#Duchess of Burgundy

[royalty-nobility]

The Departure of the Duchess of Burgundy for the Hunt in Front of the Orangery of Versailles

Artist: Pierre-Denis Martin (French, 1663–1742)

Date: circa 1676-1700

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Museum of the History of France, Palace of Versailles

Margaret of York (3 May 1446 – 23 November 1503), also known by marriage as Margaret of Burgundy, was Duchess of Burgundy from 1468 to 1477 as the third wife of Charles the Bold, and after his death (1477) acted as a protector of the Burgundian State. She was a daughter of Richard, 3rd Duke of York, and of Cecily Neville, and the sister of two kings of England, Edward IV and Richard III. Born at Fotheringhay Castle, Northamptonshire, in the Kingdom of England, she died at Mechelen in the Low Countries.

[dreamconsumer]

Mary of Burgundy. Unknown artist.

[rmelster]

The jewels of the Count of Charolais: Isabelle de Bourbon, his countess, and their daughter, Marie.

[wonder-worker]

"[The isle of Voorne] constituted an important part of Margaret of York’s dower lands because of its financial revenues, its economic possibilities and its endless stock of salted herring. For the administration of the isle, the duchess used a number of experienced officers from her own and that of Maximilian’s household, as well as from regional and local institutions. Margaret maintained a close relationship with her administrators of Voorne; offices, emoluments and gifts were given in exchange for loyalty and service. In this way she managed to establish durable links between her court, her dower land, and the administrative apparatus in The Hague.

Margaret’s relationship with the town of Brielle was expressed through an exchange of financial and material gifts and favours. The town administration offered her and her retinue prestigious consumable goods and money. Not all gifts were donated spontaneously, but were more often than not the result of a process of negotiation: new privileges in exchange for money. At the same time the dowager could appeal to the town for financial loans which were financed by selling annuities. Brielle benefited from Margaret’s protection because it was not obliged to provide new subsidies. And yet, Margaret was not able to stop the decline of the port of Brielle that was losing ships and trade to Rotterdam and Schiedam.

However, we should be cautious when explaining the relationship between Margaret and Voorne merely in economic terms. Margaret showed sincere compassion for the poor and the needy in her town of Brielle. Although the financial implications resulting from this concern were small in comparison with gifts for her trustees or her expenditure for stained glass windows on the island, her financial controllers were very strict with her spontaneous acts of charity. There was a continuous tension between the application of financial rules and her princely urge for largesse.

The representation of Margaret in the glass windows was partly inspired by local efforts to remind the duchess of her duties. On the other hand, the iconography of the two windows in Brielle and Dirksland show that Margaret was genuinely interested in being commemorated and in being represented with her late husband. Thus Margaret contributed in a material way to the celebration of the liturgy and the maintenance of the building. At the same time she publicly showed her devotion and appealed to the citizens of Voorne to be loyal towards her."

-Mario Damen, "Charity against the odds. Margaret of York and the isle of Voorne (1477-1503)" Women at the Burgundian Court: Presence and Influence (Turnhout 2010) 

[une-sanz-pluis]

Tomb Effigy of Anne of Burgundy, Duchess of Bedford

Anne of Burgundy's tomb was commissioned by her brother, Philippe le Bon (or Philip the Good), Duke of Burgundy following the death of her husband, John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford. It was originally in the church of the Celestine monastery in Paris but was moved when the order was suppressed. It is now in the Louvre.

[awkward-sultana]

(Almost) Every Costume Per Episode + Duchess Cecily's red and gold gown in 1x03,4

[lordbettany]

Me: I am NOT going to cry over another historical fiction. Me while reading every interaction of George, Richard and Margaret:

The only scene worth watching in TWQ btw!!

[richmond-rex]

Some Tudor authors/historians have tried to reassess Margaret of York recently but I still hate this type of condescending approach:

(G. Streeter, Arthur Prince of Wales: Henry VIII's Lost Brother)

Margaret of York was as much of a political player as the monarchs and princes of her age. Why should we assign her actions to emotional reasons, only changing our stance from 'insatiable hatred' to self-delusional grief that makes her desperately cling to a nephew she only met once? For one, Margaret had a family in Burgundy (her stepdaughter Mary and her children). Most important of all, as the dowager duchess of Burgundy she was as much invested in seeing to Burgundy's interests and profits as was the duchy's regent at the time, Maximilian of Austria.

In 1493, the Milanese Ambassador in France wrote:

[The admiral] persuades the king [Charles VIII] that the emperor [Maximilian I] only wants peace in order to deceive him and set up Burgundy again. He says if [Charles VIII] gives back the daughter [Margaret of Austria] one of two evils will follow, either her father [Maximilian I] will never marry her, saying that she is the wife of his Majesty [Charles VIII], and thus make out that the king's children [with Anne of Brittany] are bastards, or they will try to make King of England the boy who calls himself the son of King Edward [Perkin Warbeck], who fled thither, and give him [Margaret of Austria] to wife, so as by his means to make perpetual war in France.

Henry VII was to be directly affected by those scenarios and at the same time he was barely involved in them (as far as his own willingness to cooperate with Burgundy went) — what even to say about Margaret of York. Thanks to France and Burgundy's own particular struggle, Maximilian needed England as a tool to hurt the king of France. For that he needed his own puppet king on the English throne, regardless if he was Edward IV's son or not. It's a complex geopolitical situation that involved elaborate schemes; schemes where Margaret of York was a (most likely willing) participant but in any case, none that had to do with Margaret's feelings about her family one way or the other.

[britneyshakespeare]

I feel bad for Margaret of York that this portrait is always used to represent her

fuck ass proportions!!!

[dontdenymeshakespeare]

The Perfect Prince

A historian I met once told me that there are two types of Tudor fans: those who go forward into the Stuarts and those go back to the Plantagenets. I am the latter. Just as I’ve been obsessed with the Tudors, I’m also obsessed with the Plantagenets. The women are strong, the men are constantly at war and the age they were living is fascinating; also there’s approximately 300 years of Plantagenet…

[thegreatyin]

exactly!!!! as it goes!!!!!!!!!!

current fallen london fandom experience feels like im standing at the corner of a party holding a sippy cup going. i thought firmament has been pretty fun and intriguing so far

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[rmelster]

Isabella, Infanta of Portugal by birth and Duchess of Burgundy by marriage. (I picture this sketch when she was at the beginning of January 1430, barely days before she married the duke)

[royaltysimblr]

The Royal Family (1836)

The family of Queen Mary II, before the births of her last two daughters, (Princess Mary & Princess Matilda in 1837 & 1840)

1. Anne Louise, Duchess of Burgundy (formerly Princess of Mannheim) - Queen Mary's paternal aunt by marriage 2. Caroline Sophie, Duchess of Rochester (formerly Princess of Kraneberg @simming-in-the-rain) - Queen Mary's mother 3. Prince Charles, Earl of Statford - Queen Mary's husband 4. Prince Charles, Prince of the Isle - Queen Mary's son and heir 5. Princess Elizabeth - Queen Mary's paternal aunt 6. Prince Edward - Queen Mary's son 7. Princess Anne - Queen Mary's daughter 8. Queen Mary II 9. Princess Charlotte - Queen Mary's daughter 10. Odette, Princess Royal - Queen Mary's eldest daughter 11. Princess Ophelia - Queen Mary's daughter 12. Prince Edmund, Duke of Burgundy - Queen Mary's cousin 13. Prince Frederick George of Burgundy - Queen Mary's cousin

[wonder-worker]

The irony of people claiming that Margaret of York supported various Pretenders against Henry VII due to her alleged undying love for Richard III is that Perkin Warbeck masqueraded as Richard of Shrewsbury, aka Edward IV's second son who had been declared illegitimate by his uncle. Supporting him would literally amount to a denial of those allegations and an invalidation of Richard III's entire claim to kingship.

It's almost as though Margaret had other reasons to challenge Henry VII. Like, idk, BURGUNDIAN INTERESTS, HER OWN ECONOMIC INTERESTS AND HER LOYALTY TO HER ADOPTED FAMILY BY MARRIAGE.

(Also, Maximilian was the one deciding Burgundian foreign policy, not Margaret, but that's another matter)

[silassinclair]

Hi!

Can I request Maddox with a darling who lives to read, maybe he catches her reading some old romance books in an abandoned house they shack up in or something like that

Btw I live your writing ♥️

As someone who loves to read I am obligated to write for this req 😤🫡 Thanks for the request tho!! Hope you like it :-)

Yandere Wild West Outlaw x Bookworm Reader

CW// Maddox is annoying, Reader being a little perv Masterlist Here!!

The new house Maddox found was lovely. It had decently okay furniture and a vast collection of old books on the shelf. It's small with only two bedrooms and one bathroom but it was charming. But what caught your interest was the big oak wood bookshelf. You couldn't even remember the last time you picked up a book. Being on the run with Maddox made time fly.

"Who would leave all these books behind? They're all in great condition." You mutter to yourself as you take a blue and purple book with gold trim off the shelf. Tracing your fingers down the spine of the hardcover novel you appreciate the craftsmanship. It was clearly expensive, something you could no longer afford. Your Dad bought you many books like these but now you were pretty much broke. You only had Maddox to rely on now.

Speaking of Maddox you had no clue where he was. Which you didn't really care, he always disturbed your peace. Cracking open the book you sit down on the loveseat and start reading. It was a romance book about a huntsman who fell in love with a duchess. The story was beautiful as it was exhilarating.

"Oh wow, you into that kinda stuff?"

You snap the book shut instantly, a mini cloud of dust poofs from the pages. Maddox chuckles huskily behind you, leaning down and resting his chin on the back of the loveseat.

"Oh don't be embarrassed princess, it was getting to the good part. What did it say again? Oh! Ahem-"

Maddox coughs into his hand and smirks. Deepening his voice he quotes the passage in a deep, British-like accent,

"He caresses the duchess' milky thighs, her womb felt of silk wrapped around his ma-"

"OH HUSH!" You whip around and smack the outlaw's head, his hat nearly flying off. But he only laughs at your flustered state.

"You're filthy." You groan and put the book back on the shelf where it was. But Maddox follows behind you and takes the book into his own hands and opens it up. Skimming through the pages he smirks.

"I'm filthy? Sweetheart you're the one readin' this junk." Maddox shuts the book and puts it back. Putting his hand up on the shelf he leans against it while looking down at your shorter self.

"Well it is a romance book." Rolling your eyes you choose a different book. This time you pick a title you're familiar with, Pride and Prejudice.

"Now leave me alone you brute. I'd like to relax for once." With that you walk away and go outside. Finding a nice tree you sit beneath it and read the book. Reading reminded you of home, the home that was ripped from you. In a way it was escapism which is unhealthy but a girl can dream right?

Hours pass and the sun begins to set, casting an orange glow across the cloudy sky. The words on the page become harder to read as the sun sinks lower and the moon rises. You didn't want it to end. You know you could read inside but that damn outlaw was inside. You just wanted to stay out here forever with the natural ambience of wind and birds.

Footsteps approach you and you already know who it is. Looking up you see him. Black denim jeans, a burgundy vest, twin revolvers around his waist, and a dark brown cowboy hat on his head. And of course that bandana covering the bottom half of his face. Anytime you asked him about his face he got ticked off so you avoided the subject. But you couldn't help but be curious.

"You're starin' sweetheart." His husky voice breaks the silence. There’s a hint of a Spanish accent mixed in with his Southern drawl. You can't help but think about what it would be like if you and him met under different circumstances. Would he save you from bandits? Offer to buy you a drink at the saloon?

Would you two have a storybook romance just like in the books you adore?

"Hey."

He's right in front of you now, crouched to your height. His gloved hand pets your hair and you're frozen. He has you in a trance that you make no effort to free yourself from. His dark amber eyes are crinkled in slight concern over your unusual silence.

"What..?" You say softly.

"It's gettin' dark. Unless you wanna be dinner for the coyotes then I suggest comin' back in. I'll cook up some beans so hurry your little bum up."

Well there goes the moment. You groan and get up off the grass, your back cracking as you stretch. Your eyes watch as Maddox walks back into the house. His hips sway as he walks, you never really payed attention to that before. His ass looks pretty round in those pants to-

"Ugh, what is wrong with me.." Groaning, you follow after him.