#bd.event003

[bloodydayshq]

Bloody Days Plot Drop ‘The Death Knell’

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝟏𝟓𝟓𝟗: At the tip of everyone’s tongue is the blackened name of the Lady Talbot.  

It is early morning. Seditious news travels across the court, wafting with the mists and salt-airs of the Thames, on 9 September 1559 – a day which historian Alison Weir will coin, four hundred years later, as ‘one in which an almost assuredly innocent woman was put in peril of her life.’ As Lady Elizabeth Talbot, sister of the Duke of Norfolk, travels by barge to the Tower of London, a welter of dark, chilling rumors ripple across Hampton Court like the river’s turbulent, white-capped crests. Rumours mount into hearsay; hearsay twists into whispers of heresy and treason. But truth, in this haunted Tudor court, tends to be stranger than fiction…

Received by the ominous traitor gates of the White Tower, Elizabeth’s mood ricochets between anger, despair, hope, and grief – concealed beneath a facade of protested innocence. Lady Talbot had tread a dangerous course by employing her maidservant, Margery Hallows, to dispatch a letter to far flung Catholic relatives in France – her words containing ominous, but largely innocuous, predictions about the King’s life. Intercepted in Calais, Margry and three of her kinsmen – George, Arthur, and Walter Hallows – are hauled back to London, thrown into the Tower’s keep, and sentenced to death. Lady Talbot is tried in a private court before a council composed of the King’s greatest magistrates – including Lord de Vere, Lord Cecil, Sir Walsingham, Lord Wiltshire, Lady Talbot’s brother, and the Duke of Northumberland – and declared guilty. She remains lodged at the Tower, her fate held in the King’s mercurial hands.

But today, on the morning of 13 September, the King and his court will observe three men – George, Arthur, and Walter Hallows – take their final, desolate journey from Tower to the Green and beg for the King’s mercy, their faces bound in white masks. Then, as cannons shot out from the Tower’s keep honour the hour – a knell of death – the traitors will be made to place their head upon the block and die, in the presence of all the court. The ginger-bearded Boleyn King, seated on his throne, watches distractedly: behind him standing a cluster of grave-looking, richly-dressed relatives.

A dark ditty circulates across the crowds:

When the Tower is white, and another place green, Then shall be beheaded three men before the queen.

But as the September wind rages and howls, the headsman’s ax will tremble over the traitor’s necks. It will take three botched swings of the hatchet to dispatch George’s head from his shoulders; two to deliver Arthur to God’s outstretched hands, and four for Walter, afterwards held up by his long, fair hair before the shell-shocked crowd, his mouth still trembling. Gore soaks the ground; the traitor’s heads dribble onto a bed of straw; the faces of those closest to the scaffold, hungering for a spectacle, are speckled in blood. Minutes later, a hysterical Margery mercifully joins her brothers in death: a single stroke of the sword ending her life.

When all is said and done, the King and his court will migrate to a breakfast banquet held in the Great Hall of Hampton Court, where the Tudors’ mercy will openly mingle with their cruelty. They will feast to justice and triumph with wine, roasted swans dressed in their original feathers, seasonal fruits, delectable confections, and a spread of blood-red pomegranates, musicians still beating at their joyous dirges – as if the entire gruesome morning had been long forgotten.

[thquldnunc]

Florence itself was but a radiating city of orange hues, brightened conversation and shifting eyes caught behind the backdrop of shadows. But to Thomas, who had never quite found the itch to move anywhere beyond English borders, it felt only stale with awaiting punishment. Why he was there, alongside the esteemed council skill of Cecil, de Vere and Lady Percy who acted as their gilded translator, was a matter of the gravest importance. As their King went to Dover to meet his feared half-sister, Thomas had received word from a certain ambassador set upon Italian soil a troublesome kind of news had broken against his own better judgement.

When Edward Seymour had been given to the world in some last laugh of the Tudor’s want for another son, Thomas had been given the role of guardian. It had been his first proper role after the fall of his old mentor Cromwell, and had been given with great importance. But, Walsingham was not a wet nurse, and still sore from an infant loss of his own, Thomas had decided to extend the babe at arm’s length. Instead, he gave him away to another in some seclusion within Boleyn focused land — of course, he had met Edward on occasion, when he would not be missed beside the backdrop of Henrician court life. He had grown plump from over-indulgence, and wore such a look that once belonged to his natural father that Walsingham was forced to look twice — but, he left most of the care to his surrounding maids that had been plucked from both obscurity and desperate nature to do what the Spymaster would insist upon. It was only his fault of misjudgment that all had blown up in his face.

He had been eager, then, to split their group of four into two groups. Though he felt he could trust de Vere, he did not know Lady Percy well enough to be alone with her — or to indeed confide with her for the mistakes already made, Thomas was only in need of Cecil and his confidence, and so caught his company in some effort to walk along the Arno before the council would reunite to witness the matron who claimed the youth of the illegitimate Tudor. “To think that our first European tour is spent in such mockery. I do hope de Vere does not fool the gentleness of that young lady, though better he than yourself,” he added, his smile playing upon his lips before he lead the way into their suited apartments, already rushing to inspect the security, pulling back sheets and wooden slats in order to banish any looming spy. Once their isolated was confirmed, Thomas mood shifted into paranoia.

“Do not ask me how a Seymour has found himself in Florence, I do not know, I do not understand myself. Someone has sought to undermine me and it has worked… Gods, if William does not see my neck upon the block then I would be a lucky man. You must promise me, Cecil, to make sure Penelope and Cecily are out of the city, that they are deep in English countryside and you must, you must swear to keep them safe." @jamescecils

[thdilettante]

It had been Dover Castle itself that had fired an inspiration within Thomas’ belly, so much so that he found himself wandering the grounds in the same way a groundskeeper would do when trying to find the difficult shrub causing a rot among the many. As he paced the outer walls, he looked out into the sea and how the waves went from the less appetizing tint of brown to a magnificent blue-green patched with sea foam in a way one would imagine Aphrodite rising from the scallop shell. Against the stonework he scribbled into his journals, his mind henceforth high above the clouds and far from the reality that tempered every other courtier’s brows. As his wife matched the temp of her son, the Spanish made haste and the lower nobility closed ranks, Thomas remained beyond the precipice. Let him wander on nature, indeed, but it would be Wyatt who would comfort or advise his family if they so needed it — even if, some thread of his person seemed to worry of his security in that infamous house of Tudor.

Upon the ramparts, where the King’s army stationed themselves en guard for any sort of trickery sent by the King of Spain, Thomas met the son — a handsome, broad Prince who seemingly adopted nothing of his mother whom Thomas had always wagered was quite plain, if not too sober for his attitude. Rising to his grossly tall height compared to the others bar his step-son, Thomas could not help but welcome Felipe into his inner sanctum where the birds passed over their heads in search for warmer climates. Wrapped up in velvet and furs which had long been a gift from the Dowager, the Earl of Allington bowed formally before inviting him with a single gesture. “I see you, too, have grown tired of the constant meetings. Though I am a faithful servant, and would do as much as I can if asked, I have always found happiness among the wilds. Will you join me before the eve grows too cold?”

@felipaed

[thlachesis]

Where most of the courtiers were nothing but sons of Dukes, or if you were lucky, some distant relation of the King himself, none stood out more than the son of Spain. He glimmered as if caught by the sun, causing every single person who lingered to turn their necks in order to catch just a glimpse. Héléne, who was no more special than any other, saw him as soon as he entered — for he radiated something magnificent; not that there was any question or riddle why he did. He was the son of Mary Tudor, the usurped true Queen of England, and the King of Spain. Both as Holy and zealous as a good Catholic came. And so in that order, Héléne respected him in the same way she had been when first presented before the rulers of France in her first years at court. 

Though most of the maid of honour’s life was kept behind warped rumours and tattle-tales, most of the rumours that surrounded her were indeed one of truths. She had laid with the King of France as soon as she was able, henceforth sent to a convent where she had one of the many illegitimate children to be educated and taken by someone in the country. By that, she had proved herself a loyal French servant, thereafter installed as part of the de Medici court where she used her womanly vices to twist the knives of her Queen deep into unsuspecting backs. She had been married, that was known to almost anyone, and had been blessed with a son. But, both had died quickly, and so the slate was once again wiped clean to instead present Héléne as a piece upon the chess board. 

So, there was no stage fright when she met the Prince of Spain, for she had been touched by other souls of grandeur — that, and if a match was ever to be made between Spain and France to threaten the heretic English, then someone must scout the land. “Your Majesty,” she gasped, her bow just low enough to deepen the cut of her dress, the black of her eyes flickering up towards him for his audience — a dare then put on the table. “I am Héléne d’Halluin, on behalf of Caterina de Medici.” @felipaed

[thunyielding]

The Grey siblings had always been held at arm’s length, but that was not simply due to the blood that flowed through either woman’s blood. No, what seemed to sink deeper beneath her skin was the reality that her father had once thought his sister’s grandchildren a good choice of successor (for even though Henry Tudor never believed that his heirs would ever be so unfortunate to die childless, or the strength that came with his only true son was anything but secure, there was always a silent conversation on the what ifs posed by his council — whispers, then heightened by the rumoured legitimacy of the Prince and Princess), a favouritism that only relit a sense of fury in the late King’s second daughter. So, she kept the Grey daughters from her, often averting her eyes if they entered a room or purposely avoided conversation when found in a large mass of people. But with a large number of the court split apart en route to Dover, there was little to be done, and so when found face to face Elizabeth could only muster the calmness evoked by pretending that all had never been better. 

As Lady Regent, Elizabeth had taken to her role with diligence. With her mother’s soaring ambition and father’s hubris, she sat upon her brother’s throne as if she had been made to sit within its cradle. She embodied England in its entirety, adorned in crimson and gold with her hair cast down her back in a purposeful display of her unapologetic lack of modesty, coyness or any other traditional feminine value once ordained just how a daughter or wife ought to be when before the audience of court. Finally, met alone but for a handful of ladies in the last few hours of public court, Elizabeth greeted her cousin with a modest display, a tapestry of the Virgin Mary hung beneath her head in the same manner once put on for her mother at the time of her coronation — everything had meaning, even if the largest parts of her soul yearned for something and someone else entirely. 

“Cousin, welcome. Do sit… I fear we have much to talk about.” @philippaed

[bloodydayshq]

Bloody Days ‘A Rose With Thorns’

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓𝟓𝟗: The English court must wage a war for the soul of their nation on two fronts.

The King, Queen Dowager, and Princess Elizabeth have not been seen by their subjects for over a week, driven from the heady epicenter of Hampton Court by highly secreted and contentious negotiations between England and Spain that leave the English court in frightful limbo. As rumours rage across the palace, attempting to rationalize the King’s absence – some suggesting that William and his sister had fallen ill of plague – the King and his council make swift preparations for travel. With only a small delegation of courtiers William and his Lady Mother ride fiercely out to Dover, bound by restraints of privacy and, all the while, facing a tide of betrayal, opposition, and distrust from within and without their inner sanctum …

On the sixth day of the King’s exile, however, the rains that have been driving relentlessly over England come to a sudden halt and, like a bolt from the blue, a merry messenger arrives from Calais. The King, so the courier reports, has received his sister, Queen Mary of Spain, in a great show of pomp, ceremony, and national accord. Mary and her husband, Philip of Spain, have agreed to spend the autumn with the King and his court, ostensibly holding an olive branch out to her half-brother, though tongues wag the Queen has her eyes on much more than merely diffusing tensions – perhaps intending to bestow favour upon England’s Catholic subjects, promoting the case of the Greys, and pressing the suit of her sister-in-law, Joanna of Spain – a task for which she has been intimately primed by the Emperor.

Amid nearly a week of feasting, tourneys, and private political summits held at Dover, the royal family must contend with bitter familial feuds whilst staving off the enmity of Mary’s Spanish retinue, many of which cast overt doubts upon the King’s legitimacy…

Whilst only a small group of courtiers were employed by the Boleyns to travel to Dover, those who remain in London have themselves a game of cat-and-mouse – or, for some, life-and-death – to play. Soon after the merry messenger departs for Calais, another cloudburst arrives at the court’s doorstep, and this time, the news is far from auspicious. The de’ Medici family in Florence announces that a certain Edward Seymour – presumed, for over two decades, dead – has turned up, seeking favour and aid. If England’s troops will not assist in warding off Papal encroachment into Florence, Edward Seymour – the illegitimate son of Henry VIII’s Catholic mistress – will be given the funds and mercenary necessary to muster a coup upon William’s yet fragile kingdom, returning England to the holy Catholic fold.

Immediately dispatched to Florence are James Cecil, Thomas Walsingham, and Julian de Vere to determine incognito if this imposter is truly the ‘lost’ Edward Seymour, or a mere pretender to the throne. At home, however, courtiers must face the mission of a lifetime in snuffing out juicy intel from those who knew the Seymours. And for recusant Catholics in particular, hiding their delight at news that Catholic hope may thrive again in sodden England will be no easy task…

Will the feuds between brothers threaten to cleave England at its core?

NOTE TO MEMBERS: This plot drop will be accompanied by over a dozen unique new Bloody Days muses that will be released in the coming days/hours/weeks/years (we prefer to spring it on you, so beware!). Mary Tudor will also be making an appearance here at Bloody Days, played by our own Bonnie (more details to be announced). Lastly, this event marks the end of the month of September.

OOC Details:

Welcome to our second plot drop / third event! This event will last from Saturday (noon EST) until Sunday the 23rd; however, if you so choose, by Thursday you may begin posting non-event related threads. 'ARWT’ will take place, in character, at two separate locations: Hampton Court and Dover Castle, Kent, the 'Key to England'. Four characters (Walsingham, de Vere, Cecil, and Sibella Percy) will be absent while undertaking espionage in Florence. All characters have been asked to participate – so please be sure to join us! Tag all threads and starters with #bd.event003.

Characters dispatched to Dover:

William Tudor

Thomas Wyatt

Anne Boleyn

Edmund Percy

Isobel Percy

Nicholas Sutton

Elinor Fitzroy

Robert Dudley

Amy Dudley

Bridget Parr

Richard Boleyn

Francisco de Guzman

Catherine of Spain

Annemarie Devereux

George Boleyn

Characters remaining at Hampton Court:

Amelia Grey

Aysun Dudley

Jane Boleyn

Elizabeth Tudor

Kismet Dudley

Maria de Mendoza

Meg Welles

Margery Holland

Elisabeth of Valois

Eleanor Grey

Katharine Grey

Philippa Grey

John Seymour

Alice Seymour

Penelope Walsingham

Gabriel Montgomery

Characters dispatched to Florence:

Julian de Vere

James Cecil

Thomas Walsingham

Sibella Percy (translator)

[thdilettante]

If Thomas Wyatt was a certain type of man, perhaps he would’ve taken advantage of the situation of which he had found himself. As a consort to the King’s mother, as a husband to one of the boldest women to have walked the Earth’s green carpet, Thomas was one of the most powerful, prestigious men in the country — even if one overlooked his previous lifestyle of poetry, merriment and luxurious treatment of mistresses and an abandoned first wife. And yet, he seemed to release the very promise of certain fame and glory. He did not whisper into the ears of his stepchildren, nor did he seem to garner much affection from the other councillors who often fought to ignore Wyatt in any oncoming situation. After all, Thomas was no politician despite the late King’s manner to embolden the poet’s place in court as an ambassador to various foreign courts. What he enjoyed, thereafter, was the wine that flowed into his cup or the music that echoed along Dover Castle’s fine, looming halls. And though he would remain as a steadfast advisor to the King and his needs, Thomas lounged in the same way one would think a jester would — ignoring the confusing, tense communication that lay in wait between himself and his wife’s own stepchild, thee infamous Mary Tudor. 

In the feasting hall he kept to himself whilst provoking an audience with the coaxing call of his poetry, there he waxed lyrical upon the history of the castle and the romantic overture of Eleanor of Aquitaine — so, perhaps it was not solitude he was after but rather a quieter, less serious means of attentions. With his words he drew a vision of jealousy piqued with one ruling king and a lover in tow (for the idea of a menage á trois was not something that Thomas had been a stranger to, for had he not watched Anne’s own envy whenever Henry looked at another woman? When the very thought of either Mary Tudor or Jane Seymour came to taunt her?), leaning back in his chair like a slovenly Roman Emperor awaiting a fresh bunch of grapes before he met the eyes of one he knew by all but name. Rising to his feet, the crowd dispersing for the change of tune, the Earl of Allington then lowered himself to a respectful bow — for she was the daughter of Mary Tudor, a daughter of Spain and by blood right even a claimant of the throne itself. She was a beautiful thing, but much too young and too late for Thomas’ wandering eye. 

“Your Grace, I hope you find Dover to your taste. It is a far stretch from Spain, for that I am certain, but it is always a pleasure to diverge from the solemn routine of Hampton’s everyday routine, am I not right?” @lainfanta