#otp: my derlyng is a bundel of myrre to me

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For the WIP ask: cough.

Here's a bit from the novelthing, shortly after Richard's first meeting with Anne:

The whole thing is terribly unromantic, but then, Anne had a cold when he met her, and it doesn’t seem to have adversely affected his inability to get her face out of his mind. He writes to her, over Christmas, when he isn’t coughing, trying not to cough during the Christmas festivities, drinking hot spiced wine, or tossing about in bed in a fruitless search for a position that relieves the general achiness.

(P.S. He caught Anne's cold from smooching because of course he did)

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Even though it is not my fandom, I feel I HAVE to ask you about "two sickos one body". If someone already has, hmm, "kynd is come of love, love to crave"?

You are the first person to send me an ask for this meme!

"kynd is come of love, love to crave" is the official title of the Brundage flowchart fic, with which I know you are already familiar (for those who are not, I will put the tag for it on the post, but it was inspired by the infamous flowchart of all the things medieval people supposedly weren't allowed to do during sex).

"two sickos one body" is a fic where Faustus decides to let Mephistopheles indulge his curiosity about human physical experiences of various types (and his own curiosity about demons) by allowing Mephistopheles to possess him. It actually starts off pretty well. It ends spectacularly badly.

(Today's Sunday snippet post is from that fic)

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sunday snippet (OT3 in training edition)

Forgot to post a Sunday snippet last week so here's a longish one for today. This is set fairly early on in Richard and Anne's marriage, after she's found out about Richard and Robert but also after they've begun working things out. I don't think I've posted it before, at least. I haven't been writing much lately because I've been completely caught up in job-hunting stuff.

--

Richard hasn’t spent much time alone with Robert since Anne caught them together; he doesn’t want to break things off entirely, and he misses Robert terribly, but he doesn’t want to hurt Anne either, and Anne has not been very clear about her feelings regarding their continued association, even as friends and brothers-in-arms. The three of them have all spent time together, enjoying hunting and hawking and the occasional private supper, but with things still so unsettled, Richard and Robert have both been shy of one another.

Which is why it’s such a great surprise when Richard comes to pay Anne a visit in their private garden, which she has taken to very quickly and where she will sometimes relax after dinner, and finds her walking arm in arm with Robert while a few of her ladies trail behind them, their veils fluttering behind them in the warm breeze. One of them calls out something in their native language and motions to Anne, who takes Robert’s arm and turns him in Richard’s direction. Robert actually pales as he bows, but Anne is beaming as she curtsies.

“If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world!” Richard exclaims, taking Anne’s hand and kissing it. “I hope you haven’t frightened Robert too badly.”

Anne smiles up at Robert. “I think he will recover.” She offers her hand for him to kiss as well. “Will you, my lord of Oxford?”

Robert bows gallantly and raises it to his lips. “If your Highness bids me,” he says.

“I do, my lord,” Anne says. “Will you come hawking with us tomorrow? My lord of Cambridge and his lady gave me a new falcon, and my lord husband says you are skilled in falconry.”

“Of course,” Robert says. “At his Highness’ pleasure.”

Richard smiles. “Always,” he says.

“If my lord will grant it,” Anne says, turning to Richard, “I will take my leave now—I would like to rest, and I have letters from petitioners to look over.”

“Of course,” Richard says. “I’ll see you at supper.”

“Come see me after?” Anne says, her eyes warmly hopeful, and Richard’s heart flutters.

“Whenever you wish,” he says.

Anne’s cheeks go just a little pink. She stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and when Richard bends in, she whispers, “Try to behave yourselves.” But when Richard looks at her face again, she is smiling. “Good afternoon, my lord of Oxford,” she says, and sweeps out of the garden, her ladies behind her. Agnes gives Robert a wry smile and a pat on the arm on her way past, though if she means to flirt with him, Richard doesn’t think she’ll have much luck.

Robert, impervious to Agnes’ affections, sinks onto the stone bench nearby, his expression dazed. “What just happened?” he says.

“Don’t ask me,” Richard says. “I just got here. But I’d guess that Anne likes you.” He smiles. “It looks like at least one of her ladies likes you,” he adds, elbowing Robert hard enough to be teasing but softly enough to still be friendly.

“I didn’t notice,” Robert says. “About her ladies, anyway. But—Diccon, is she all right with us now? After everything?”

Richard’s cheeks flush a little. “Maybe?” he says. “I haven’t had the heart to ask her about the specifics. She was so hurt, Robin—she was afraid I’d never really loved her—”

“Well,” Robert says, “I hope I’ve set her straight for you. She seems like a bright girl, but if she can’t see what’s in front of her—I mean, you’ve talked about practically nothing else since she arrived.”

Richard covers Robert’s hand with his own. “That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you,” he says. “I’ve loved you since before I even knew what that meant. That hasn’t changed, Robin. I asked Anne to trust me, before. I need you to trust me, too.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Robert says. “I just don’t know how long we can keep this up, now that you’re married. Or how long the Queen will tolerate it.”

“It will help if you get to know her better,” Richard says. “What did she tell you?”

“That she knew I’d lain with you,” Robert says. “I’m surprised she’d even heard that that was possible. Maybe she’s heard the Wycliffites grumbling about it. They seem to like her.”

Richard huffs a little, dislodging a pebble from the ground with his toe and watching it skitter across the garden path. “She could have learned about it from us, you know. And shut up about the Wycliffites. She’s not a heretic.”

“No, I suppose not,” Robert says.

“She just asked you about us, just like that?”

Robert smirks. “I mean, we didn’t get into the specifics of it. Though maybe she would have enjoyed knowing, who can say? But she wanted me to know that she knows, I think.” He looks down at his shoes, reaches down, plucks a daisy and sticks it in Richard’s hair. “She could destroy us, you know. Like your great-grandmother did to your great-grandfather. It’s not as though there aren’t people who’d want front-row seats if I ever got myself disemboweled. And yet—I don’t think she will.”

“Anne is nothing like my great-grandmother,” Richard says. “Nothing at all. I told you, back when we were first married: she wants to love you, as I do.”

“That’s exactly what she told me,” Robert says. “That I am beloved of you, and that through her love for you, she must also love me.” He shakes his head, baffled. “She’s not what I expected, Richard. I didn’t know wives could be quite like that.” He shrugs, then, and gives a little snort. “Mine certainly isn’t.”

Richard makes a little noise that’s meant to be a laugh but doesn’t get there. “How do you even know that?” he says. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“It was—” Robert pauses. “A while ago? I don’t know. I don’t especially want to talk about it.”

He is the one who brought Philippa up in the first place, but Richard lets that pass. “I’m just saying,” he says. “Being married actually isn’t bad at all, you know. I’m sure you and Philippa could also work something out, while I work things out with Anne.” He nudges Robert again, grinning. “You know, before Agnes gets her hopes up too much.”

“What are you talking about?” Robert says.

“Anne’s lady-in-waiting—the blonde one, with freckles. I think she likes you.” Richard grins. “Clearly a woman of discriminating taste.” He leans over and kisses Robert, quickly, on the lips. “She can’t have you, though.”

Robert laughs. “I told you,” he says. “I’m a King’s man, through and through.”

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sunday snippet (we two alone will sing like birds i'the cage edition)

Ended up taking the week off from writing because three days of final rehearsals and a concert (and also a job interview) was pretty demanding. I've still got plenty of content, though, so here's a bit from the tail end of the appellant crisis drama llama dinner party (seen previously in this space).

--

Richard sighs and buries his face in his hands. “Is this it, then?” he says. “Are you going to let them depose me?”

Neither Henry nor Mowbray answers. Richard can hear Anne’s sharp intake of breath, beside him; she takes his hand and clasps it in both of hers.

“My lord of Derby,” she says. “My lord of Nottingham. My husband cannot ask you this. He is the King, and he has his pride. But I beseech you. I beg you. Do not proceed in this. For his sake, but also, for your own. For the sake of both of your souls.”

Henry and Mowbray exchange a long glance. “I can’t promise they’ll listen to us,” Henry says. “Well, Warwick might. He’s not as committed to deposing you as the other two. You probably have him to thank for the fact that you’re on the throne now.”

“If three of us oppose it…” Mowbray begins. He breaks off, leans back, drinks some wine. “They’ll still expect you to make concessions in the next parliament,” he says. “And they’ll expect you to be there.”

Henry nods emphatically. “No haring off around the country because you can’t be bothered to govern.”

Richard grits his teeth. Anne presses his hand tightly between hers, and after another moment, he says, “All right. Tell them I’m willing to listen. But remind them—” He swallows, for the next thing he has to say is a bitter pill. “Remind them that whatever they do, they will have to answer it when your father returns.”

Henry has that puckered expression again. It may or may not be a good sign. Richard looks at Anne, who is watching Henry and Mowbray intently. Her face looks pale and strained; he is fairly sure he looks the same.

“We’ll talk to them,” Henry says, finally. “But don’t think you’re out of trouble, even if you stay on the throne.”

Richard squeezes his eyes closed, wishing more than anything he could punch Henry right in his stupid sanctimonious face. As if he knows anything about governing—as if he would do any better with half a dozen uncles and the English nobility breathing down his neck all the time because they don’t approve of his friends. He thinks he’s better than Richard because he’s won one battle that was hardly even a battle, and because he has two sons and Richard has none, as if that’s enough to make someone a king. He would go mad within days if he ever tried it.

Instead of saying any of this aloud, he says, “I am grateful, cousin. I will try to govern better henceforth.”

“We’ll see about that,” Henry says.

When supper is over and they have gone, and the servants have cleared the table, Richard remains in his seat, staring past the door as if he could somehow follow them as they report back to Gloucester and Arundel. Not that he has any desire to see Gloucester and Arundel at the moment. He slumps forward, burying his face in his hands.

Anne’s arms wrap around his shoulders, then, and he can feel her press her cheek to his hair and smell her faint scent of orangewater and rosemary. She has been magnificent tonight—Richard half believes that she could make even Gloucester see reason. No wonder they refused to admit her to the meeting.

“Come on, miláčku,” she says. “We should pray, and drink some wine, and go to bed. You barely slept last night.”

Richard opens his eyes, takes her hand, and showers it with kisses. Then he turns in her arms and leans up to kiss her lips. “You’re right, of course,” he says. “You were wonderful tonight, you know. You make me think that perhaps God doesn’t mean to cast me down entirely.”

Anne smiles down at him. “I am your queen, and your wife, and it is my duty and my calling to support you—but most of all, I love you,” she says. “I only hope it will be enough.”

“I can’t believe our safety now depends on Henry Bolingbroke’s fear of his father,” Richard says. “I’ll write to him in Spain as soon as I can. Gaunt will be over the moon about how badly things have gone for me without him, I expect. Maybe he’ll just wait for them to have me killed so he can take the throne for himself when he gets back. I suppose that at least whatever he does to Gloucester will ease my pains in Purgatory.”

“Do not speak that way, my love,” Anne says. “You will not see Purgatory for many years, if it is in my power.” Her brow furrows and she shakes her head impatiently. “I cannot believe their impudence,” she adds. “They have no right to treat you this way.”

Richard’s lips twist into a sad smile, and he rises to his feet and embraces her. “No,” he says. “They don’t.”

“Are you all right?” Anne says, reaching up to caress his face. “This has been hard enough for me. I cannot imagine how hard it is for you.”

“When you are at my side, I feel like I can fight this,” he says.

“You will,” Anne says, smiling at him. “And I will stay by your side, and fight it with you.”

She stays by his side that night, and throughout the next day. It is almost peaceful—indeed, it is peaceful, except for the part where a coalition of five noblemen is elsewhere in the Tower determining their fate. They stay in bed well into the morning; it is a cold day and the snow lies thickly on the ground and on the walls and windowsills. Richard has moments when he thinks that perhaps being imprisoned for the rest of his life wouldn’t be so bad, if he were allowed to stay with Anne. They could keep them in the little manor house he’s had built for the two of them at Sheen, on an island in the Thames. It’s almost completed, after four years of construction, a private retreat for the two of them. Richard thinks he could live out his life quietly there, with Anne, and let Gloucester and Henry and the others bear the burdens of kingship. The people would come to hate them soon enough.

He knows, though, that it is only a fantasy. Deposed kings don’t get to live out their lives in peace in beautifully furnished manors. His great-grandfather had died in agony in a dungeon. They say you can still hear his screams when you go there. Why would Gloucester and Arundel show him more mercy than that?

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YES

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sunday snippet (the translation filter goes boink edition)

Just a short one today, but I thought this was cute. Before we take a bit of a turn into angst and drama when Robert gets back to court (he’s been away while Richard and Anne are off on progress, but Richard misses him and Anne has suggested that Richard invite him back). I tend to bring up “miluji tě” at important points so I’m introducing it here. 

(Richard’s pronunciation is not very good, btw: he says “teh” but “tě” is more like “tyeh.” But it’s his first time so I’m cutting him a break.)

--

“I’m sure Robert will come to love you, too, once we’ve all adjusted,” Richard says. “I can’t imagine there’s anyone who wouldn’t. It’s been six months and I love you more every day.”

Anne’s cheeks flush a beautiful pink, and she leans in to kiss him. “I love you more every day, too,” she says. “How do you say that in English?”

“Je t’aime?” Richard says. “In English, you say ‘I love you.’”

“‘I love you,’” Anne repeats back, very carefully. “I am speaking English!” She beams at him. “It is funny how much like German it is,” she adds. “Perhaps it will not be so hard to learn English after all. It is just—” She bites her lip, and stifles a giggle. “Everything else is so distracting right now. Not that I want you to stop distracting me.”

“How would you say it in German, then?” Richard says.

Anne smiles. “‘Ich liebe dich,’” she says. “And I do.”

“I know,” Richard says. “‘Ich liebe dich,’” he repeats. “It sounds almost like Kentish people would say it,” he adds, grinning.

“Kent is…where Leeds Castle is, is it not?” Anne says. “Where we met.”

“It is,” Richard says. “One of the best moments of my life.”

“And mine, too,” Anne says, leaning in to kiss him on the lips again.

“So how do you say ‘I love you’ in Bohemian?” Richard asks. “I want to be able to tell you I love you in all your languages.”

Anne’s cheeks are positively glowing pink now. “In Bohemian,” she says, “it is ‘Miluji tě.’”

“‘Mee-loo-yee teh?’” Richard repeats. The syllables are heavy on his tongue, like when he was a boy and could barely speak without stammering—the Bohemian language feels nothing like English or French, or even German. He is a little amazed that Anne grew up speaking this way.

“That is not too bad,” Anne says, grinning proudly. “I will have to teach you more—later. Right now, I think I would rather kiss you.”

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sunday snippet

So I’ve been working on Richard’s confrontation with the Lords Appellant in the Tower after Christmas of 1387, and one thing that’s surprised me a lot is how Richard’s been handling it. I think the narrative that Richard did essentially cease to rule for a few days after the meeting is basically accurate—obviously he wasn’t formally deposed because that requires more actions than the Appellants were able to take, and in my depiction of the meeting it ends on a note of “we’re gonna put you under house arrest while we decide what we’re going to do, but don’t be surprised when we overthrow you.” But the surprising part is that, while I expected Richard to have a breakdown once he got out of the meeting, he’s actually gone into strategy mode. I’ve been setting up the faultlines within the appellant coalition, and Richard is very aware of them. The meeting with Bolingbroke and Mowbray he mentions in this scene actually did happen and is attested by Walsingham and Knighton (although I don’t think either one has both men present, but hey. Dramatic license). So that’s gonna be fun and awkward but it’s gonna work.

Anyway, having Richard put up more of a fight in 1387 allows for a nice contrast with his actual deposition in 1399: I think he feels, at this point, that he has more to fight for. Anne is still alive, after all, and is an important part of his strategy here (which is why the appellants bar her from their meeting with Richard). Plus, and this is an extremely important point, the Merciless Parliament hasn’t happened yet and that’s where the trauma REALLY kicks in. 

--

Anne is sitting by the fire, when Richard arrives with the guards beside him, a half-embroidered strip of linen in her lap, which she pokes at absently with her needle as she stares into the flames; she has even uncovered her hair, but when she hears the door open, she starts, dropping her needle and scrambling to pin her veil back on before the guards see her. A look of relief passes across her features when she sees Richard, followed by a look of concern—and then, as soon as the door is closed behind him and the guards are out of sight, she leaps to her feet and runs to him, throwing her arms around him, and Richard wraps his arms around her and presses her close.

After a long moment, she draws back far enough to clasp his face with both hands. “Are you all right?” she breathes.

“I don’t know,” Richard admits, and shakes his head. “They let me stay here with you, at least.”

“What happened?” Anne says. “Did you get them to see reason? They are not going to depose you, are they? They cannot, surely—”

“I don’t know, Anne,” Richard says. “Thomas and Arundel, at least, are utterly merciless. I believe Thomas wants to make himself king.”

“Pane Bože,” Anne moans, pressing her hands to her mouth. “He cannot—if he does not fear his king, surely—” She shakes her head, in turn. “If we could only get a message to John of Gaunt in time,” she says. “I know you do not trust him, but if they waited until he was away…”

“Right now, I would be willing to cast myself on his mercies,” Richard says, “rather than Thomas’s. Or, God forbid, Arundel’s. It would never get to Spain in time, though.”

“Do you think they would see me?” Anne says. “Even if they would not let me stay by your side, they might hear me out—you could not plead for mercy, as a king. But as a queen—as a woman—it is what I was made for. If I could speak to Thomas—perhaps he would listen? I know being around you makes him furious, but if I spoke to him alone, he might be calmer.”

“I don’t know,” Richard says. “He does seem to like you well enough. Remember what I told you the first time we met? He has a soft spot for pretty girls.”

For a moment, Anne beams; then, remembering the gravity of their situation, she is somber again. “I will write to him and ask for a meeting,” she says. “Right away.” She turns toward the little table in the room but stops when Richard lays a hand on her shoulder.

“You may be able to do better than that,” Richard says. With his hand on her back, he walks her back to the settle to sit by the fire. It is, after all, a cold evening. “Do you think you could convince Henry Bolingbroke and Thomas Mowbray to listen to you?”

Anne smiles again. “I think they would be easier to persuade than Thomas,” she says. “But do you think they would be able to convince Thomas of anything? Or Arundel?”

“I’m not sure,” Richard admits. “But they’re the ones having supper with us tonight, so right now they’re our best chance.”

“They are having supper with us?” Anne blinks and immediately begins adjusting her veil again.

“Not for a few hours,” Richard says. “Before compline. You’ll have plenty of time to get ready.”

“All right,” Anne says, running her hands over her head anyway to smooth the wrinkles in her veil, and not having much success. “How did you get them to agree to meet with us? I am amazed that Thomas and Arundel allowed it!”

“To be honest,” Richard says, “I am too. But I think that’s why the two of them decided to come, and I think that’s our best hope of getting out of this.”  

Anne nods, but her eyes are wide and her expression is confused. “What do you mean?”

“I said before that I think Thomas wants to make himself king,” Richard says. “Despite the fact that the Mortimers, Henry, York and his sons, and, worst of all, John of Gaunt, are all ahead of him in the line of succession. He kept hinting at it throughout the meeting. And Henry definitely noticed. He may not care what happens to us, but I think he’ll be damned before he sees Thomas of Woodstock sitting on the throne. And I don’t think he’ll seize the throne for himself, no matter how badly he wants it. Not while his father lives.”

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sunday snippet (sex and candy edition)

(There’s not really any sex except for two sentences at the end that aren’t explicit)

Having finished drafting Richard’s coronation scene, I thought I’d go back and work on Anne’s while I still have the Liber Regalis pdf out. Not that I used it at all for this particular scene. 

On a somewhat related note: I’m a big fan of Christopher Monk’s “Modern Medieval Cuisine” blog, in which he’s cooking his way through the Forme of Cury in preparation for a book about it, and the most recent blog post (which is about candy, hence the connection) actually concludes with a bit of what I’m just gonna call NOVELTHING FANFIC.

--

It has been dark for hours when Anne is finally finished with the banqueting, and when Richard comes to her chamber she has been dressed for bed and is sitting on the bed with two of her ladies, the tall thin one with sandy hair and the shorter one with black curls (Richard is still working on learning their names). All three of them are giggling, eating comfits and sipping wine. Clearly, she’s feeling better than he did after his own coronation, a good sign certainly. The ladies both leap to their feet, curtsying, and Richard motions to them to straighten up. Anne says something to them in their language—they all giggle some more, and the two ladies curtsy to Anne as well before leaving the chamber.

“Agnes and Margaret have been teasing me since the day of our wedding,” Anne says, picking up the bowl of comfits and patting the mattress invitingly. “But they will get married eventually and then they will see.” She grins brightly as Richard sits beside her, and feeds him a piece of candied ginger; the sweet spicy heat makes his eyes water. “Their husbands will not be quite so wonderful as mine, though,” she adds, and draws him in to kiss his lips.

Richard laughs. “I’ll find someone nice to introduce them to.” He reaches into the bowl of comfits to snag a few more—a few cinnamon pastilles and a piece of candied orange peel. “I’m glad to see you still have an appetite,” he says. “After my own coronation I thought I’d never want to eat again. I couldn’t even look at the after-dinner sweets!”

“Poor Richard,” Anne says, reaching for a sugared almond. “Thank you for coming to see me today.” She wriggles closer to him, and he wraps an arm around her as she smiles up at him. “It was a little frightening—I know why you could not come properly, but I knew you were there and that made it much easier.”

“You looked radiant,” Richard says, giving her a tight squeeze and kissing her hair. They have been married for only two days, and already it feels perfectly natural, snuggling in bed with his new wife, relaxing and eating comfits and talking about their day, even when the day involves a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Anne leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder and putting the bowl down to drape an arm around his waist. “It was frightening,” she says, “but it was also exciting. I do not know how it is for boys, and of course it is different when you are the heir to the throne, but if you are one of several sisters, you are hardly ever the center of attention. Unless someone is asking for your hand, and that does not come with a feast most of the time, and if it does you spend it worrying about not being good enough, and whether you are going to marry someone you will actually like. But now that is all over with, and I have found a wonderful husband, and I am a queen.” She looks up at him with a grin, and adds, “I think I liked it.”

Richard grins back at her. “You deserve to be the center of attention,” he says. “You certainly have mine.” He picks up the comfit bowl and feeds her a piece of candied orange peel; she takes it delicately in her mouth and captures his fingertips between her lips for a moment. Richard can feel himself flush, but in a nice way.

“You are sweet,” Anne says. “Sweeter than anything in this bowl.” She reaches up to draw him into a kiss.

“Do you know what part of the coronation ceremony I especially liked?” Richard murmurs. Anne shakes her head with an anticipatory smile. “I liked the part where he talked about the chastity of royal wedlock, or whatever it was.”

Anne giggles. “It is almost as holy as being a virgin,” she says. “My saintly ancestors will have no reason to be ashamed of me.” She rests her head on his shoulder again and cuddles close to him. “I think lying together in holy matrimony must be like a sacrament itself,” she says. “When I am close to you, I know I am close to God as well.” She stifles a yawn, without much success. “I would like to sleep a little, first, though. Before we make love. If that is all right with you?”

Richard smiles and presses a kiss to her forehead. He can smell the chrism in her hair. “Anne,” he says, “when I was crowned, Sir Simon had to carry me out of the church, and then they delayed the banquet so I could sleep. And then I threw up at the end of the night. I’m amazed by your stamina as it is.”

Anne giggles sleepily. “You were just a little boy, though,” she says. “And a king. I am sure the ceremonies are much longer for kings than they are for queens.”

“Oh, probably,” Richard says. “But if you need rest, you need rest.” He kisses Anne’s forehead again, collects the comfit bowl and puts it on the table, and then climbs back into bed to wrap his arms around her.

Later that night, between first and second sleep, Anne kisses him awake, and then climbs on top of him. They do it again in the morning.

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Kiss for the words?

Going with the sequel to the Anne Survives the Plague fic because all my other WIPs have a lot of kissing in them and we'd be here all night, whereas this one has a small handful of uses and they're all in this one passage:

"Good afternoon, Harry," he says, ruffling Hal’s hair before taking the Queen's hand and kissing it as he sits beside her. "I see you’ve been taking good care of my wife."

Hal feels his cheeks go warm, but the Queen just beams at him before turning back to her husband. "Very much so," she says, and then Hal's cheeks flush even hotter because the King and Queen are kissing right in front of him. He looks very intensely at his shoes for a moment, trying to remember if he'd ever seen his parents kiss—his father doesn't seem like the kissing type, although Hal supposes he must have been, since he has five brothers and sisters and he is pretty sure that that involves kissing at some point.

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wip wednesday (bohemian rhapsody edition)

I’m letting the Peasants’ Revolt section sit in the fridge for a bit to let the flavors meld, and also I felt like writing some Richard/Anne content, so here, have some. I think I already have more Czech cultural references than any other fictional depiction of Anne of Bohemia ever. The story she tells here is pretty accurate to the most famous version of the legend (as told by Alois Jirásek in 1894), because idk where to find the text of Cosmas of Prague’s Chronica Boemorum, which is more period-appropriate. Anyway, it’s framed here for maximum foreshadowing. You’ll know it when you see it.

--

Richard has not been to Nottingham in some time, but he has always enjoyed residing there: the magnificent deer park beside the castle, with its beautiful forests and orchards, plentiful deer, fishing ponds, falconry, and rabbit warren, is one of his favorite places. He’s been eager to visit with Anne, who is still learning the realm in their second year of marriage. Since the happy resolution of last summer’s tumultuous events, hunting and falconry have been a way for the two of them to spend time with Robert, and for Anne and Robert to grow closer to one another. Anne has shown a particular love for falconry—after all, she is, Richard had teased her, an imperial eagle. Last summer, the Duke and Duchess of York had given her the gift of a beautiful female merlin, which she had given the unusual (as far as he understood things) name of Libuše.

“She was my ancestor,” Anne had explained, when Richard asked her about it. “She was a queen, back in the pagan days, and she built the city of Prague. She was the youngest of three daughters, but her father chose her as his heir, because she was also the wisest, and she could see visions of the future. She was especially skilled at settling disputes in court. But her subjects grew angry. One man who had lost his court case stirred them up against her. He said that women cannot reason, that the people needed a strong man to rule them, and many other men agreed with him. They did not want to be ruled by a woman any longer. They insisted that she marry. But Libuše did not want these men to tell her what to do. It made her angry that they objected to her compassionate rule, and all because of her sex. So she insisted on choosing her own husband, and she had fallen in love with a plowman called Přemysl.”

“She married down!” Richard exclaimed. “Like the Emperor’s daughter who married the King of England, I suppose,” he teased her.

Anne giggled, then. “She married for love,” she said. “But Libuše knew that one day her husband would become a stern ruler, who treated his people harshly. She had the gift of prophecy, remember. If that was what they wanted, she thought, they could have it! So she told them to saddle her horse, and let it wander until it found a man plowing his fields, wearing a broken sandal, and bring him to her, for she would marry only that man. Of course, she already knew where to find him, and her horse did too. But her council did not know that. They did as she told them, and her horse went straight to Přemysl. So they brought him back as Libuše had ordered, and they were married. And the house of Přemysl—my father’s house—endures to this day.”

Richard smiled. “Bohemian women have always been remarkable, I see,” he said. “What happened to the two of them?”

“Eventually, she died,” Anne said, “but she had been right. She and Přemysl had ruled well for many years. But after she died, he became the stern and harsh ruler she had prophesied.”

“It’s a sad story, then,” Richard said. “He must have loved her so much—perhaps he couldn’t rule well without her.” He’d smiled, and kissed Anne. “They were your ancestors, you say? I think you must take after her.” And Anne had giggled and kissed him back.

[shredsandpatches]

I mean that's canon for my otp anyway so I write them a lot of fix-its too, but this is absolutely defensible.

i’ll reblog with the link once it’s done but i thought y’all would want to know i am back on my bullshit

[shredsandpatches]

wip wednesday (this bit kinda has my name in it edition)

Here’s a bit from earlier in Anne’s coronation sequence. Anne was crowned in Westminster Abbey two days after her wedding to Richard, which is why Richard’s POV here is so intensely starry-eyed (and horny). It’s all still really new to them.

It was standard practice in the Middle Ages for kings not to attend their wives’ coronations unless the two of them were being crowned together, although the Liber Regalis does contain instructions for what to do if he does want to attend. The idea, though, is that having him there would pull the focus (I have Sir Simon Burley explain this in an earlier sequence). Henry VII and Margaret Beaufort attended Elizabeth of York’s coronation in a sort of officially-unofficial way behind a curtain (I learned this from @feuillesmortes) but since nobody wrote any detailed accounts of Anne of Bohemia’s coronation, preferring to grumble about her appearance, stature, and lack of dowry, I just stuck Richard in the galleries instead.  

--

The galleries in Westminster Abbey are very high up, enough that it makes Richard a little dizzy. He can see right down into the shrine of Edward the Confessor, although he tries not to look directly down, as it makes his head spin when he tries it, and the monk that Abbot Litlyngton has sent to accompany him (and probably to keep him from doing or saying anything too conspicuous, or embarrassing) puts a nervous hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“I’d stand back a little, if I were you, your Highness,” the monk says, and Richard nods a little unsteadily. It’s good advice, after all. Below, the Abbey glitters in the candlelight; Richard wonders if all the candles have made it any warmer. Upstairs, it is cold enough that Richard can see his breath.

But then the great west gates open and the procession is approaching and Richard forgets to be cold. First comes Edmund Langley, bearing the scepter, and John of Gaunt, bearing the crown, and then Anne comes into the church, escorted by Archbishop Courtenay and Bishop Braybrooke, as the barons of the Cinque Ports carefully withdraw the golden canopy they have borne over her head between the palace and the Abbey. She looks tiny, from so far away, in her purple robes with her hair falling down her back in golden-brown waves held in place by a jeweled circlet, but her very presence fills the whole nave with light and warmth.

The procession stops at the entrance to the church, and Archbishop Courtenay holds up his hands to pray over Anne.

“Omnipotens sempiterne Deus, fons et origo totius bonitatis...”

He prays that God will bless and protect Anne, and that, like the holy women Sarah and Leah and Rachel and Rebecca, she will rejoice in the fruit of her womb. Even from this height, and this distance, Richard can sense that Anne is blushing now. His own face is blazing—he remembers what Anne had said, yesterday morning. We are blessed, she had said, and he had been amazed. I think God must have meant me for you, she had also said, and Richard has no doubt that she is right. When they come together tonight to celebrate Anne’s coronation, it will also be blessed.

He probably shouldn’t think too much about it right now, though.  

Below him, the two bishops are leading Anne down the long nave through the choir to the altar, which has been prepared with a pile of carpets and cushions. Anne kneels down upon these, very carefully, her hair and her purple robes flowing around her. She smooths her skirts carefully over her thighs and then raises her eyes���when her gaze falls upon Richard, beaming down on her from the galleries, she rewards him with a smile that is so radiant Richard feels he might weep. He presses his fingers to his lips and risks holding them out over the railing towards her, just for a moment, as she smiles up at him, and then she lies prostrate on the cushions and Archbishop Courtenay stands over her and blocks his view.

“Deus qui solus habes immortalitatem…” the archbishop intones. Richard is startled into unchurchly amusement when Archbishop Courtenay reaches the words proximam virginitati palmam continere queat—that she may hold the palm next to that of virginity, the heavenly reward of the faithful wife—and while Richard cannot see Anne’s face, he is certain her eyes are full of mirth. He can see her rosy-cheeked smile in his mind’s eye. Now I want to do this every night for the rest of my life, she had told him yesterday. They have just prayed for her fertility, after all. Richard smiles to himself—they have both been doing their part, and they have every intention of doing their part some more tonight, if Anne isn’t too tired after the banquet. Richard’s face is now very warm even in the cold church, and he is uncomfortably aware that if he keeps thinking along these lines he is going to embarrass himself quite severely, and in the church too. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and bites his lip.

When Archbishop Courtenay has finished praying, Anne, with the support of two of the bishops, raises herself to her knees, and four noblewomen come to the altar bearing a golden canopy. Richard feels a sudden shiver, remembering his own anointing, years ago, how the air seemed to shimmer in the summer heat and the scent of the holy oil and chrism overwhelmed him. From here, he can barely smell it.

If Richard can trust his memory of time—and he’s not certain he can—it takes much less time for Anne to be anointed. He vaguely recalls that queens are not anointed in as many places as kings are. Anne is also not called upon to divest herself of her robes, which, given where Richard’s mind has persisted in going, is probably for the best. Then, almost before he knows it, the canopy is being moved away and Anne is visible again. Richard remembers wondering if he seemed different, when they took the canopy away. He had felt different. He wonders if Anne feels different. When Archbishop Courtenay has finished saying a short prayer over her, he steps aside to signal for the regalia. Anne looks up toward the galleries again, her face flushed and her eyes shining. Richard has to admit that she doesn’t look different, but he wouldn’t want her to look any different. She is perfect the way she is.

[shredsandpatches]

sunday snippet (plesaunte to prynces paye edition)

This is part of a long and emotional scene in which Anne and Richard hash things out after Anne discovers the nature of her husband’s relationship with Robert de Vere (although Richard and Robert have been sort of on a break since Richard got married). As you know, collective Bob, I write Richard and Anne as establishing an emotional (and physical!) connection very quickly, but this makes the revelations discussed here a lot harder for them to deal with. But it’s not actually a spoiler to tell you they work it out. ;) 

Since there are definitely some people who will pick up on some of the connections with actual medieval literature (that isn’t mentioned directly) here, I will say that I’m not all that excited about readings of Pearl that treat it as an elegy for Anne of Bohemia, because the main point of them usually seems to be “Anne had a celibate marriage and died a virgin” which, no. The TEAMS editor, Sarah Stanbury, has the more sensible take that the poem is steeped in the courtly aesthetic associated with her even if it’s not “about” her specifically, which I do like more as a reading. In any case I am absolutely not above exploiting the pearl imagery (which genuinely was associated with Anne) for emotional effect.

--

Anne sniffles, rubs at her nose with her sleeve a bit, and raises her eyes to him. “I did not expect that you would love me, when I came here,” she says. “I know that I have value as a bride, because of who my father was. And I have been educated to be a queen.” She bites her lip, and continues, “But I know I am not beautiful, and that I brought no dowry, and that after six months I am not yet with child. But—when I am with you, I am happy, in a way I do not think I have ever been.” She looks up at him and smiles, a tiny, shy little smile. It makes Richard want to kiss her, but this is not the time. “It would have been easier if I had never felt that you loved me,” she says, leaning against his shoulder and sighing. “But I did. Perhaps I still do. I do not know what to think, Richard.”

“When you came in,” Richard says, “you told me that you would believe what I told you, when you asked me about Robert. And you do believe me, right?”

Anne nods.

“Then, please, Anne—believe me now. I don’t want you to always be obedient, or to sacrifice your own happiness for my sake. I don’t want you to be meek and retiring all the time just because you feel you have to. I know I’ve hurt you—I didn’t know how to tell you any of this, and I know that doesn’t make it right. Anne, I want to make it right. But I also need to ask you to trust me that I love you. I think I always have, almost since I saw you.”

Anne straightens up a little so that she can look him in the face. Her warm brown eyes meet his; after a long moment, she gasps softly, smiles a little through her tears, and lowers her eyes. “Even though I was cold and sneezed on you, and even though you paid twenty thousand florins for me?”

Richard leans in so that their foreheads are almost touching, lifts her hand to his, and kisses it. “Shouldn’t a man sell everything he has, for a pearl of great price?”

“Pane Bože!” Anne exclaims, her eyes wide with amazement and her free hand flying to her mouth. She draws back, but not, Richard thinks, to avoid him.

“Anne?” He is still holding her hand; he presses it between his own, and she does not pull it away.

“My mother used to tell me that I did not know my own worth,” she says. “I would tell her, of course I do. I am the daughter of the Emperor, and the sister of the King of the Romans. And she would shake her head.” She smiles a little, and bites her lip. “Before I left, I was worried. Because I had no dowry, and I was afraid I would not be enough, in myself, for you, and that you might grow to resent me for it. And my mother, to comfort me, said that I was to marry a wise king, who would give all he could for a pearl of great price.”

“And so you are,” Richard says. “My pearl of great price. Everything I’ve said in the past few months—everything we’ve done, all of that was real. All of it was worth it.”

Anne watches his face, and now her expression is serene and her gaze is steady. Her eyes are shining, but that’s from the tears. “Have you ever had a moment,” she says, “when you had no doubt at all? When you knew what God had made you for?”  

Richard nods, in his turn. “Once, when I rode out to the crowd at Smithfield. And again, on our wedding night.”

“I told you that morning,” Anne says, “that God meant me for you. After that first night, I knew my body was made for you—that I was ordained for you. In doubting you, I have doubted Him.” She takes Richard’s hands and clasps them in hers. “I want to have faith.”

[shredsandpatches]

wip wednesday (you get guilt! and you get guilt! edition)

Didn’t do a sunday snippet this week because I’d just posted a fic on Saturday (you should go read it! It’s here!) so here’s an extra-long WIP Wednesday excerpt. This takes place during the Appellant Crisis—Richard has just had an extremely threatening meeting with the five of them, but he’s been able to persuade Henry Bolingbroke and Thomas Mowbray to have supper with him and Anne that evening (I’ve posted a few bits of that scene before). In this scene, Richard and Anne have been strategizing, but at the moment they’re mostly just kind of bummed out.

I’ve written a lot in this space about my Richard’s guilt about the Peasants’ Revolt, so I don’t think I need to belabor the point further. 

CW for discussion of pregnancy loss, so I’ve put the cut in early. Dedicated readers of my fiction writing (if any) may recognize the hypothetical scenario Anne describes early in this passage. 

--

She covers his hand with her own, where it rests against her belly, and they sit together in silence for a while. Then Anne sighs, deep and heartfelt, and interlaces her fingers tightly with Richard’s, clasping his hand in both of hers.

“Are you all right?” Richard says.

“I cannot help thinking,” Anne says. “Richard, if I had given you a child by now—” She swallows hard. “I have lost three babies, since we were wed. And if one of them had lived—” She presses her lips tightly together, shakes her head. “You would have an heir. And the appellants would try to use him against you, as your great-grandmother used your grandfather against your great-grandfather. And they cannot do that, and it is because all of our children have died in my womb, before they were fully formed in body or soul.” She looks up at him again, and her eyes are wet. “I know that whatever happens is the will of God,” she continues, “and I try to submit myself to it, whatever he allows to happen. But if I were to lose you—” She presses his hand more tightly in hers. “I do not know how I would go on. I would sit and weep endlessly, like Niobe. Who lost all of her children!” She shakes her head, releasing Richard’s hand, and turns her eyes heavenward. “It is a cruel mercy He has shown us,” she says. “Perhaps we should do penance, when this is over, when we are safe.”

Richard wraps his arms around Anne, pulling her close and resting his cheek against her hair. “Perhaps this is my penance,” he says. “Not yours. You haven’t caused any of this, Anne.”

“I have been complicit in securing a divorce under false pretenses,” Anne says, “on behalf of someone who is a friend. I can see that it was a sin, but I thought it was all for the best. Robert did not love Philippa, but he does not love Agnes either, not in the way he loves you. Perhaps not even in the way he loves me.” She shakes her head. “I could not abandon my dear friends to shame and disgrace, and so I helped to wrong Philippa. And now Philippa is rid of her husband, and she has every right to be glad of it, and the entire English nobility taking up her cause.” She straightens up, agitated, and Richard releases her. At a loss for something to do with her hands, she picks up her discarded embroidery from the settle and examines it for a moment, fishing for her needle among the cushions. When she finds it, she stabs it into the cloth, piercing the heart of a blackwork imperial eagle. “And—God forgive me, but it is all so much!” she cries, at last. “So much punishment, and we meant so little wrong, to have our lives ruined.”

“Anne,” Richard says, “you don’t need to take the blame for this onto yourself. God knows I have my own sins, my own failings—though they’re not the ones the Appellants accuse me of. I suppose that’s the worst of it. The lords are just as guilty of those sins as I am.”

Anne takes his hands again and looks up at him. “What do you mean?” she says.

“I’ve told you before,” Richard says, “that in the days when the commons rose up against us all, they looked to me for redress of the wrongs the lords had done—including my own forefathers. They had a watchword, you know: ‘King Richard and the true commons.’ And I heard their words, and I knew what the Lord had put me here to do: I was here to free my people from bondage.”

“I remember,” Anne says. “You were so brave. You are still brave, miláčku.”  

“Everyone looked to me, then—the nobles and the councils and the great men of the city were too afraid to act, and the commons saw me as the only person who could help them. And I wanted to help them, Anne, I truly did. And then, once the crowds had dispersed and the smoke had cleared and the leaders of the rebellion were swinging from the gallows or looking down upon the city from poles, the nobles and the councils and the great men of the city swept back in and revoked all my promises for me. I suppose I knew that I would be punished for it, someday, and I suppose this must be it. I failed the least of my people, and now I’m facing retribution at the hands of the greatest, the same men who caused me to break my promises in the first place.” He sighs a little, shaking his head in disgust. “I suppose I did the same, when I tried to use my lord Tresilian against my enemies, knowing how vicious he had been in persecuting the commons. I thought—” He looks at Anne, who is still holding his hands, although her face is impassive, non-judgmental. “I thought it was for the best,” he says. “I only wonder—does the Lord mean for me to be chastened, or overthrown altogether?”  

“Perhaps He is working through Bolingbroke and Mowbray,” Anne says. “It may be through them that you will keep the throne.”

Richard nods, and then snorts. “What a perfectly humiliating situation,” he says. “Henry Bolingbroke is going to preen about this for the rest of our lives, probably. Do you suppose the Lord has a sense of humor, that this is all some sort of incomprehensible joke? It’s beginning to feel like it.”

Anne straightens and reaches up to stroke his cheek. “It is all right,” she says. “If there is a need to humble ourselves before them, I will do so. It is no shame for a woman to plead. Even a queen.”

Richard bends in to press his forehead to hers. “If I have hope that the Lord will not destroy me entirely,” he says, “it’s because He sent you to me. I can’t think of a greater sign of His favor.” He cups her face gently, and kisses her lips, and Anne wraps her arms around his waist and kisses him back.

“I love you,” Anne whispers, “whatever happens. Let us be ready for them.”

[shredsandpatches]

sunday snippet (I forgot to post until 7:30 pm edition)

I've been in kind of a writing slump for the last six weeks or so because first I got shingles and then I was really depressed over the job thing and I've got over 100,000 words and a lot of the first half (up to about 1388) exists in, like, messy draft form, and now I'm like "I've been wanting to write this for years and now it's not as good as I wanted" and it's all hard on the old motivation.

Today's excerpt was written a while ago and is nominally upbeat except we know how it's going to turn out. It follows (not immediately) on this section I posted a while back.

--

“You sent for my lord of Oxford, your Highness?” the servant says.

Richard starts—of course he’s sent for him, they were going to go hawking—he stammers some sort of noncommittal reply until Anne swats at his arm. He glances at her—she is smiling, and when his eyes meet hers, she nods. He breathes a sigh of relief. “Send—send him in,” Richard finally manages.

“It is all right,” Anne says, once he’s stepped away. “I am not going to stop you seeing Robert just because I am—”

“Your Highnesses,” Robert announces, doffing the magnificent green bycocket he wears for hunting trips and bowing in a most fetching manner that shows off his legs (with the aid of his short gown with dagged sleeves, and red-and-black particolored hose). “I am at your service.” He straightens up and peers at Richard, and then at Anne; he clearly expected them to be ready for an afternoon outdoors. “Are you both quite all right?”

Richard raises a hand to his cheek—his face is warm, and he must look rather flushed. Anne’s face is certainly pink, and her eyes are shining. Can they tell him? Anne is the one carrying the child; it’s her right to say who gets to know, but he can hardly ask her about it when Robert is right here. He bites his lip and casts another glance in her direction.

“We are going to have a baby!” Anne exclaims. So, now it’s out and he doesn’t even have to ask her. Richard clutches her hand tightly.

“You—” Robert sputters a little.

“I mean, I am going to have a baby,” Anne adds, flushing an even brighter red. “Richard helped, of course,” she adds, stammering and clutching Richard’s hand.

For a moment, Robert stares. For a moment, Richard is gripped by anxiety: is he going to be upset? Jealous? It’s not as though he can have a baby, after all, and if he wanted one he could probably have one with his wife—this isn’t a good line of thought, but before Richard can work himself up too much, Robert’s expression softens.

“That’s wonderful,” Robert says. “I’m so happy for you both.” He sits heavily on the settle beside Richard. “You’re going to be a father!” he says, grabbing Richard’s arm.

Richard grins and clasps his hand. “Yes,” he says, “and don’t start acting like we won’t love you anymore once we have a child. I know how you get.”

Robert, unbelievably, blushes. “Of course,” he says. “Christ, Diccon, a baby!”

“It is not due until spring,” Anne says. “My physician says it will not even show until close to Christmas.”

Richard brightens, an idea dawning. “Anne,” he says, “can we ask him to be one of the godfathers?”

Robert laughs. “I think your uncles would line up to skin me alive,” he says. “And you for asking me!”

“I was thinking of asking my brother,” Anne says, “but of course we would need a proxy to stand for him. Perhaps you could do it.”

“We could worry about John of Gaunt later,” Richard adds.

“You’re not planning to name it Wenceslaus if it’s a boy, are you?” Robert raises an amused eyebrow at Anne.

Anne purses her lips. “It is a perfectly good name,” Anne says. “Saint Wenceslaus is the patron of Bohemia.” But then she smiles. “I do know what name Richard wants, though.”

“I’m so flattered!” Robert says. “I think ‘King Robert’ has a nice ring to it. ‘Robert the First,’ of course, because I’m sure your son will be an illustrious king with many heirs.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Named after me.”

[shredsandpatches]

sunday snippet (young and sweet, only seventeen edition)

(okay, in this snippet our dancing queen has not yet reached the ABBA-approved age, since she’s actually only 15, but CLOSE ENOUGH)

Anyway I’ve been writing a lot of grim Peasants’ Revolt stuff but all the same I thought I’d post a happier moment from six months later, albeit not one completely free of awkwardness.

--

Whenever she has the chance, Anne reaches under the table and squeezes Richard’s hand, and he squeezes back and rubs his thumb over her knuckles. It always makes her giggle. She is beaming throughout the feast, her cheeks rosy and her eyes shining. Richard wonders how everything stands up to the imperial court, if what passes for splendor in England would be ordinary in her homeland—they have no trouble making conversation, but while Anne is usually eager to talk about her father’s and brother’s glittering court back in Prague, she refrains from making comparisons today, when it’s the most splendor she’s ever seen in England. But perhaps it doesn’t matter: whenever she lays eyes on him her expression is one of sheer bliss. In moments when the diners seem to be mostly distracted, Richard catches Anne’s hand and kisses it. There’s never a moment where nobody is looking, though; it draws affectionate laughs from the assembled crowd every time. Once he catches Robert’s eye, where he is seated with Philippa. Philippa smiles brightly at Richard and Anne; Robert nods briefly, enough to fulfill his duty of obeisance to his lord, and then averts his eyes. Richard frowns for an instant—now that he is married himself, he doesn’t see why Robert is so glum about the state of matrimony. Philippa has always seemed agreeable enough, after all, though of course she can’t possibly be as wonderful as Anne, who distracts him from this rather unsettling reverie by motioning to him and then feeding him a piece of candied quince.

It is well into the evening when the feasting is over, and the tables are cleared away and then there’s dancing in the hall: stately caroles and lively saltarellos and robust estampies. Anne may be sturdily built, but she is light on her feet nevertheless. Richard can scarcely take his eyes off her as they step and twirl and hop and clap, her face flushed with excitement and exertion and her hair swinging out behind her. Whenever they begin a circle dance her hand slips into his eagerly, no matter how sweaty his palms are. They are, perhaps, fortunate: they only miss their steps once or twice while caught up in one another, and Henry of Derby manages to avoid crashing directly into the two of them as a result, thanks to an effort of strength and balance heroic enough that Richard can’t be too angry at him, not at his wedding, not with Anne’s hand clasping his own. Richard, once again, ignores the stray tittering from the wedding guests and vows to build new dancing chambers in all of their palaces, just so he can see her like this as often as possible for as long as they both live.