thing you've written, and why do you like it? Could be an entire fic, a scene, or a single sentence.

Putting my hat back on now 💕💕

My darling couch! My beloved sofa! My deity of furniture! As YOU know I am the president of YOUR fan club (i have defied the laws of physics in my speed clicking on subscriber emails about your fics) and I’m delighted to get this question. Did that make it easy to answer? NO!

But for you I will answer! I enjoyed revisiting the below scene from Our Objective Remains Unchanged (commentary below the cut - or potentially not, I’m on mobile and it’s giving me trouble)

They hadn’t trained with only each other in months. The Thames was drifting towards the rising sun, the sky above mottled purple like a bruise. Harry felt a pang of nostalgia for Michaelmas term.   

He and Draco hadn’t even known each other back then. Not really. 

They grabbed a double scull and pushed out into the river, their strokes through the water leisurely. 

“You know,” Harry said, “if I had any talent for poetry, I think I’d want to write it about the Thames.”

“You wouldn’t be the first, Potter.” 

“Yes, I’m completely unoriginal and uncultured, you’ve mentioned before. Shut up, I’m trying to say something.” He could see Draco’s shoulders shaking in amusement. “I’d write about the Thames in Wallingford, in the morning, when the sky is more grey than blue, and the water and the whole world are waiting for the sun to light them up. But it’s so beautiful, the potential of what’s to come.”

“It is beautiful,” Draco said softly. 

“That colour—it’s the same as your eyes, has anyone ever told you that?”

Draco made a little, sharp sound—like he was fighting a quick twist of pain. Harry let go of one of the oars to take Draco’s hand with his own, and Draco surprised him by clutching back tightly for a moment before dropping it.

It’s a sentimental one! But I like it for a number of reasons. This comes at a point in the story where we’re building towards a crucial, action-heavy scene (the Boat Race) and I think the slowness of this scene is a good counterpoint to the faster pacing of the events around them. There’s also (I hope!) a decent amount of payoff of the relationship they’ve been building to here — Harry attempting to relate to Draco through his love of poetry and Draco reciprocating the non-sexual physical affection he’s been hesitant to give Harry up to this point. They also are NOT saying a lot here, which I am always weak for. Finally, this parallels an earlier scene that I also very much like.

I hope I picked well! I’m honored to get this ask from you ❤️❤️❤️

[kaminos-de-leche-i-miel]

finally applied to study ladino! :) if, like me, you are a big linguistic nerd, i really recommend checking out the oxford school of rare jewish languages, applications are open until september 16!

[petermorwood]

This Reply by @neil-gaiman reminded me of two things:

(1) How much I despised doing, and avoiding, compulsory Games / Sports / Gym / PE / PT / Whatever.

(2) That I never, ever have to do, or avoid, compulsory Whatever again in my life.

*****

I spent my whole school career avoiding them, and forged sick notes which helped that avoidance were the first really successful fiction-writing of my life.

I also learned that when acting the part of someone with a sprained ankle, a tiny stone in the appropriate shoe was a good reminder of which ankle to limp on, while an air of suffering bravely borne was always more convincing if that air was scented with a faint hint of the embrocation rubbed into one sock.

*****

Neil didn't mention the effects of time of year or weather, but both were frequent entries in My List Of Unpleasing Things About Games.

Leaving out PT / Gym / PE or whatever, which was indoors and - thanks to the solidity of the equipment - a weekly source of sprains, strains, bruises, mild concussion and deep loathing, my old school used to observe Ye Olde Academic terms and their associated sporting pleasures.

This says something about which I'm not quite sure, and I see it's replaced them with plain old Autumn-Spring-Summer Term, which says something else about which I'm even less sure.

*****

So there was Michaelmas Term (August to Christmas), and rugby.

A soggy school rugby pitch in Northern Ireland in November, halfway through the game with the pitch well churned up, the daylight fading, the rain turning to sleet and every other member of both teams still (a) Too Large and (b) Too Keen, was a reluctant 12-year-old's equivalent of Flanders Fields on the Western Front ca. 1916.

(No artillery or machine-guns, but (a) and (b) were quite enough.)

I was also a skinny reluctant 12-year-old - those who know me now can believe that or not as you please - and the icy breezes which whistled unimpeded up, across and down the legs of my too-baggy-now-but-he'll-grow-into-them shorts were at least one cause of a lifelong fondness for saunas, hot tubs and steam baths.

*****

Then there was Hilary Term (January to Easter) and field hockey.

That was when the School Armoury issued hockey sticks and sent us forth onto the Artificial Pitch, which wasn't as muddy as the grass-covered rugby one but could produce amazing scabby knees and elbows after a tumble at speed, either after the ball or more often away from the opposition's bloody-minded front row.

Being artificial, rainwater didn't soak in but just sat there in puddles, and sometimes in early term they froze hard enough that field hockey could become ice hockey in the space of a couple of strides, cue another tumble and more scabs. Oh yes, and my shorts were still too baggy, so icy breezes in unwanted places continued to be an ongoing delight.

*****

And then there was Trinity Term (post-Easter to July) and field athletics then cricket, AKA liveliness meets somnolence.

That was when the sky became increasingly blue, the birdies sang tweet-tweet, the sun shone more often, the air became noticeably warmer and anyone with sense enjoyed as much of the soon-to-be-summer days as worries about impending End-Of-Term exams allowed.

It was also a time for field athletics until Half-Term, featuring long-jumps, high-jumps and runs of various speed and duration.

We re-learned every year that it was possible to get a nasty sunburn even in a Northern Ireland May, that unless the groundskeeper raked the sand in the long-jump pit properly there would be at least one souvenir from a local cat, that sweat could break out with the least exertion because sunny and humid were frequently simultaneous, and that horseflies were always ready to sample new blood and the way they got that blood was a painful process.

It still is.

Bastards.

*****

After Half-Term it was cricket, which combined disinterested boredom and pointless intermittent activity at a nearly Zen level with me being very, very bad at it.

I was no good as a bowler, I could throw straight or I could throw hard, but throwing hard and straight at the same time was something I never seemed to master.

Oh dear.

I was no good as a batsman, I tended to step out and slosh so the ball went in all directions, including on a couple of occasions straight up and straight down again, though not high enough or for long enough to get any runs.

What a shame.

I was no good as a wicketkeeper because I was more butterfingered than a clumsy dairymaid, and what I didn't drop I would handle wrongly, like that time I made what would have been a perfect catch except I fumbled it and knocked the stumps down before, not after.

Oops.

My incompetence at everything up close was Really Quite Remarkable, so I was invariably sent out to one of the deep field positions where, unless something Silly happened, I could be safely ignored and - if the grass was long enough - I would be ignored whatever happened.

I read a lot of good books that way.

Not a single one was about sport.

[daloy-politsey]

Applications for language classes beginning in Michaelmas Term 2024 are now open! These classes include ones on the following languages: Haketia, Baghdadi Judeo-Arabic, Classical Judeo-Arabic, Judeo-Italian, Judeo-Moroccan, Judeo-Neo-Aramaic, Judeo-Persian, Ladino, Old Yiddish and Yiddish.

The deadline to apply is 16 September at 12 noon UK time.

[whencyclopedia]

Holidays in the Elizabethan Era

During the Elizabethan Era (1558-1603 CE), people of all classes greatly looked forward to the many holidays and festivals on offer throughout the year. The vast majority of public holidays were also religious commemorations, and attendance at service was required by law. Still, the feasts that accompanied many of these 'holy days' were anticipated with pleasure, and many secular traditions began to appear alongside them such as playing football on Shrove Tuesday and giving gifts to mothers on the third Sunday before Easter. Holidays were also an opportunity to visit towns for a local fair or even travel further afield. The Elizabethan period was the first time the idea of a Grand Tour of Europe caught on amongst the rich, seen as a way to broaden a young person's horizons and round off their general education.

Holy Days

The concept of an extended holiday as a period of rest from work is a relatively modern idea. Throughout the Middle Ages, the only time a worker had off work was Sundays and holy days, that is days established by the Church to celebrate a religious matter such as the life of a particular saint or such events as the birth of Jesus Christ at Christmas and his resurrection at Easter. In the 16th century CE, these holy days became known by the now more familiar and wholly secular term, 'holidays'. The Elizabethan period was also the first time that such religious holidays came to be associated less with Church services and more to do with taking a 24-hour break from everyday life and, if possible, enjoying a little better quality of food and drink than one usually consumed. However, it is to be remembered that attendance at church on the main holy days was still required of everyone by law.

In the second half of the 16th century CE, there were 17 principal holy days recognised by the Anglican Church, some of which, as today, moved particular dates depending on the lunar calendar. These holy days, and their celebratory or commemorative purposes, were:

New Year's Day (1 Jan) - the Circumcision of Jesus Christ.

Twelfth Day (6 Jan) - the Epiphany when the Magi visited Jesus.

Candlemas (2 Feb) - Feast of the Purification of Mary.

Shrovetide/Shrove Tuesday (between 3 Feb & 9 Mar) - the last day before the fasting of Lent.

Ash Wednesday (between 4 Feb & 10 Mar) - First day of Lent, the 40-day fast that leads up to Easter.

Lady Day (25 Mar) - Annunciation of Mary and considered the first day of the calendar year in England (when the year number changed).

Easter (between 22 Mar & 25 Apr) - the Resurrection of Christ and including nine days of celebration.

May Day (1 May) - commemorating St. Philip and Jacob but also considered the first day of summer.

Ascension Day (between 30 Apr & 3 Jun) - Ascension of Christ and a major summer festival.

Whitsunday (between 10 May & 13 Jun) - Pentecost when Christ visited the apostles.

Trinity Sunday (between 17 May & 20 Jun) - Feast day of the Trinity.

Midsummer Day (24 Jun) - also commemorates John the Baptist.

Michaelmas (29 Sep) - marks the end of the harvest season and commemorates the Archangel Michael.

All Hallows/Hallowtide (1 Nov) - the feast of All Saints (Hallows).

Accession Day (17 Nov) - commemorates Elizabeth I of England's accession.

Saint Andrew's Day (30 Nov) - commemorates St. Andrew.

Christmas (25 Dec) - the birth of Jesus Christ.

Continue reading...

[wenevergotusedtoegypt]

No experience with this, just saw the link elsewhere and thought it might be of interest to jumblr. Free online classes in various Jewish languages.

[baynton-nation]

Mathew Baynton at The Oxford Union for their Michaelmas Term

Source: The Oxford Union on Facebook

[tiramisuglitter]

copying out my lecture schedule in preparation for returning for Lent term 📚

super excited to be going back to Cambridge ♥️

[yiddishknights]

It's that time of year again! Applications for OSRJL classes for the 2024-2025 academic year are open from now until September 16.

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: The Curse of the Baskervilles

CW for discussion of crimes against humanity.

Devonshire is a historical alternative name for the county of Devon, these days not seeing that much use. Devon and next-door Cornwall have a friendly rivalry going over various things, including the order in which you put cream and jam on a scone. Cornwall does jam first, Devon cream. Getting it the wrong round in the relevant county can attract disapproving looks.

Mainstream Christianity believes that the only sin that cannot be forgiven by God is "blaspheming against the Holy Spirit", which is a continuous and arrogant rejection of it. It is generally deemed impossible for a Christian to actually do because if you worried that you've done it, you're not rejecting the Holy Spirit.

The Great Rebellion is the then standard name for what is commonly called the English Civil War or less commonly, but more correctly the War of the Three Kingdoms - England, Scotland and Ireland all being their own kingdoms under a single monarch, Wales is a principality. Lasting from 1639 to 1653 and including a whole bunch of conflicts, including two English Civil Wars. Various videos explaining the whole rather complex affair with varying degrees of comedy can be found on YouTube, but the popular version is that a bunch of republicans (Roundheads) with short hair fought a bunch of monarchists with long hair (Cavaliers). To quote Arnold Rimmer, it ended "1-0 to the pudding-basins" and King Charles I ended up losing his head in public.

Edward Hyde, 1st Earl of Clarendon, a key member of the governments of Charles I and Charles II wrote some memoirs of the whole period. Initially written between 1646 and 1648 as a defence of the former, his fall from power and exile in 1667 (he was made to carry the can for the English defeat against the Netherlands in the Second Anglo-Dutch War despite having little involvement) resulted in a massive expansion and re-write of The History of the Rebellion, which generally runs to no less than six volumes. One can compare it to Winston Churchill's The Second World War it seems - interesting, but watch for bias.

A yeoman in this context was a commoner who owned the land that he farmed, as opposed to being merely a tenant. Indeed a third of all farmland remains run by tenanted farmers; including much of Dartmoor, which is owned by the Duchy of Cornwall, the land holdings of a (male only) heir to the throne.

A maiden is traditionally an unmarried girl or young woman, with a strong implication of virginity to boot.

Michaelmas is a Christian festival held on 29 September in honour Saint Michael and all the other angels. It was traditionally associated with the end of harvest and a bunch of other stuff, including the legal calendar. The Lord Mayor of London (not to be confused with the Mayor of London) is elected on this. Traditionally the meal eaten here included goose, but it has very much fallen out of fashion in modern Britain.

A carouse (also a verb) is basically a long drinking and dancing event; "Carouse" turns up as a skill in some RPG systems i.e. the ability to do this effectively without ending up on the floor next to your vomit.

"Terrible oaths" here mean foul language.

A league is three statute miles, so she's got to get nine miles or 14.9 kilometres. That's a rather long way to go, especially in the dark.

A flagon is a large vessel for containing drink, about 2 imperial pints or 1.1 litres in capacity. You can either use it for pouring (in which case it will have a spout) or drinking from directly.

Trenchers were flat wood or metal plates used for serving food. In medieval times, they would be made of stale bread. After the meal, these and the juices, leftovers etc. would be generally given to the poor. Eating the trencher yourself was considered rather vulgar.

"Wench" has had various meanings over the years. In Shakespeare's time, it was a neutral or even endearing term for a young woman. It then evolved into a female server, particularly at a tavern (with the associated sexy costume, although I am not sure when that became a thing) and from there to being a term for a prostitute, with "wenching" becoming a verb to mean using the services of them. With an associated meaning of a promiscuous woman. It is not clear whether the writer is using the term or Hugo is here. I can see the latter using it in a rather venomous way.

A kerchief is another name for a bandana.

The pistols of the period were single-shot weapons requiring reloading with powder, wadding and shot. Even with regular practice like in an army (where this was a major part of drill), you'd be looking at a 15 to 20 second reloading time. It was commonplace to carry two pistols (a brace) as a result, at which point the fight was either over, or it was time to get your sword out. Some went still further - Blackbeard, who was going progressively crazy with syphilis, is recorded as carrying six loaded pistols on him.

There were 16 fatal dog on human attacks in the UK from January to September 2023; a sharp rise blamed on the American XL Bully breed, which was promptly banned in England and Wales as a result.

Providence means God's intervention in the universe.

"Which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ" is a reference to the Commandment about not creating graven images or idols, either the Second Commandment or part of the First depending on your denomination; Anglicans put it as the Second.

"The probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon" is going to form part of a post discussing late Victorian elections, because I could go on all days about those. Central Devon was a narrow Conservative hold in 2024, by the way.

Nouveaux riches is French for "new rich", commonly rendered as "new money". The "aristocracy" on both sides of the Atlantic (see The Gilded Age) looked down on the new millionaires who were being created by the Industrial Revolution, such as railway tycoon Cornelius Vanderbilt.

The discovery of diamonds at Kimberley in 1867, followed by gold at Witwatersrand in 1886, led to a vast boom that turned what would become South Africa from an agricultural economy to a wealthy industrial one... most of that wealth ending in the hands of white people, of course. Indeed, it led to the actual creation of South Africa in the first place.

Inquests are held in England and Wales after any death that is violent, unnatural, a possible suicide or in custody. These were at the time conducted with a jury, but this has become much rarer since 1927, when a coroner can do it on their own in many cases. In the case of a murder, an inquest will be opened and adjourned to allow the police to investigate. This process can take quite a while; after the Manchester Arena bombing of 2017, a full public inquiry into the event was held and following the end of that in 2003, the same judge then conducted an inquest into the death of the bomber himself, as was legally required. No public hearings were held in this case to avoid attention and save public money. The conclusion was officially logged as "suicide while undertaking a terror attack that murdered 22 innocent victims and injured many others", Sir John Saunders clearly that merely putting "suicide" was insufficient.

The Gypsy and Traveller community have long been associated with horses, with the Appleby Horse Fair being held every June in Cumbria. The RSPCA have a large presence at the event to deal with any animal welfare issues, issuing warnings and will take animals away or prosecute people if required. The 2024 event saw two horses worked to death, the official website posting the RSPCA's request for information on those responsible.

I've discussed Bushmen/San in one of my posts on The Sign of Four.

"Hottentot" is a now-offensive term for the Khoekhoe nomadic pastoralists of Southern Africa, often grouped with the San. Its use in the 1964 Mary Poppins film has seen that movie reclassified in the UK from a U (universal) to a PG.

They are split into the Northern Khoekhoe or Nama, located in Namibia and Botswana, and the Southern Khoekhoe or Cape Khoe found in the SW coastal regions of South Africa. At the time this book was set, these were, respectively:

German South West Africa

Bechaunaland Protectorate (de facto independent until 1891 when the British took active control)

The Cape Colony

Two years after publication, separate Nama and Herero rebellions in the former against colonial rule (the German aim being ethnic cleansing) were brutally defeated, with the peoples either shot dead, driven into the desert or placed into concentration camps. They were subjected to medical experiments, skulls being taken to Germany for use as demonstration of "racial inferiority". The similarities between this genocide and the Holocaust are clear, although the precise connections are debated by historians.

It is estimated that up to 80% of the indigenous population died as a result.

Germany has in the last decade offically recognised this as a genocide, agreed to pay €1.1 billion to the affected communities and has returned the human remains held in German universities or teaching hospitals.

On a final note, Mortimer failing to mention the footprints around the body might be considered perjury.

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 3: Strangeness and Charm

MASTERLIST

Chapter I

Chapter II

______________________________________________________________

Summary:

Cecily-Anne is put into the hands of Team Black during a prisoner exchange, and settles into Dragonstone. She also meets Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and takes stock of what she must do to survive.

TWs:

Mentioned/Referenced SA, trauma, grief, loss of family.

Tag list: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @rmelster

Being a prisoner at the hands of the Greens had broken Cecily-Anne irreparably. As she stood in the vast entrance of Dragonstone, wrapped in merely a travelling cloak and her stained bedrobe, she was truly conscious of her frailty. Once more, she was a leaf in a gale, tossed hither and fro without a care. Despite her favour at court as Halaena’s lady-in-waiting, her dark hair and blue eyes; her northern accent and lack of understanding of Westerosi culture had put her into a precarious position. Now, she was being exchanged as a prisoner of war. Aegon had assumed her to be a member of the Stark family or some other Northern family (she’d heard rumours of her as a Mormount bastard). Since it had seemed like these Starks were pursuing an alliance with the Targaryens, Aegon wished to have her stuffed into a cell. Unlike most men of his court, he cared not for her highborn legitimacy. Whatever Alicent saw in him was severely misplaced.

But what Cecily had learned as Helaena’s lady-in-waiting in those first few months had been invaluable. Like the England of her world, a highborn lady wielded considerable power. While unable to take up arms and fight, a highborn lady and her retinue wielded serious fiscal and political control over the realm, vassals and any tenants her husband or her own lands were serviced by. With Helaena as Queen and Alicent as the Dowager, their retinue of ladies in waiting were evenly split between the major households of the south and the houses of Essos who had gone with The Greens. 

House Velaryon had gone to the Blacks, due to Queen Rhaenyra having wed the father of her three sons, Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey many years earlier. With her had been Princess Rhaenys of Targaryen and Baratheon lineage - the Baratheons had been split in going with the Hightower off-shoot of Targaryens - what Cecily coined as “Rhaen-garyens,”. She had come from a world where boys were commonly all named Edward, or Richard. Women in her own lineage were named Anne or Cecily. Common denominations to keep that in check included nicknames such as “Nan,” or their “Of the castle/town of birth,”. Because last names were not a common signifier in England (unlike Westeros, which were a sign of pride or scorn), Cecily had had a horrific time trying to keep track of just the names of the people within the household of the Hightowers.

She hadn’t even had a chance to unravel the mysteries of the small council. What she did know was the “Hand of the king,”, some form of official status in the king’s circle that she thought was similar to the chief advisors of her father’s days. He was signified by a literal chain of metal hands that acted as a chain of office. 

Lord Chamberlain of England.

Cecily was not a stupid girl. She had been raised all her life, from her very days in swaddling cloth, to be a noblewoman. She could balance an accounts book from Michaelmas to Michaelmas, keep track of stores, manage an army of small-folk servants. She knew what her own terms of marriage had been to Manuel - she’d assisted her parents in drawing them up and providing her father with what she needed as a good, catholic lady of fortune. She spoke Portuguese, Latin and French. Now, she was taking in the languages of Westeros through simply sitting with her embroidery as Helaena held court with her ladies and hearing of their troubles in places such as the Riverlands. Her dowry was sizable chunks of the north of England. Men certainly made war, but the women of the nobility often negotiated secondary treaties to the first, or interceded when trade deals went awry. 

Now, she stood in another court, in another castle. Her third one in three months. A part of her hungered for her tongue of her people, for the familiar smells and voices of a mummery composing ballads. She longed to stare up at the banners and see the Bear and Ragged Staff; the Lovell wolf and the Sunne in Splendour crowning it all. But instead she stared up at the Targayen red two-headed dragon on black canvas, and the Velaryon sea-horse against a teal backing. These houses had stood against the Greens, taken up arms against them. A similar story to her own - over the right of inheritance of a throne. 

The game of thrones simply changed locations and times, yet was eternal. Stretching her chained hands, Cecily sighed. She allowed the guards to lead her through the stone corridors that leached the heat from one’s body, and looked up at the slit-windows. The rumble of the sea crashed like distant thunder, and despite the fact that Cecily was once more a prisoner, she was too tired and too angered to fight. She didn’t want to remember what had happened at Aegon’s hands. 

Sin had corrupted the greens like rot and crept all the way up. Cecily gnawed at the inside of her cheek with her back teeth. The pain focused her, allowing the memories to fade. She did not make conversation with her guard, nor plead the man’s mercy. Instead, she stepped into the small councilroom and took in the great stone map of Westeros. Illuminated by candles under its feet, the work was a piece of masterful masonry. It showed in all of its true geographic features the expanse of Westeros from end to end, and she could see the sigils of each house carved into the rock.

“It is obsidian.” A voice at her elbow murmured and Cecily turned to stare into the ink-black eyes of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. His mother’s heir and bastard, his face was the same pale of his Targaryen forefathers but his hair was undoubtedly the colour of Harwin Strong. A member of the Black council, he served as his mother’s voice of reason and sword to enact her will. Not a hand of the Queen by any means, but a powerful boy. Distantly, Cecily felt grief stir in her.

If Ned had lived, this would be him. A prince, honourable, inheriting great titles. The sword-point that could have brought down Tudor. Instead, Ned had died and Cecily had lived. She was the useless one, the one packed off to marry a Portuguese prince - all for naught. Now she was in another time, another place and worse off than ever.

“I see.” Cecily inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace, for inform-”

“You are not some common wench.” He raised a brow. “No. It would seem not. You are too well fed, under those ragged robes. You hold your head too high. So.” Jacaerys cast his gaze towards his mother’s councilmen and ladies, who exchanged glances.

In low tones, he leaned over and murmured: “And you are welcome. It was I who arranged for your release.” 

With that cryptic statement shared only between them, Jacaerys straightened, and examined his gloved hands. “Shall we begin, gentlemen, your Graces?”

Cecily straightened, confusion running through her from the tip of her tongue to her toes. Shock painted her face. She was not being passed judgement, nor being hauled away to some cell. At the head of the table, Queen Rhaenyra signalled to her guard. A key was produced and the shackles removed from her hands and feet. Attempting to step forward, Cecily stumbled. Jacaerys’s gloved hand stuck fast around her elbow. “Come now. Not even a noble lady such as yourself would dare tread upon her own skirts?” He teased. She glared at him, rage burning anew in her eyes. Was he as bad as Aegon? Would this all be some jest, only for her to be thrown once more into some dank cell? Would he do as Henry Tudor had done and spit upon her form? Dare imply that she was naught more than a whore insufficient for bedding? He had already called her no wench. What was worse? 

“A lady of no standing claiming to be a noblewoman is taken into the Greens court and given to the queen as a lady-in-waiting?” Rhaenyra raised a hand containing a paper that her spies must’ve taken from the Red Keep. Cecily stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Sweat crowded under her armpits, rolled down her temple. She shook with the effort of keeping herself stationary, from picking up something and screaming as she tore the room apart. She was tired. Tired of having every movement questioned, of moving on what she thought was a clear path. Instead, she found every movement she made caused brambles to tie themselves to her legs and pull her further into the darkness. She was tired of being scrutinised, of having no safe harbour to flee to.

“Who is she?” 

Cecily jerked, her head looking up at last, into the queen’s violet eyes. Her hair, oily and ragged from no washing, was pushed off the nape of her neck as Cecily discarded her shawl and bedrobe. 

Under both, she wore merely a dirty, bloodied shift. Blood still caked her shaking legs. Her hands shook as she bent down to remove from the bedrobe’s pocket her crucifix and rosary. She did all of this with much hesitancy, watching the members of the Queen’s guard and small council with wide, frightened eyes. Prince Jacaerys’s touch reviled her. Fear sat heavy in her stomach and she knew that she would have to say the unmentionable, to make it so.

“I am Princess Cecily-Anne of House Plantagenet. We are a house ruined by war and strife, left only in our male line to a traitor king. We have suffered much, and gained little. I am the daughter of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his lady Duchess Anne Neville. My twin brother was crowned Prince of Wales before sickness took him shortly ‘ere his twelfth name-day.” She paused.

“I was taken into the care of Queen Halaena on the basis that her family regarded her unable to care for herself. Ser Gwayne Hightower took-” She coughed weakly into her elbow. “The care to send a letter to her convoy and inform her that I had been found and was in all estimations, a perfect candidate.”

“How long were you in the Queen’s service?” Rhaenyra stepped down towards Cecily, the train of her gown sweeping the floor. Her hair tumbled down her back in long waves and a crown laid atop her head. She bore no signifiers of the fashion of Cecily’s own time, though the sight of her ladies wearing what seemed to be coifs and veils was welcome. 

“S-several weeks, alas, Your Grace.” Cecily averted her gaze, but her breath hitched as Rhaenyra gripped her jaw in hand and turned it toward the light. “Tell me, Princess. Have you suffered much at the hand of that false King, Aegon?”

Cecily swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. She pressed her legs tighter together, and cast her gaze nervously to Rhaenyra’s council, who looked to be in varying states of disgust. Jahaerys’s gaze was locked on her trembling body, and something akin to rage simmered within him.

“You need not ask, Mother. Look at how she trembles. He has ruined her, made her damaged.”

“Is what my son speaks true, Your grace?”

The respectful usage of her title made Cecily nearly weep with relief. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, clinging to Rhaenyra's skirts. “Yes.” She cried softly. “Yes, he speaks the truth.” Her face was pressed into the dark stone floor and she shuddered with cold and hunger. 

“But this is not all you wish for, no?” Rhaenyra lifted Cecily’s head. “There is a rage within you that does not extend to Aegon - he is too low for you to dirty your sword with his blood. You seek, it seems, a better quarry.”

Cecily nodded, and spoke softly.

“I seek to kill the man who tore my father’s realm apart, who callously threw his corpse over the back of a steed and marched it through the town of Leicester. I know not what has become of my father’s corpse, but it is an evilty and affront to God.”

She sniffed.

“I seek to sink the blade of my father’s knife-” She lifted the hem of her shift. Tied to her inner thigh on a mere scrap of ribbon was a sheathed knife. “-into the heart of Henry Tudor.”

The room went deathly silent. The guards did not move, but their hands hesitated on their sword hilts. Rhaenrya merely gave a grim smile, and eased Cecily’s shift down once more. She cupped Cecily’s face in her hands.

“Then I shall grant you the sanctuary needed to hunt this quarry of yours, who so defiled your father.”

Cecily’s emotional walls shattered, and she wept without restraint, clinging to the queen who had brought her finally, a sense of safety. Rhaenyra waved off the maesters and her ladies with a gentle hand, and had Jacaerys help get Cecily upright. “Have her washed and clad in something more befitting her station.” She called to her son and the maid gripping Cecily’s other arm.

The maid nodded, averting her gaze.

***

Washing her proved easier than anyone assumed. 

Weeks - no, months of grief with no hope of relief had caused Cecily’s body and mind to stutter to a stop. She was eerily silent and still as the maids cleaned her body and hair. They used soap she would’ve called Castille to clean her hair and the blood from her legs. An elder serving maid tended to her intimate areas, knowing the violation that had befallen the princess. Many a girl of a station lower than hers had suffered such at the hands of invaders or Westerosi man alike. But for a noblewoman, it was sinful. The pride of clean, holy women had carried into Westeros society, yet the violation of such a law called for honour-bound, brutal violence. Violence had already torn the realm of the Seven Kingdoms apart as Aegon had usurped the throne from Rhaenyra’s rightful claim simply for two reasons:

The first that he was a man, and the second was that as Alicent and Viserys’s son, the belief of a firstborn boy inheriting was inherent in the laws of rulership. Cecily herself would never be a powerful enough claim to take the throne. Only through marriage, as her cousin Elizabeth was doing, could she bring the York lineage any closer to the throne. She stirred sluggishly, and focused on the room around her. Blinking, Cecily-Anne squinted.

“Where are my spectacles?”

“Here, Your Grace.” One of the maids placed the glasses on Cecily’s nose and she sighed in welcome relief. “Thank you.” Allowing the maids to haul her from the tepid bathwater, Cecily refused to look at herself in the silver-backed looking glass. It was more out of habit than the recent trauma that had befallen her. She knew that stretching across her stomach was a scar of two jagged lines. She knew of their origin, for she and her brother had been born a month ‘ere their predetermined dates. Cecily had ailed and struggled for the first few months, nearly coming close twice. But she did not flag where other children would have, and her parents had considered it a holy miracle.

Now the Holy Mother had sent Cecily to this foreign land where she felt nothing but fear. It scared her to no end. As she watched the maids brush out her hair and apply oils to help it retain its lustre, she found herself remembering her mother’s ladies do the same. Sitting in the vanity chair, her hands in her curls as they gently ran the comb though, Cecily was hit with an overwhelming wave of homesickness. She pressed a hand to her eyes, and spoke hoarsely:

“I believe that is enough. Thank you.”

The maids looked at one another, but did not push the matter. “What else will you need, Your Grace?”

“Nothing.” Cecily replied. “Please, go.” She sighed, and watched them leave from the corner of her eye. Once the wooden door had shut, Cecily walked over and stood in front of it for a good few moments. Finding the latch, she traced the keyhole with a finger. A door with a lock. Not even she’d gotten that as Helaena’s lady in waiting. She’d been waiting so long for the court to approve her, and yet she was still expected to pay favour to the queen and accompany her. It was exhausting, and boring. Because she’d been so closely under guard, any true conversation with Helaena was impossible. Now, she stared at the lock, admiring the raised relief of the dragon carved around the keyhole. She pushed the jamb down, and stepped back, her breath quickening.

Yet not with elation.

Fear. The fear of being hurt as she had by Aegon - or was it Aemond? Her memory was terrible and the fact that she couldn’t truly pin the blame on one man or the other terrified her. It had all been some awful mistake; a break-in into her chambers one night. Whoever of the Targayen boys it had been, was deep into his cups and knew exactly who she was. Why break a highborn woman when the maid-servants were all so willing to be taken for a few coin? 

Because it keeps me silent.

Cecily stepped back from the door again and stared at the wooden frame with unease. It seemed to be made of strong wood, but then again, she knew from experience of sieges from her father’s books. Doors could be picked or broken into. Thieves willing to work dirty jobs with high prices attached were common. Blood and Cheese had broken into a palace and done unspeakable horrors to Helaena’s children. The youngest had been brutally slaughtered, all because Prince Aemond had slaughtered Lucerys Velaryon. 

An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

Why not go for Aemond? She thought hopelessly. Why me? Why Me? Why exchange me as a prisoner? I’m just a girl. A ten-and-five year old girl who has no skill but as a nobleman’s wife and is far out of their league in learning than what is expected!

Cecily reeled back from the door and scrambled toward the bed on shaking legs. She tugged up the coverlet, ignoring the fine silks of the bed-curtains. The blood-red of it all, from the curtains to the woven floor rugs, reminded her painfully of the York Murrey. She hungered desperately, with the madness of a daughter grieving, to be abed in her tower room at Middleham Castle. 

But never again would she see that room. Never would she sit in her favourite window-seat and look out the oriel window to the village nestled in the castle’s great shadow. She would never again hear the calls of servants and squires to one another as her mother reigned with a firm, yet kindly hand. A queen of her own domain, now interned in the great marble and stone prison of her effigy. She should have been buried in York Minister along with Ned.

Oh, Ned… Cecily felt tears form behind her eyes. The night of his death haunted her. Shaking her head, Cecily leaned over in the bed and tapered the candles with the nearby taper. Darkness flooded the room, and Cecily for a moment deceived herself into being home in Middleham, the ocean’s roar being no more than distant thunder. But the sounds of dragons calling to one another sent her once more tumbling from her sanctuary point. Down, into the darkness of endless night and pain Cecily-Anne fell.

For with the darkness of a child’s grief came an uneasy sleep that made her envy, as always, the dead. 

End of chapter 3.