#henry tudor

[dxcstrange-stuff]

"All I mean is that you are alone in the world, and so am I."

[kate-bridgerton]

TUDOR WEEK 2024

Day 6: Favorite Tudor Couple - Elizabeth of York and Henry VII

The couple’s early years together may have been challenging, for Henry had to overcome his suspicions of his Yorkist bride and deal with her dangerous relations. Yet she clearly left him in no doubt as to where her loyalties lay. As time passed, he clearly grew to love, trust and respect her, and they seem to have become emotionally close. There survives good evidence that she loved him, and a moving account of how they comforted each other when their eldest son, Arthur, died. -- Alison Weir, Elizabeth of York: The First Tudor Queen/Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and Her World

[roselyn-artist]

And finally I could do another drawing for my project #YamiNeedsMoreClothes 😆 Yes, I know Yami uses this clothes in Duelist of the Roses, so basically is not new clothes, but I wanted to draw it and I needed an excuse! 😂 Anyway, doesn't he look handsome? 😍

[thomascromwelll]

📅Tudor Week 2024 by @dailytudors

Day 1: Favourite Tudor King Henry VII

(icon credit)

[queen-boleyn]

JACOB COLLINS-LEVY as King Henry VII The White Princess | In Bed with the Enemy

[colins-bridgerton]

"you will always be by my side?" "always"

henry tudor (vii) & elizabeth of yorke

the white princess (2017)

the spanish princess (2019)

[pascaled]

When you Watch The Tudors for the plot

[elizabethan-memes]

A common comment on Shakespeare's Richard III is that nobody wants to play Richmond because he's flat and boring.

I think an interesting way to play Richmond would be to show that he's putting on a brave face, but he's terrified. He's risking everything against a formidable and ruthless opponent. He knows he's inexperienced. He's saying all the right things, he's a good leader, but he's shitting bricks.

[medievalandfantasymelee]

THE HOT MEDIEVAL & FANTASY MEN MELEE

QUALIFYING ROUND: 5th Tilt

Edward the Black Prince, A Knight's Tale (2001) VS. King Henry VII Tudor, The Hollow Crown (2012-2016)

Propaganda

Edward the Black Prince, A Knight's Tale (2001) Portrayed by: James Purefoy

“The medieval romantic disguised royalty trope, the ridiculous but very sexy long leather coat, the cheeky sense of humour...”

King Henry VII Tudor, The Hollow Crown (2012-2016) Portrayed by: Luke Treadaway

“He makes his first appearance about an hour and twenty minutes into the two hour program, and he exists basically for the sole purpose of looking youthful and righteous, marching slowly - upright and princely on horseback - along the coastline. He looks very pretty bathed in the rosy glow of the sunset the night before battle, gets in a nice kingly speech in the morning and then, drenched and covered in mud, he wins the day. Perfection. 10/10 no notes.”

Additional Propaganda Under the Cut

Additional Propaganda

For Prince Edward:

For King Henry VII

[aelfgyvaa]

yes.

YES.

Firebrand delivering the nasty ass leg ulcer content that precisely Three (3) people give a shit about. Big day.

[illustratus]

The Battle of Bosworth by Peter Jackson

[rambleonwithrosie]

The Lancastrian casting did NOT have to go this hard in the Hollow Crown... Like excuse me who said they could make ALL the Henrys hotties?

Like y'all I was already pro-Lancaster I didn't need this kinda propaganda to seduce- I mean induce me

[athousandtales]

After the successful meeting with Henry VI, Margaret, Henry Stafford and Henry Tudor travelled to Woking. Margaret and her son spent a week together at her favourite residence, and it appears that this was treated as a holiday by them and a chance to get to know each other again. For Margaret, who had already spent a considerable time apart from her only child, such moments would have been precious, and after leaving Woking, the pair travelled slowly with Henry Stafford to Maidenhead and Henley-on-Thames before Margaret once again passed her son over to the control of his uncle. By 1471, Henry Tudor was rapidly approaching adulthood: he was already older than Margaret had been when she gave birth to him. Although it must have been a wrench for Margaret to part from her child once again, she recognised that it was time for the boy to make his way in the world and that his uncle, who had shown himself to have they boy’s best interests at heart, was, for the time being at least, the man best suited to be his guardian. (...) On 11 November, Henry bade his mother and stepfather farewell and joined his uncle Jasper. Though neither Margaret nor Henry could have known it, they would not see each other again for almost fifteen years. (x) (x)

[mary-tudor]

Henry’s politic wisdom in governance was singular, his wit always quick and ready, his reason pithy and substantial, his memory fresh and holding, his experience notable, his counsel fortunate and taken by wise deliberation, his speech gracious in diverse languages, his person goodly and amiable, his natural complexion of the purest mixture, his issue fayre and in good number; leagues and confederacies he had with all Christian princes, his mighty power was dread everywhere, not only within his realm but without also, his people were to him in as humble subjection as ever they were to king, his land many a day in peace and tranquillity, his prosperity in battle against his enemies was marvellous, his dealing in time of perils and dangers was cold and sober with great hardiness.”

—Bishop Fisher.

Furthermore, according to Amin, Henry’s reign can be summoned in the following:

“In light of the issues he had with pretenders, his hard-hitting financial policies and restrictive laws designed to curb noble power, it is often overlooked Henry assumed the throne with a serious handicap, having arrived in England a little-known, Welsh-born and Breton-raised protégé of the French regime possessing an inconsequential blood claim to the throne.

No king of England was less suited to rule the country upon their coronation than Henry, a penniless stranger to noble and commoner alike who had no experience of overseeing even a modest estate, let alone a vast and fractured kingdom.

That he was able to reach the end of his reign twenty-four years later in an insuperable position, not only the first English king to avoid overthrow since 1422, but also able to re-establish the strength, wealth, and stability of the crown in the process, was remarkable.

This was not accomplished through luck, but rather sheer hard work, meticulous attention to detail, and an iron-willed determination to outlast any and all rivals before him.”

—Amin, N. “Henry VII and the Tudor Pretenders”. Pp.342.

[ricardian-werewolf]

Take Me to War.

Chapter 1: If not to heaven, then Hand in Hand to hell.

Gwayne Hightower X Original Female Character. (slow burn, Medieval perceptions of marriage and womanhood)

Sunne in Splendour x House of the Dragon.

Word count: 3.48k words.

AN| This is the first time the author has written for Gwayne Hightower, so please be kind! The author also only has a surface level knowledge of House of the Dragon/Game of Thrones, so please be courteous when making comments or suggestions. The Author is a history student with a special interest in the Wars of the Roses and Ricardian sources, so knowledge of that period will be largely correct.

Summary:

Reeling from the battle of Bosworth Field, fifteen year old Cecily-Anne is a princess without her throne, family, or hope. Forced to play her hand with both hands tied; a seemingly mystical intercession forces her into a world that is shockingly similar to the England she knows, yet also drastically different. It is there as a mere lady in waiting, that she is forced to pick a side in a war that has been played over in her England for decades. It remains to see as to whom will come out from this "Dance of Dragons," unscathed and whole.

Tws: Brutal violence, implied sexual violence, sexism of the medieval period, religious mention, brutality.

Taglist: @lordbettany, @rmelster, @portiaadams, @mihrsuri

If you liked it, please reblog and comment! Every kind word keeps more of them coming!

Blood flecked Cecily-Anne’s face, her skirts and hands. She stared down at her palms, running them together as if she wished to clear the mess. Raising her head, she could only stare in wide-eyed horror as Henry Tudor’s sword drove its tip into her father’s chest. The crunch caused her to flinch visibly. No one had bothered to remove her from the camp, to put her into sanctuary. All of the chaos of the battle had left her here. She was supposed to have only observed the preliminary actions and then been swiftly retired to the nearby Grayfriars priory in Leicester. 

But now she stood at the hands of the most likely man next to kill her.

Or wed her. He could wait, for certes. She was only ten-and-five years, not even yet showing signs of womanhood. But to a country teetering blindly towards anarchy, this was the only movement forward to solve so many problems. However, as she shifted uneasily from foot to foot. With her skirts turning soiled with the still-warm blood of her father, Cecily remembered Elizabeth Woodeville’s many daughters. Maybe he would choose one of them, and leave her well enough alone. Maybe clemency would work with this…. Bastard of a prince?

She would refuse to bend her knees and acknowledge him as the god-chosen king. No. The rite of the crown would go to Teddy. Or passing him, Meg. She would need to make arrangements, seek out Johnny and Kathryn. They would need to know of Richard’s death.

Suddenly, a hand clenched around her upper arm and she shrieked, blindly lashing out. 

“My lady, please!” A voice hissed. Female, french sounding. Véronique de Crécy. Cecily looked up into the lady-servant’s face and caught the tears forming on her lashes. “Do not cry out. You have been granted the right of sanctuary with the nearby nunnery. They are doing this out of the mercy of your womanhood, Chérie.”

“Mercy?” Cecily hissed as Véronique dragged her from the battlefield. She could only watch silently with doe-wide eyes as her father’s corpse was stripped to the flesh. Then, it was dumped over the back of a steed. “No-” She began to scream, thrashing in her mother’s servant's arms. Another hand clamped over her lips, silencing her.

“Do not make a sound, Princess. Keep very, very quiet.” Francis Lovell hissed. “It is horrific, yes, but this is what Tudor dictates, and we must bend the knee or be slaughtered.” He effortlessly dragged her through the leagues of white-tented campsites to a waiting horse and litter. Mistress Burgh, who had tended to her since infancy, examined her skirts silently. 

“By the holy mother-” She began, then looked into Cecily-Anne’s whitened face. “Come, lovely. We must be getting you home.” 

“My F-father-” Cecily jerked her head up as she watched the white rose being put to the torch. Suddenly, the fight drained from her and she fell to her knees, the veil of her hennin swimming about her face like gossamer wings. “No, please, No!” She sobbed, wrenching off her hennin and veil with a firm tug. Her hair fell from its pins, spilling about her face.

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice sneered. “I find it most…” Cecily looked up into the face of a man who she would forever remember. Standing over her, clad in plate armour of pure silver with work of ferns and ivy was Thomas Builder, retitled Thomas Melbourne. A minor lord, he had backed her father until the end, and then revealed his hand when Tudor had taken the advantage. His eyes gleamed like emeralds in the watery sunlight shimmering overhead, and he bent down to lift her chin. 

“Unfaithful to your late Father, Princess.” His voice was velvety, meant to be soothing. But it merely made Cecily more vicious, more angered. She whacked his hand aside and bared her teeth. She raised her hand, and formed a fist. Her father’s knights who had served him now formed a Testudo around her. 

“Ah, princess.” Melbourne sneered again. “These men are traitors. They ought not rush to thy defence.”

“They shall.” Cecily rose on unsteadily feet, but squared her shoulders. The moment of grief within her was pushed down deep inside her, and she shut it away. She would not allow herself to show how much she hurt. He would not see how much she longed to lie down in the blood-splattered grass where her father had fallen, and implore God and his saints to take her too.

Please, Holy Mother, protect me from this man’s aims and evils. She prayed silently, her fingers sliding to the crucifix around her neck. Suddenly, she gasped as Melbourne parted the Testudo around her, ignoring the pike-axes grazing his cheeks. His hand snaked up and grasped hers. His eyes blazed with pure hate, and he grabbed the crucifix in hand. It did not burn him, which Cecily hoped it would. She could only sob as Melbourne yanked the chain forward, dragging Cecily along with it. She was pulled from the safety of her knights and thrown roughly to the ground. 

Around her, a cheering and jeering group of Tudors’s soldiers had gathered. At their head was Margaret Beaufort, clad in mourner’s black. Briefly, Cecily was reminded of her mother’s poisoned words against the mother of Tudor. She flashed her teeth again, snatching out a hand to grab something. But her hand was pinned under the black-metal foot of Count Adhemar’s boot.

“There she is.” He crowed as Tudor pushed through his men and raised his visor to regard her. “What a wonderful wife she would make for you, Your grace.”

“You deem him your king?!” Cecily snarled, crying out as Melbourne grabbed her hair and pulled her head back with a sickening crack. Looking up at him from below, Cecily was able to see his lengthened canines, and she shuddered in horror. It seemed as though not only was Tudor ungodly in his mortal affairs, he consorted with demons to win him victories.

She crossed herself, murmuring the lord’s prayer under her breath.

“She should be killed, Henry.” Margaret cried. “If she is not, she is a threat to your legitimacy. Any son she bears and the blood of the Yorks remains stronger than ever.” 

“There is still the matter of those two boys. Tell me-” Tudor turned now to Cecily, and stepped over her so that his legs were on either side of her hips. She looked up at him even though she couldn’t look him in the eye. Her breaths came in heavy, rapid gasps as Tudor grabbed her by the chin and lifted her head.

“Did your father kill the princes, girl?”

“No!” Cecily cried instantly.

The smack of his ringed hand to her face made Cecily cry out again. Around her, even some of Tudor’s knights were making murmurs of discontent. No one struck a princess, or made a movement against her. Yet, Cecily knew easily how vulnerable she was. With no strong woman such as her grandmother to speak in her defence, she was powerless. Véronique’s words were as good as naught.

“Then where did he put them?”

“I have no knowledge of where-” Cecily sobbed again as Tudor rained down another blow. She was saved a third as Margaret’s hand reached out and pulled Henry’s fist back. “Please, no. Do not taint your victory with such sin. God will find it distasteful.” 

Please, Holy Mother, protect me from this man’s aims and evils. 

Tudor glared at his mother and then Cecily. His thumb stroked her thrumming pulse point, and then he spat in her face. “Be glad that my lady mother raised me to be merciful. If I was not, I ought to put you in your place as you deserve, wench.”

Cecily shuddered. 

She watched with widened, fear-filled eyes as Tudor’s men departed with their king at the head. Atop Tudor’s head was the crown of King Edward, the very crown that had been affixed to her father’s helmet. A sob burned through her lungs and she pressed her knuckles to her streaming eyes. Wrapped in the spanish silks she had been gifted as part of her engagement to Joanna of Portugal’s younger cousin, Cecily-Anne Isabel Plantagenet knew that without a doubt that she was a marked woman.

As she was helped into the litter by Véronique, Cecily watched as Tudor’s men took down the White Rose of York. Her breath hitched as the Whyte Boar of Gloucester was unpinned from her father’s command tent. His squires who’d survived the battle were lined up in order of age. She watched with wide eyes devoid of all emotion as a barber surgeon and priest went about taking confession. Then, they were beheaded in front of the spot where her father had taken mass just that morn.

The battle of Redmore Plain had lasted a scant few hours, but the impact would fester for weeks. As the wheels of the litter began to turn and Cecily’s few knights fell into step beside the litter, the princess pressed a hand to her mouth and wept without shame. She clung weakly to her mother’s crucifix and the ring on her finger that had been the coronation ring of her father’s. Tudor would forge another ring, another crown; another state.

All of the work her father had done would be ashes and cinders. The North would not go quietly, which brought her some level of comfort. But their refusal to bend the knee would bite them soon enough. Sin had come over England with the miasma of plague, and it would stay thus until either the Tudors were ousted, murdered or ran out of heirs.

Pressing her hand over her eyes again, Cecily sighed deeply. 

“Write to Manuel and please inform him that the wedding is…” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Annulled. Ensure the Church knows also. I am certain they will be flooded with requests of dispensations for Tudor and whomever he chooses as his lady wife.” She looked to Véronique, who gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement.

“And you, cherie?”

“I believe I shall take a night in that nunnery you inquired for me. In the morn, we shall see where I am going. Whether it be the Tower Greene or the wilds of Bruges, I shall be excited to know.” swirling the cup of wine handed to her, Cecily drank deeply. Grief and shock had made her caustic. She would not wish to be anything other than that. As she drank more, she turned to debating in her mind how she would subvert Tudor’s wills for her execution. 

She should be killed, Henry.

She is a threat to the crown!

Was that same thing not spoken of about her Aunt Elizabeth? The very woman who had seduced her uncle to the bedchamber and made him a father to several children of health and vigour? Had that not been said of her own mother, whose wealth of lands in the north along with Aunt Isabelle set up a bloodless war between her father and mad uncle George? Had the women not birthed two sickly children for both sets of parents? Had fate not delivered her brother to God’s embrace far sooner than expected? Then a scant half-year later her own mother? 

Cecily smacked her hand against the wooden screen, and screamed low in her throat. She was well and truly alone, left to shoulder the burdens of a crown cracking more with each passing hour. The lords of London would throw the gates wide to the invaders, burn Crosby Place and Baynard’s to the ground. She would be bereft of a husband to-be, left to rot in a Court that would not place her in a position of honour. She would have to bend the knee to play favour, but her actions a few hours earlier would drive that thought from Tudor’s mind with the swiftness of a spring breeze.

Compline found Cecily-Anne kneeling before the altar of the Blessed Virgin Mary, her mother’s crucifix chain in her fingers. She had always found solace in prayer, not for the religious aspects, but the simple acts of running her fingers through the beads. The easy recitation of her prayers and catechisms soothed her. She always had a list in her mind of who to implore on behalf of the Father for His favour - the poor, sickly, needy. Her family members who suffered more than most came second. As part of her selfless devotion that some saw as frenetic, while others viewed it as a sign of true humility, Cecily wore a long veil and forgoed a prayer kneeler. Her heavy skirts of velvet and stiffened brocade did well enough. The order of Augustinian Canonesses had taken kindly to the young princess and put her at once into sanctuary. As an order of 1337 nuns confined to the limits of the priory’s property, they were over-delighted to have a guest. After supping in her rooms, Cecily had gone with the younger initiates to pray Compline before retiring. 

As she turned her face upwards to Mary’s figure with her arms spread out in a gesture of welcome and warmth, Cecily prayed to one woman only.

Her lady mother.

“Maman, I implore you. Please, let me know that I am not in vain to ask for you. Let me know that my pain is not all I shall feel. T-there is no way forward for me that I see. You always spoke to anyone who asked that I could solve my way out of any problem the Lord put before me, and now I find myself without.” Tears dripped down her face and she angrily shook her head, slamming her fist into the floor. The nuns who prayed quietly behind her stilled in their prayers at the sound of her fist. 

Cecily shot them a look and made the sign of the cross without breaking eye contact. Her devotion would be unshakable. The chapel at Middleham bore marks of her nails in the soft stone as she had poured out her grief in the days after Ned’s death. Now, she drew her nails once more down the expanse of stone. One scratch for her mother, one for her father, and another for Ned. 

“Please, Maman. I beg of you, do something. I cannot live in an England that is without the security of your light, of Father’s judgement. I can only implore the Lord for why he chooses to test me.” She bowed her head again. “I beg that Father is at peace, for some knowledge that he is safe, that he is happy to be reunited with you and Ned again. Please, do not worry for me. I am as well as I can be.” She wiped a tear from her eyes. Yet, they seemed to not stop, even as she forced herself desperately to not cry in the Lord’s house.

“Child…” The Mother Superior murmured. Cecily jerked her head away. She hated to be touched, to be perceived. She brought her hand up, to quieten the woman. The blood froze in her veins suddenly as the Mother Superior grabbed her hand, and then she heard a harsh voice that was her mother’s hiss; Open your eyes!

Cecily’s eyes flew open, and she recoiled. For where the statue of Mary had stood was now a cut. A cut in the space of the room, that through it showed… another space - a field with trees in the distance. It was unheard of. No miracle such as this had ever been written of in a canonical history or court romance. Cecily’s head jerked up and she looked at the Mother Superior. 

“D-do you see that?”

“Yes.” The Mother breathed, her hands clammy around Cecily’s. Her skin itched painfully and longed to tug her hand free. Yet Cecily stayed in that woman’s grasp as the Mother pulled herself up from a kneeling position. Cecily’s fingers instinctively closed tight around the crucifix chain and she ran it over her lips. 

“Speak to me again, Maman.” She whispered, her lips barely moving.

Go forward. The cut will not hurt you, child.

Cecily shuffled forward, her skirts swishing as she moved. Her skirts, the ones still caked with her father’s blood. The deep blue was stained a runny wine-dark purple and caked in a scent so foul that the other nearby nuns had their noses pinched. In the flickering candlelight, they looked like demons sent from the very brimstone and fires of Hell she feared. Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Cecily was half conscious of the fact that her mother never called her “Child.” Yet, the grief of so much loss…. Made her feel the exhaustion within her more sharply.

Crossing the nave before the altar, she stared up at the cut with widened eyes, and reached a hand out to touch it. Instead of the pain of burning or the cold of snow on a winter’s night, she felt merely warmth. Through the ugly gash, she could see waving grasses in a stiff breeze, and squinting, making out the forms of men waiting amongst the trees. Some of them were on horses, and she wondered if they could see her. What a shock they’d get! 

The cut will not hurt you, child. She remembered her mother’s words spoken just moments before, and looked back at the nuns. They had gathered together in a small grouping at the back of the chapel, and amongst them she saw Véronique gripping Francis Lovell’s hand tight in hers. What stilled her suddenly was the expression on Véronique’s face - pure, unadulterated fear. 

Go! Go, and do not look back, child!

Cecily’s head turned to look back at the cut and she stared once more through it, her hand still stretched out in front of her. The crucifix dangling from her hand caught the sunlight filtering through the trees, and she smelled the scent of freshly hay. Distantly, she felt as though she was back at Middleham, playing with Ned and Kathyrn and Johnny. Tears filled her eyes again and she closed them as her mind wandered. 

Yes, child. Step through. You are almost home. Just another step-

Cecily could feel the sunlight on her hands; her face, and she turned her palms upwards towards the light and warmth. Yet, suddenly, the sounds of screams filled the air. Looking down, Cecily’s face turned to horror as she stepped not on freshly cut grass but blood-stained earth. An earth-shattering roar split the air as she looked up to the sight of a dragon armed with a rider opening its maw wide. A column of liquid fire flowed from its gaping jaws and set the forest before it ablaze. The men under it, clad in deep green tunics with a silver tower were swiftly enveloped in the flames and a horrific screaming sound met her ears. Throwing her hands over her ears, Cecily turned back to look for the cut.

She found it gone. 

“MAMAN!” She screamed. “What is the meaning of this?!”

A test, child. You implored for my judgement.

“A TEST?!” Cecily shrieked. 

I am the holy mother, all who worship me are tested in some way or another at some point. This is yours. Take with it what you will.

The warmth she’d felt turned shockingly cold, and Cecily cringed back, fear filling her veins with cold sand. Around her, men screamed, crossed swords and brutally massacred one another. Stumbling blindly, she turned whatever way was quietest, and began to stumble across the battlefield that would later be called Raven’s Rock. As she reached what she hoped was a line of tents consisting of faces who would be willing to listen to her tale, something sharp and long embedded itself in her leg.

The ground tilted dangerously under her, and Cecily’s face smashed into a jagged rock. Atop the rock’s surface she felt soft lichen caress her cheek, and barely had time to fist the crucifix more tightly into her fingers. The next moment, the darkness of injury and exhaustion washed over her with the strength of a tide, and she was dragged into its swell.

Over her head, two soldiers bearing the same uniforms she’d seen earlier discussed what to do with this princess in a tongue she didn’t know. After a few moments more, a knight with ginger hair and emerald green eyes came to survey her chaining up. He took his helmet from a squire and left at once to take up arms against a foe who was merely his sister’s closest friend and the supposed former heir of the Iron Throne. The false Queen Rhaenyra had made war against Alicent Hightower’s chosen son and it was unto this war that Princess Cecily-Anne was dragged unwillingly into. A war that was set to shape a generation and dynasty had merely changed time and space, but the rules were the same - a woman’s place was not upon the battlefield. 

End of Chapter 1.