#she pleaded with her father and said it was fine if an earl married a peasant so it should be only right that she could marry

[theawkwardone6]

Honestly you guys should just look up a random historical figure and read about their lives and their children’s lives. So much drama

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

tapestry 👑 III

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The reader speaks up.

Note: Here’s part 3. I’m still going while I can. Fair warning that I work every day given the holiday season and so I’ll do my best to keep up but so far I’m having fun and you all are too. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

It was a week before your father returned. A gruelling week.

You weren’t surprised to hear of his arrival from another. Nor disappointed that he didn’t call for you immediately. That was your father’s way. He doted on Alice and shunned you. She brought him esteem with her marriage to a duke and you brought him disgrace with your failure to garner even a betrothal. The convent lurked on your horizon.

When he did send for you, the dread sank deep in your chest. The thought of your inevitable meeting hung over you all day and to face him was an obstacle in itself. Even as a small girl, you’d managed to stoke his ire. You were too quiet, and when you were not quiet enough, you were flowery and irritating. Not like Alice; refined and endearing.

Your father’s servant led you to his chambers. As a lower lord, he had no receiving chamber, merely a screen between his bed and his desk. You entered with your head dipped. A quill scratched noisily on parchment as the servant informed your father of your presence and retired to his vigil beside the door.

Your father didn’t look up. A candle sat on his desk as he wrote and the lanterns did little to add to the hazy glow of the amber fire. His grey hair was combed back as it always was; thick despite his age. His lips moved along with the words he spilled from his nib.

“Father,” You greeted. He didn’t even nod. You waited, hands clasped before you. “Is Alice well?”

He lifted his quill and dabbed dry its end. He sat back and looked at you with a tilt of his head. He placed the pen on his desk and sighed. “Daughter.” His eyes were dull, unimpressed. Disinterested even though it was he who prompted the visit. “Yes, she is well. As is the child. A grandson.”

“And mother? She has remained with Alice?” You asked. You were hopeful she would’ve returned to court and offered you an ounce of companionship. 

“For the time being. Until they are ready to return to court. Though the duke should return within the month.” 

Your father spoke grimly. His tone rarely wavered; rarely rose above a monotone. Only with the king or some higher lord did he show a trace of humanness.

“So all is in order.”

“Is it?” Your father wondered as he leaned on the arm of his chair. 

You blanched. You hoped it was. The king had not bothered you since that night after the banquet, the queen remained ever gracious, though Rose was as thorny as the flower. But all seemed to be as it was and just in time for your father’s return. You’d thought your prayers answered; the rumours swept away before he could hear of them.

“Of course, father.” You assured him. You felt so small before him. 

“Mmm,” He considered you. His lips curled in a sinister smirk. “You danced with the king?”

“At his request,” You replied. “But you know I haven’t a quick step, father.”

“You needn’t remind me of your shortcomings, daughter,” He quipped. “But it surely must have been adequate for as I hear it, he called for you the next night.”

“An invitation which I refused.” You said plainly. “As a proper lady would.”

“A foolish lady.” He gripped the arm of the chair as his lips turned downward. “So it is true?”

“Would you rather I accept and tarnish my reputation? Our family’s name?” 

“I’d rather you seek the rare favour you can find in this world.” He spat. “You are as daft a woman as you were a child.”

“Forgive me, father, but I only did as I thought you’d wish me to.” You pleaded. “You wouldn’t want me to resign myself to a life as the wife of a second son.”

“As it is, I’d prefer you the wife of any.” He huffed. “And if you cannot achieve that, a king’s mistress is a fine consolation.”

You frowned. How could he not be proud of your resolve? Of your restraint? He always lectured you on propriety and now he sneered at it.

“I would rather the convent.” You hissed.

“You must realize, girl, that this is not about your whims, but the king’s. Should he will you on your back, you will lay before him as he pleases.” He snarled. “So if he should come to you again, you will not deny him.”

“He has not in the week since.” You assured him.

“And I doubt he will now.” Your father grumbled. “As always, you’ve ruined it all.”

“I’ve only done as you taught me to.”

“Enough of your insolence.” 

“My insolence? I will not be used by the king--”

“This is not about the king. It is about me, your father, and your family.” He stood and planted his hands on his desk. “You could do more as the king’s whore than the wife of some lowly baron of the marshes. If you were not so heedless, you might even raise our name. The Marquess of Lofton was but an earl before the king thought to take his daughter to bed.”

“I will not trade my virtue for your advancement.” You gritted.

“For what other purpose is a daughter good for?” He hurled viciously. “You shall lift your skirts for my fortune one way or the other. Better it be a king, than a pauper.”

“I will not.” 

“You will,” He pushed himself straight and stormed around the desk. He rushed towards you and glared down as he slid to a stop. “If the king has not already found another fancy, you will do as he wishes. Should he return to you, you will welcome him fondly.”

“No.” You growled as you set your shoulders. “I will not.”

“You will,” He struck you so hard you stumbled back. You touched your cheek softly as it burned. “Because you are my daughter. My property.”

You held your tongue. You gulped as you dropped your hand and stood straight. You blinked.

“Father.” You said evenly.

“Understood?” He sneered.

“I understand you.” You twined your fingers together tightly. You might understand his wishes but you would not obey him. Let him rage and send you off to the nunnery when he realized. 

“Good. Now be off. I’ve more important business than my impetuous daughter.” He turned back and rounded his desk. “I swear, you’ve always been intent on ruining me.”

You muttered a farewell as he sat. As you turned, the servant avoided your gaze and you swept past him through the door. In the hall, the air was cool against your hot cheek. You took a deep breath to steady yourself. You hoped it was already too late and your spurning of your father’s ambitions was already complete. 

👑

When you returned to your chamber, the other ladies were on their beds. They read or sewed, and were oddly quiet. You didn’t realize at first why. You were drained from your meeting with your father and just wanted to forget about it. Foremost, you wanted to forget about court and its spectacles. 

Then you saw it. The small box on your pillow. It sat on a folded note and you held your breath. In dread, anxiety, and fear. You looked around the shared room. You caught Sybil watching you as Joan and Marion tried to hide their eyes behind their books. You lowered your chin and sighed quietly.

You neared the top of the bed and reached for the box. You unfolded the note with nervous fingers and the scrawl within seemed to move around. You could barely focus as you thought of your father and his anger. At last, the letters stood still and you read with bated breath.

My lady,

I have counted the ways I might apologize. For my assumptions, my insinuations, and gross misstep. My intent was never to demean, never to offend, and so I cower in my remorse. In my regret for how crudely I treated you.

I am of loose impulse. I act often without truly thinking. I let myself be led by my emotions and my thought is left to wither. As I did with you. I was selfish. I did not foresee the implication of my invitation. I did not think of you or your status. For that I apologize, deeply.

But I cannot apologize for how I feel. For the sudden and fervent desire that has arose in me. The want to know you, to know more of you, to know everything of you. I will not apologize for that would stain you; your beauty, your wit, your very person. 

I should like to atone for my indiscretion. To bring you pleasure rather than displeasure. So I include, with this most heartfelt and since apology, a gift and I beg your forgiveness. I beg of you mercy. I beg of you only...you.

Your king.

You slowly lowered the parchment and looked to the box. You bit your lip and glanced around at the girls. They weren’t being so subtle anymore. You folded the paper up and set it with the box as you went to your chest. You pulled out your own square of paper and went to the desk you shared with the others.

You sharpened a nib and took a pen. You dipped it in the ink and a shadow passed over you as Sybil neared.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to open the gift?” She asked.

“No, I mean to return it.” You began to write your message. Concise enough you hopped your point was taken.

Your Highness,

While I appreciate your apology, it is entirely unnecessary. I’ve already accepted your amends and as I stated, bear to you no animosity. While a gift is most flattering, it is improper and undue. I am thence, with the utmost respect, required to return to you your kindness though your forethought is recognized.

Your loyal subject.

You folded up the small slip and stood. Sybil was aghast and Joan watched with a smug smirk. 

“As you should return it,” Joan sang, “We all know it is an empty gesture. A scheme to irk Rose. The king is loathe of her triteness though he loves her wholly. You...well, he only wants a puppet.”

“Oh, Joan, what do you know?” Marion chirped. “You’re only jealous that you’re neither of them and you’ll be left to marry that chubby Earl from Priskam.”

“I have seen the letters the king writes to Rose, I have seen the love in his eyes,” Joan insisted. “And I have seen this little mouse in her hole and she is pathetic.”

“Then you should know what lies within this letter,” You said as you went to your bed to fetch the box and the king’s letter. “And know that they are the same words he has written to a dozen women before myself. Before Rose.”

“Rose was right. You are despicable.”

“I am honest. And I see this place for what it is.” You pressed your letter to the box as you turned to the door. “I know that words are never meant as they are said. There is an edge to each syllable.” You opened the door and looked back. “Sybil, may I request a favour? Or Marion?”

“You may,” Marion spoke first.

“I should not go unaccompanied to return this. I don’t think it would be decent. Will you walk with me?” You asked.

“I will,” Marion rose and closed her book. “I should like to stretch my legs before we retire for the night.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all,” She nodded to the door. “Let us to our task before curfew should deem us unseemly.”

You gave a small smile and led her into the corridor. She pulled shut the door and turned to walk beside you. She was quiet at first; you were nervous as you fidgeted with the small box.

“Are you not at all curious?” She asked at last.

“Naturally,” You confirmed. “But I don’t dare to look lest I be tempted to keep it.”

“Ah,” She raised her pale brows. “You shouldn’t mind Joan, she’s jealous. And she’s far too enamoured with Rose.”

“I don’t mind her.” You said. 

“Do you think the king will be upset?”

“Perhaps, but he has no reason to be. I suppose, however, that a man of his stature finds much to be displeased with and none to tell him he shouldn’t be.” You reflected. “I have made an enemy of Rose already, I do not need the queen a foe as well.”

“The queen knows the king strays.” Marion said.

“Her knowledge does not make it right. Her acceptance is not of her own will. What can she do?” You stopped as you reached the corridor along which the king resided. “As women, we are all given to circumstance we do not desire.”

Marion considered you. Her warm eyes bore into hers and she nodded. “There is much more going on in your head than I supposed.” She remarked. “Thoughts I’d never think to have myself.”

You looked at the box. Your father’s voice echoed in your head. If he was here, he’d slap you again. You raised your head and set your shoulders.

“Let this be the end of it.” You declared as you marched forward.

You’d never been down this way. Never thought you would. How did one knock on a king’s door. Well, was it necessary with the guards without? The men in mail watched your approach as Marion trailed behind. There helmets bobbed as they observed you with amused grins. How many women had they greeted in the evening hours?

“Sirs,” You nodded at one guard and then the other. “I would request the king, only if he should be available, of course.”

“The king?” The guard on the left looked over your shoulder at Marion. “You, her, or the both of you?”

“I come here on my own charge but she accompanies for decorum,” You explained. “If the king is engaged, I shall leave a letter for you to pass to him.”

“The king is alone. He may receive you,” The right guard assured you. “He’s not one to turn away a lady.”

“I would prefer he emerge,” You asserted. “It would be untoward to enter his chamber.”

“A receiving chamber is meant for that purpose, lady,” The guard returned.

“Even so, if he cannot be drawn from his privacy, I shall leave this with you.” You held up the box and letter folded atop its lid.

“Ah, don’t need to be so impatient.” The guard knocked on the door with his elbow. The sound barrelled down the hallway.

The door opened and the king’s footman, Hugh, scowled at the guard. His eyes blinked at the mailed men then turned on you. His forehead wrinkled in recognition and he spoke at last. “What is the bother?”

“This lady is here to see the king.”

“Very well, then send her in,” Hugh said sharply.

“She will not enter.” The left guard intoned.

“Says it’s indecent.” The other added. 

Hugh sighed and looked to you again. He squinted and shook his head before disappearing within. You could hear his voice and then the king’s. Both were slightly muffled and followed by a stir. You waited and glanced over your shoulder at Marion. She looked as anxious as you felt.

Footsteps and then another shadow in the door. This one broader, taller. You bowed as the king appeared. His lips parted as he saw you and he let out a deep breath.

“My lady?” He greeted. 

“Your highness,” You returned. Did your voice tremble? You could not tell. “My apologies for the disturbance but it was pertinent that I seek an audience.”

He nodded and stared at the box in your hands. “Did you like my gift?” He asked.

You swallowed. “I did not open the gift, though I did read your letter,” You felt it hard to breath. His eyes never left you. It was as if you were alone, as if there were no guards, as if Marion didn’t linger behind you. “I appreciate the gesture but I am unable to accept it.”

“My lady, do you reject my apology?”

“I...It is in my letter, your highness, but there is no apology required.” You held out the box and stepped tremulously toward him. “You must take it back.”

“I will not.” He insisted. “It is for you.”

“There is no reason for it and I cannot accept a present from a married man.” The box shook and you stilled your hands. “You may refuse to rescind it but I will not take it. I shall leave it upon the floor if I must.”

His blue eyes focused on you. They were stern but not angry. In them, a glimmer of confusion, a spark of provocation. He pressed his lips together before he spoke. “You refuse upon the grounds of my marriage?”

“I refuse on the grounds that it is improper.” You said. “On the grounds that I’ve accepted your apologies once and shall not do so again. On the grounds that I am a lady with a reputation to uphold should I have any hope of a betrothal.” Your voice had risen and you were embarrassed at the realization. “I wish that you take it back.”

“If you wish, I should happily appease you,” He stepped forward and reached out to take the box. His fingers grazed yours and his lips twitched. “For whatever you wish, I would give you, my lady. Whatever you will, you shall have. By my hand, by my order.”

His tone made you shiver. You rescinded your arm and clapped one hand over the other to uphold your composure. “Thank you, your highness.” You said. “It is late and I must return to my chamber.”

“So it is,” He accepted as he cradled the box in his hands. “And so you must.” He bowed his head and you curtsied to him. “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, your highness.” You said as you began to back away. 

The king watched, his gaze unwavering as you retreated. There was a promise in his eye, a nonchalance in the way he held the box, how he only looked away to open it and peek inside. He turned as he snapped it shut and his guards stared ahead stiffly. His broad back disappeared behind his door and Marion gasped as she finally let out her breath.

“My lord,” Marion swore. “I thought I would pass out.”

“Me, too.” You said as you grabbed your skirts. You spun around and didn’t dare look back. “Let us be away. Quickly.”

[cicici03]

Conform or Change- Chapter 3

“ Shy, honey, open the door please!” Ms. Anna Mae pleading with Shy. With that, Elena and Marilyn was right behind Ms. Anna Mae at the door.

“ I am fine Ms.Anna Mae.” Shy mumbled loud enough for them to hear her.

“ Shy, now open this door. It’s almost the kids bedtime and you know that they don’t go to sleep if you don’t read them a story.” Marilyn said back through the door.

Shy heard her, but she didn’t want to move from out the bed. 

She had so many emotions going through her head about her husband: anger, disappoint, and much sadness. Shy couldn’t believe that her husband would be thinking about another woman while having sex with her.

Shy didn’t know what to do.

She was lost.

The one person that she have loved all these years is going astray.

As she snapped out of her thinking. She heard her sister rambling to Ms. Anna Mae and Elena.

“ You know your no-good cousin did this to my sister. First, he knock her up out of wedlock. With that, it cause my father to not talk to my sister. Second, he embarrassed her by having that nasty, sleazy woman! Finally, he won’t let my sister go to damn school! The thing is, he not paying for it!” Marilyn shouted while looking at Elena and Ms. Anna Mae.

“ Well, if you never brought it up. Shy would not be in this predicament! She don’t need to go to school. She have a husband that loves her and protects her!” Ms. Anna Mae snapped back while pointing at Marilyn.

Elena watch as the women where eye to eye. One thing that she have learn was not to get between two black people when they arguing. Cause they both will look at you like you did something.

“ Ms. Anna Mae that is what your husband may have done to you. However, I don’t thinking cheating is a manly thing! With that, Shy deserve something for her damn self. She take care his kids, and make sure everything is always perfect for him! Well, damn, I am going to do something perfect for my sister now!” Marilyn said with much authority.

As Marilyn finish her last sentence, Shy open the door.

The three women look at her and they could tell that she been crying hard. Her usual glowing,dark skin was dull. To her eyes all puffy and red.

Marilyn hurts when seeing her sister like this. 

“ Can you guys please talk about that somewhere else. So I can put the kids to bed.” Shy quietly commanded to the three women.

Shy walk pass through them and downstairs to tell the kids it was time for bed.

Ms. Anna Mae walked right behind her. While  Elena and Marilyn was left alone in the hallway.

As Marilyn was about to walk, Elena pulled her arm. Elena went right for Marilyn lips.

Both of them were fighting for dominance. With that, Elena won with little to no effort. As they kept kissing, Marilyn pushed Elena away.

“ You know that we can’t do that in public!” Marilyn whispered at Elena.

Marilyn and Elena knew each since that day when Ernest, Shy, and Marilyn went to Florian’s mother funeral. 

They been close friends ever since. However both of them went down different paths after high school. Elena got married, while Marilyn went to school.

As Elena got a divorce and Marilyn was visiting. One thing led to another at Marilyn’s apartment. Every since then, they have been having this secret relationship.

“ What is wrong with me kissing you in public?” Elena whispered harshly at Marilyn.

“ You know exactly what is wrong. We can’t because if somebodies find out. We both are over!” Marilyn whispered back while breaking loose of Elena’s hold.

“ Well you have change a lot Marilyn. Is it someone else. A man?” Elena asked.

Marilyn looked at her.

“ My father have told me that this man wants to court me.” Marilyn mumbled slowly.

“ Are you going to do it?” Elena asked worriedly which scared her because would not be losing her friend, but her soul mate.

Marilyn looked at her and turn to walk downstairs.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“ The Princess and The Prince live happily every after.” Shy said while closing the book.

“ Mommy, can you please read another story that is not about princess’s!” Florian Jr. yelped from his bed.

“ No, Mommy, read another princess story!” Anastasia said in her quiet voice. 

Shy sat in the chair in between the two children bed. Shy watch as the kids bicker back and forth.

She could see that Florian Jr was the exact replicate personality wise of Florian. Then could see her Anastasia  was the exact replicate personality wise of herself.

She didn’t like that.

“ That’s why you are doo doo head!” Florian Jr. yelled at his sister. 

Anastasia coward back and didn’t say nothing.

“ Now, hey, you don’t call your sister that. You have to take up for her, love her, cherish her, and be her protector. You not supposed to embarrass her and treat all types of way Florian! Florian you suppose to love your wife!” Shy cried out.

The kids look at her like she was crazy.

“ Momma are you talking about me or daddy?” Florian Jr. asked while looking at his mom which she had tears coming down.

A voice made itself known.

“ You know how mommy sometimes mix us up.” Florian bombing voice said calmly. 

The kids turn to the door, to see their dad. The kids smiled and got out of bed to run to him.

Florian was always a good father to the kids. He loved his kids so much. 

Shy still sitting in the chair, wiped her tears off her face. She got up as Florian was walking over with the kids to put them back in bed.

Shy didn’t even look his way, she walk pass to check on Andrada and Benjamin in the other room.

As Shy made sure the little ones was still sleep, She went downstairs to the kitchen.

However, she was surprise due to seeing Marilyn, Elena, and Ms. Anna Mae still here on the couch.

Shy looked at the clock on the wall, reading 9:00.

“ Why are y’all still here and up? ” Shy asked as she stop in front of the couch the three women was sitting.

“ Well, I live here.” Elena said while closing her eyes.

“ I live here too!” Ms. Anna Mae sassly said while reading her Bible.

“ I don’t live here, but you thought I was going to leave this house without my answer.” Marilyn said in a matter of fact attitude.

As Shy was about to say something, Florian walked downstairs and interject.

“ Why she need to give you an answer. I already told you, she is not going.” Florian said while walking into the kitchen.

Marilyn anger was starting to rise.

“ The kids are in bed. So don’t wake them up please.” Ms. Anna Mae yelp out while still reading her Bible.

Marilyn walked into the kitchen, with Shy right on her tail.

As they got there, Florian got some of the leftovers out of the refrigerator. As he was about to grab something out of it. Marilyn slam it.

“ Now that I got your attention. My sister is going to school and you can’t do nothing about it!” Marilyn screeched at Florian.

Florian looked at her then to Shy.

Shy knew that her sister was overstepping a boundary as Florian would say.

“ Marilyn lets talk about this later.” Shy said grabbing Marilyn arm.

Marilyn snatch her arm away from Shy.

Still looking at Florian, Marilyn spoke.

“ No Shy! I am not going to do that! Cause you deserve to go to that program. The only reason I took the job because I want something that would be better for you! So you are going.You already disappointed dad. Don’t disappoint me either.” Marilyn finished up as she turn around to Shy.

“ So with that, I know you not going to disappoint me. I will be here at 10:00, so you can start orientation.” Marilyn said while looking at Shy.

With that, Marilyn went and got her bag and left.

That only left Shy and Florian in the kitchen.

As Shy looked at him, she knew he was upset.

“ You going to let your sister talk to me like that?” Florian asked with much hostility behind his voice.

Shy said nothing as usual.

“ I told you already that you are not going! With that, I told her to be out of my house Shy!” Florian yelled at Shy while opening up his brew.

As he yelled at her, Shy started to cry. Shy really wanted to speak up for herself, but she scared that its going lead the second man out of her life. Her dad left her because of her getting pregnant out wedlock. 

Shy cried harder when thinking about her dad. She miss him dearly. She haven’t talk to him in eight years. 

Then Shy mind went to what happen two years ago this day.

Shy cried even harder.

Elena, Ms.Anna Mae, and Mr. Alexundru came to the entrance of the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. They saw Shy crying and Florian just drinking his brew.

“ Florian, what the hell is wrong?” Elena asked walking over to her cousin while Ms. Anna Mae comfort Shy.

“ Nothing wrong, but Shy crying every single day. When it is her fault what happen to this family two years ago.” Florian said with his voice cracking. Florian walked out and into his office.

As Shy heard what he said, she broke down even more. Shy fell to floor in tears of hysteria.

Elena and Ms. Anna Mae was crying to comfort as best they could. While Mr. Alexundru was looking at Shy in his wheel chair. 

Mr. Alexundru looked to the stairs to see the kids looking at the commotion below.

Mr. Alexundru move his hand to tell the kids to leave.

As the kids left, Florian Jr. and Anastasia help the little ones back in bed.

“ Why mommy crying? What happen twooth years ago.” Andrada said with his lisp as Florian Jr. tuck him into bed.

The twins didn’t say anything because they knew what happen, but they didn’t know what happen that day.

One thing that both the twins knew that mommy and daddy didn’t seem to love each other no more.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Wow. So many questions and little to none answers.

So

Elena and Marilyn?

Shy’s Father, Earl?

Marilyn telling Florian what’s going to happen?

Main Question though:

WHAT HAPPEN TWO YEARS AGO?

With that, you have to stay tune in for it. 

While waiting for the answer, give me some theories or something that you think would effect both of them so deeply.

COMMENT, REBLOG, AND LIKE!

Taglist:  @19jammmy @twistedcharismaaa @designerwriterchic @queen-zelieonna @amethyst09 @champagnesugamama @natashacoco @cocobutterqwueen @bvssmob

[ivoryne]

beauty and the beast

Do you have a daughter?

Yes.

Then you will bring her to me.

summary: a man takes shelter in a seemingly abandoned great hall and takes a flower to give his daughter upon leaving, angering his host.

word count: 6039 (part 1/3)

genre: AU (beast!ivar/beauty!reader)

a/n: the concept of beast here is very loose and doesn’t necessarily relate to ivar being a cripple, especially from the perspective of beauty. It has more to do with his perception of himself, and his entrapment and isolation - a curse that can only be broken by ‘true love’.

The winter storm had caught up faster than the old earl anticipated, and he had lost hope of finding his way through the raging snowfall when a flicker of fire caught his eyes through the flurry. He urged his horse forward, bowing his shoulder against the wind, and was surprised when the thicket of trees ended without warning. He found himself in a clearing, with a great longhouse sitting at its center. Hopeful gold flame flickered through a window, and he braced himself to plead for shelter at the door.

Afraid of being rude, he took care to find the stables first, and tied his horse in an empty stall, marveling all the while at the strong-looking horses sleeping in the other stalls. Briefly, he considers simply staying there. It was warm enough, and the hay will make a bearable bed, but then his stomach made a complaint of hunger, and he supposed he may as well knock on the door now than be mistaken as a thief or a vagrant when he’s discovered in the morning.

His feet took him slowly back to the front door, sinking deep into the snow which each step. He knocked once, and the door swung open. He called out, peering cautiously into the room, but found no one there.

“Hello!” he called again, pushing the door a little further so he could see better. A large open space greeted him, warm and inviting. To his left were two long hallways that disappeared into shadow, on his right was a great hearth where fire blazed. Beside it was a long table flanked by benches, and drawn by the smell, he found that a single setting had been made: a plate, a knife, and a goblet, inlaid with rubies. The roasted chicken was still tender on its platter, sided with potatoes. A bowl of stew still steamed, and a tankard of ale completed the offering.

He looked around, arms wrapped around his still thawing form, looking for anyone. He did not wish to assume that someone had seen him arrive and saw fit to be so generous to a stranger, but though he waited on the bench warming himself for as long as he could, no one came. His hunger threatening to overcome him, he muttered a prayer to any god listening – to thank them if this was indeed good fortune, and to ask for protection if he had been mistaken – and began to eat.

At first, he jumped at every sound, even at the rise and fall of the gale outside, his eyes watchful. He saw no people, but he recognized the opulence of the hall as someone who once lived in similar comfort. Of course, this was much more than he’d ever afforded, even in his most prosperous years. This was princely. The walls were smooth and of good dark wood, the ceiling panels were carved with skill, and the rugs at his feet were thick.

The physical manifestations of his host’s wealth, along with a full stomach and a warm fire slowly coaxed him into tranquility, for it seemed likelier now that his host could afford to be so liberal in his hospitality. Nevertheless, he did not expect room to be made for him, and he was perfectly satisfied with stretching out on the bench and closing his eyes for a brief rest. Tomorrow, he would thank his host at the earliest opportunity. Then he must be off, for he was reminded that he had a daughter and a new wife waiting for him fearfully to return home.

But in the morning, he woke to soft white light still alone. Another meal was laid out on the table – a light and creamy broth that melted on his tongue, freshly baked bread, and an apple, an apple in winter! He took his time eating, hoping his host will appear, but it was quiet and still throughout. Finally, when he could delay no longer, he said “thank you!” in a loud voice, and went out into the new day.

Under the calmer sky, he marveled at his good fortune to find such a kind place in the midst of misfortune. For he had come from city hoping to profit from the gamble he’d placed on a ship bound for the Mediterranean, only to find that it had been caught in a terrible storm and half the goods had tumbled overboard. He was barely compensated for his investment, and after buying some sorely needed furs and a new dress for his second wife, he had nothing but a few coins left when he left the city. He had not even gotten anything for his daughter. Though she had asked for nothing, he was still awash with guilt and regret.

It was with such gloomy thoughts that he walked around the longhouse, and found a path that continued on back into the forest. That would be his way home. Then to his awe, he found a small slender tree, hidden until he was directly before it. At first, he thought that the snow had given it a canopy, but then he realized that the wispy ash like flurries around it were not snowflakes, but petals. It was blooming in winter.

Here was a gift for his daughter, for she dearly loved flowers, and all things that grew. Without thinking, he reached out and plucked a single blossom from a branch within eye-level.

A scoff reached his ears, and he whirled around to find a cloaked figure leaning against the trees toward which he’d been going.

“Was food and dwelling not enough? You are a hard man, indeed, to take what wasn’t offered.”

The shadows of the trees seemed to lengthen toward him, like clawed hands, but he could not move for fear. He clutched the flower on his palm. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t take it for greed. It is for my daughter.”

“Is that so?”

Where had the sun gone? Suddenly it was dark, as if the light had bled out of the day. “I tell the truth, I promise!” the old earl said. “My daughter is a kind young woman, who loves her unworthy father selflessly. I only wanted a gift to recompense the worry I must’ve caused her when I didn’t return last night.”

“And me, old man?” The earl still can’t make out his face, and in his fear, the old man thought his hunched figure twisted; but the voice was young, though awful in its tone. “What recompense will you give me for your offense? That tree is more special to me than all the treasures in my home, for that is where my mother was buried, and it is her bones that keep it alive throughout the cold winter. Shall I take your bones to sustain it further?”

“Don’t!” the old earl cried. He had angered a monster, or a god. He didn’t know what to do. “I’ll give you anything.”

A laugh. “Anything?” At the old earl’s enthusiastic nodding, he hummed, and the shadows seemed to still. “So you do have some understanding of fairness. Fine then. I shall have your daughter as recompense.”

Horror filled the old earl’s being. “Anything but her. She is everything to me.”

“And that flower is borne of my mother, who was also everything to me. It is a fair exchange.”

“No.” The old earl shook his head, unable to contemplate losing his daughter, the only one who stayed with him when he was banished by the new king. All his sons were lost to other lands, and his other daughters stopped speaking to him when they married the first suitor to offer them a way out of disgrace. “No…”

“You refuse?” the voice said, harsh and hard again. “Then there is nothing more to talk about.”

The old earl recognized the tell-tale snap of a bow being nocked from years in the battlefield, and in overwhelmed alarm, he relented. “No! No, wait–” When the arrow did not loose, he stumbled onward to placate the shadow. “Give me three days. Please. Let me at least say goodbye.”

“Three days, and no more.” The figure at the tree shifted. “Do not think to fool me, old man. It is you or the girl. If neither are here on time, I shall hunt you both down.”

The old earl ran back to get his horse, and found her fed and brushed down. On his saddle was were two bags he did not own, and when he glanced inside, his heart nearly stopped at the wealth inside: gold coins and jewels beyond count. He thought of the house roof that wouldn’t hold for another winter, and of the debts piling up with their neighbors. He could not bring himself to throw it away.

Quickly, he mounted, and came out back to the path. The figure was still there, though the shadows were less heavy, as if to signify his host’s better mood. He could glimpse parts of a face now. A strong jaw. Striking eyes. Blue eyes, like the aftermath of lightning.

The old earl urged his horse onward, thundering down the path home as if all the host of Jotunheim were behind him.

–

The old earl arrived home just before the sun set once more. His second wife rushed out, excited at first for good news, but then she saw his expression and her face crumbled in realization that their fortunes had not improved. With a wail, she ran back into the house, nearly sending you to the floor when you collided at the door.

“Father?” you ventured, holding out a hand to help him dismount. “Is everything well? I could not sleep for fear for you.”

“Forgive me, my dear,” he said with a sad smile. “I’m afraid I was delayed in leaving.” And he told her of what happened to the unfortunate ship.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” you dismissed lightly, though inside a sliver of fear resurfaced. Winter was deepening, your credit in town was running low, and in the weeks of your father’s absence, you’ve found out that your stepmother was pregnant. How could the child in her womb survive in the cold seeping through your thin walls, your worn sheets? You would have to think of something, for you could not bear the heartbreak in your father’s face if you told him now. “Next time, we’ll choose a better ship. In the meantime, you must be hungry. There is still some soup from this morning.”

You took your father’s hands, and regretted the emotion that twisted his face as he grasped them, for you knew how rough with work they’d gotten.

A dark light came upon his eyes. “I did not come back empty-handed. Come inside, I shall show you.”

Your stepmother was roused from her grief when your father took two saddlebags and emptied them upon the table. Treasure spilled unto the worn surface. Everything gleamed – gold pieces and intricately cut jewelry in every color. “Why had you not spoken sooner!” she exclaimed, a light dawning on her face.

You looked at your father in confusion, for he had spun the tale of your ship’s misfortune so completely. Even now, there was no happiness there, no relief – just an impenetrable veneer you could not pierce.

Your stepmother grabbed a handful of gold and let them fall through her fingers as she laughed with tears in her eyes.

Your father laid a hand on your elbow and reached into his coat, pulling out a single white bloom. Enchanted, you took it gingerly, for you had never seen one like it before. Its petals were soft as ashy, and while it survived the bag and the gold and the jewelry, it was crumbling in your palm bit by bit, cold and insubstantial as snow.

“Where did it come from?” you asked wonderingly.

“An old partner repaid me as I was going home,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “That is why I was delayed.”

But the words did not ring true, and you could not find it in yourself to match your stepmother’s exuberance at your sudden fortune, and as she reached for your father to embrace him, she broke the news that she was with child.

How could you describe the fear that filled your father’s face, the pallor of death?

At dinner, you watched your father try to hide his hidden turmoil. Noticing your keen attention, he asked if there was anything you wanted. There was a pair of sapphire earrings that he thought would fit your skin tone well. You thanked him sincerely, already planning to hide the jewels away for a rainy day. Of everything he had brought back, only the flower had caught your interest.

You turned the matter over and over in your mind, picking apart his story for anything that did not make sense. For example, he would not say which of his old friends gave him his share of a past venture, and you knew all of them had turned their backs when he lost his favor with the king.

On the second day of his return, an inkling of an idea came to you, gaining force as your father paid off your creditors, pulling them aside afterwards for a private word.

“How long will you be gone?” you finally asked him, after he’d spoken to the butcher when he thought you were busy with the baker. “And why do you keep your departure secret from me?”

“What secret?” he attempted ignorance.

You fixed him with a look that would accept no pretense. It was the look he always said your mother – your real mother – used on him when she would have no further argument. “You have been making arrangements to leave again. You cannot hide this from me.”

His resolution crumbled. “I don’t know, my dear,” he finally said, taking your elbow to steer you through the crowd. “You will have to take care of your stepmother for some time, and it might be a good idea to stop confusing the townspeople with your mathematical ideas, for they are a simple folk. Bodil has been telling me–”

“I do it only to help them,” you returned, startled by the sudden concern. “And Solveig has started to give interest to my designs of a watermill for spring–”

“Solveig Asmundson?” your father interrupted. “I heard he had returned from a raid to help his father with the harvest. He has shown interest in you?”

You looked at him askance, seeing the wheels on his head turn clearer than he himself did. “In my designs, father.” Before he could protest, you shook you head. “You’re trying to change the subject. Why are you leaving, where are you going, and why are you not telling me?”

“Solveig Asmundson has no wife,” your father muttered.

“Do not get your hopes up father. I do not wish him for a husband.”

You had reached the edge of town, and suddenly hunched as if from a great burden, he sat upon a rock and bade you to sit and rest with him. You put down your basket and folded yourself neatly beside him, looking up with concern at the unhealthy sheen of sweat upon his brow, and the mild shaking on his fingers on his trousers. Was he coming into illness?

“I will not be always here for you,” your father began. “You must start thinking of a family of your own.”

“You are my family,” you said. Maybe your stepmother, too, and when she gave birth, you will love the little child as one of your own.

“You’re beautiful, any man would have you if you let him close enough to ask,” your father pleaded.

“I do not want to be wanted simply because I’m beautiful.” You’ve had this argument before, why was he bringing it up again? “I am more than a face, am I not?”

“You are,” your father acceded. “And with time, your husband will know all your qualities. You cannot demand it before that. You must marry while you are beautiful, for you are no longer rich.”

“Father,” you said tiredly.

“What is wrong with all the men you’ve met?” he asked in frustration.

“Nothing,” you replied. “Everything. They don’t really listen when I speak. They don’t want to know new things. They just want to live everyday as they have always lived it. I can’t–”

“You said Solveig liked your designs,” your father interjected.

“Why the sudden urgency?” you demanded.

His brows furrowed, and there it was again – that haunted, hunted look in his eyes. He spoke no more of the subject, and commented only that your stepmother is waiting for you.

He tried to make it up to you as you walked home, recounting tales he’d collected from the recently arrived sailors in town, for he knew you loved to hear of the lands beyond the sea and the people that lived there.

You were not fooled. At dinner, the tremor in his hand had spread to his whole body, and when he stood, you had to catch him before he collapsed. The heat from his body was akin to a furnace. Worriedly, you brought him to his room and laid him on the bed before rushing out to get a wet towel.

When there was nothing else you could do but let him sleep, you left him tucked beneath the furs, with a plea to your stepmother to wake you if he worsens in the night.

In the main hall, your pallet was laid before the fire, for your new home had no space for another room. You pulled out the white flower from a box that had once held jewelry, and turned it in your hand, begging it to spill its secrets. When it would give no answer, you settled to committing it to memory, for you estimated that it would last for one more day at the most.

You were roused from sleep the next day by a shadow passing overhead. You shot to your feet.

“Where are you going?” Your father was putting on his furs with difficulty, his hands shaking with the clasp. When he would not answer, you rushed to the front door and braced yourself against it. “Father, you are ill.”

“Let me go, daughter.” He tried to push past you, but in his weakened form, he barely budged you.

But the chill was on your back and on your ankles where the wind seeped through the door. It would be a cold day. “You cannot leave in this weather.”

“It is the third day,” your father said, grasping your arms urgently. “If I do not return in time, he will come. I have dreamt it. He will come.”

You looked at him with a sinking feeling. Was this a fever dream? “Father, who is this you speak of?”

“The boy!” your father whispered. “The beast!” His eyes were wild, his hands still shook.

“What does he want?” you asked, trying to understand.

“You,” your father moaned. He teetered precariously and you reached forward to steady him. “For a flower, he would take you.” He shook his head, tears springing from his eyes. “I will not let him! I will offer myself up for my mistake, as I should’ve done the first time.”

You guided him gently to a bench and he described the rich house, the delicious array of food, the absence of people. He had thought it a miracle. Your heart beat in your ears as you took in everything he said. Bitter guilt clenched your chest when he recounted how he plucked a single flower from a tree that bloomed in winter, as a gift for you. That was how he’d met his host, a monster hiding in the shadows, waiting to ensnare him.

There was no old friend, as you’d expected. But this was something worse than a new loan from a wily moneylender.

“I must go,” your father lamented. “You must take care of the child to come. Promise me, daughter!”

The child…like a vision, you saw what needed to be done. It filled you with dread, but also with grim purpose. Your father cannot go. A child needed a father. You were only a girl – an unmarried girl, without dowry. You could not keep this family afloat.

You must take his place.

“Do you remember the way to his place?” you asked, mind working.

“A half day’s ride north, following the unmoving star,” your father answered, eyes fluttering close in painful memory. “Turn left at the toothed ridge until you find a crossroads. Take the right.”

You memorized the directions, then patted your father’s back consolingly. How fast your heart beat. Your blood was fire in your veins. “Why don’t you close your eyes a bit while I ready the horse, hm?”

Your father lurched forward. “No! I have to be there by the end of today, or he will – he will –”

“It’s still early,” you reasoned, coaxing him back. “Rest a while. Save up your strength to ride hard. I’ll wake you when I’ve prepared everything, alright?”  

He gripped your hand on his shoulder. “My daughter, my precious daughter. Thank you for understanding.”

As he slumped into sleep, your stepmother appeared at the door to their room, still half-unconscious, but aware enough to know something was amiss. “What is happening?”

You shook your head. “Take care of him,” you bade. “There are things I must do.”

You should be angry, and yet you couldn’t. What’s done is done.

You could not let your father go back.

You had to get away quickly. Gods willing, you would have set everything to rights and be on the way before he woke again. You put more wood in the fire and pulled the furs tighter around your father. You took half a loaf of old bread, changed into your hardiest dress and work boots, then slipped out into the rising sun to rouse the horse and saddle him. You would not allow yourself to second-guess, to find reasons to delay. You repeated your father’s directions over and over while you worked. When you urged the horse out of town, only the old man Lief saw you leave.

–

You rode through the cold, fixed upon your destination with determination. You tried not to think of what you would find, but still it crept in the edges of your thoughts. You could hardly trust a man who would threaten your father into sickness, even if he gave away food and shelter and treasure. Despite a steady gallop, the wind picked up by mid-morning, hooking freezing fingers under your clothes and forcing the horse to slow. Overhead, the sun remained hidden in a cover of clouds.

You had just taken the right path at the crossroads when your horse stumbled in the undergrowth, throwing you hard against the ground. It took a few moments for your vision to stop spinning, and to take stock of all your limbs. You were relatively unscathed, save for scratches and minor cuts, but a glance at your horse told you he had sprained a foot.

You did your best for it, allowing a quarter-hour before you forced yourself to move on. Delaying would only make things worse. Though you could not continue riding, you could continue on foot.

It was a brave effort, but with a lame horse to lead, and your dress catching at the brush, you were even slower than before. With the sinking heart, you continued on in the gathering night, breath misting in the lonely cold.

Hours must’ve passed, but you couldn’t turn back, for you were certain you were closer to your destination now than home. Even when the light began to fade, you plowed forward, for in doing so, you had a chance. If you stopped, you would freeze to death before the sun rose again.

You were mortally afraid your father had been mad at all. It was true the path he had described was there, but perhaps he had only imagined the house and the boy in his nightmares.

But the gold. The jewelry. Where else could it come from, but a monster from the stories?

At last, when you thought you fingers would fall off and you no longer knew if you were holding up the horse, or the other way around, your nose caught the faint whiff of smoke. You looked up, and there in the dark was a flicker of firelight.

You squashed down the desire to run headlong toward it, for it could be other men, camped down for the night. Caution urged you not to jump from one fatal path to another. You pulled out your knife from your boot. Your fingers would hardly close around the hilt, but you held it steady, for your life could depend on it.

Your fears were allayed when you abruptly stepped into a clearing, a great longhouse sitting upon the center. Fire flickered at a window. It could only be the place your father spoke of.

As you crossed into the open, you spotted a small white tree from the corner of your eye, and jumped, for you thought you had seen a person. In the faint light of the risen moon, the tree looked otherworldly, like the ghost of a woman who lived only in winter. Its branches hung low and full.

This was where your flower had come from. This was where your father was doomed. The thought kept you from coming close.

You did not know it, but like your father, you also came to the stables first, and left your horse in the same stall with water and hay to recover from the day’s trials. Before leaving, you brushed down your dress and rebraided your hair in an attempt to look more presentable. At the front door of the main house, you found the front door unlocked.

You stepped gingerly inside, and saw that it was just as your father described it. The great fire roared in the hearth, illuminating an enormous hall whose walls were painted and carved and filled with more treasure than you’d seen, buried in the silence of abandoned places. Your heartbeat echoed against your ears. Who would live in such opulence away from everyone else? All the wealthy people you’d once known made a point never to spend on anything they cannot flaunt in front of someone else.

This house was empty – empty save for torchlight that detached from the shadows of the room.

It moved close to the wall and down a dark hall, illuminating a path. You followed, thinking it was a servant, though you kept a hand on your knife, now hidden in your sleeve for easier reach. You reached an open door, and you were surprised to find a spacious room furnished richly. A dress was laid on top of the thick pile of furs, red as blood and glittering with ornate threadwork. The servant with the light had disappeared, though a shadow passed before your eyes as you turned on your feet searching, directing your attention to a steaming bath on an adjacent room.

Your cold exhaustion weighted heavier. Your aching body yearned to soak into the warm bath with fierce wanting and it took all your willpower not to strip then and there. You didn’t want to blind yourself to the generosity that must’ve put your father’s guard down as well.

You didn’t want to think that your father had not told you the specifics of the bargain he’d struck.

Do I have a choice? You were here now. You could not go back.

You went through the motions as quickly as you could, though part of you wanted to linger and savor the warmth and scent of the bathing oils by the tub. The dress fit perfectly, sliding over your skin as only expensive cloth can. You ignored the headdress and the hairpins that went with the dress, and plaited your hair loosely, as one would in the privacy of one’s home. You were not here to be pretty.

You put the knife in your sleeve and tried to feel that was enough.

Just as you were debating setting out in search of your host on your own, the flicker of a light appeared at the door once more. You followed the quiet figure, trying to catch a glimpse of a face to recognize it by, but the one who held the light was no more than shadow in the long corridor, evading approach.

You found yourself at the main hall once more. Just as before, your guide disappeared without a trace.

The smell of food brought you to the table before the fire, and found two table settings prepared. The rich flavor of herbed stew made your stomach curl in memory. When was the last time you’d seen whole fowl was served? The stew rich with herbs. It must’ve been at one of the king’s banquets for a foreign dignitary, a year or a lifetime ago.

Movement caught your eye, and you thought the servant had returned.

The figure at the door was unexpected. Without meaning to, the image that you’d conjured of your host in your head was more monster than man. But this was no beast. He was young, and handsome, broad at the shoulders and of tall stature even from a distance, his clothing rich as a nobleman’s.

You saw his legs last, twisted beneath him, unable to support his body without a crutch.

He noticed you notice it with unerring awareness and his entire countenance changed. You had judged too quickly, for there was that look in your host’s eyes: dark and desolate and cold as ice. Not even the golden fire could thaw the blue in them.

Here was the shadow that plagued your father.

You straightened and raised your chin against the fear, refusing to be cowed.

He noticed that too, and some hidden thought passed through his face as he broke the stillness, making his way toward you. His eyes never left you, like a hunter waiting for its prey to run. You held your ground by sheer will.  

“Sit,” he said, upon reaching the table.

Yes, he was young. His voice was so.

You follow the command, and he rests his crutches beside him before picking up the tankard to fill both your goblets.

“What’s your name?”

You tell him.

“Beauty?” he translated, pausing a moment to arch an eyebrow. “And how old are you?”

He picked up his knife and fork to carve the fowl. You endeavored to hold your silence, but when he sets a large serving upon your plate, you could not help but gasp sharply.

He glanced at you. “Eat. I can’t tell if you’re underage or just underfed.”

You pursed your lips, rising at the jab at your circumstances. “These are hard times.”

“So it would seem. Your father was famished when he arrived, and his clothes had seen better days. What misfortune could cause a man once clearly noble to be riding in the middle of winter, alone and unprepared?”

You did not want to hear of how your father has suffered. You’ve seen it well enough. You didn’t want to be reminded of how you’d left him behind. “I’m not inclined to share my misfortunes with someone who hasn’t even told me their name.”

A curious look came into his face, and the smile hovering at the edge of his lips turns less derisive. “I wonder which one you are: the youngest, the oldest? Did you and your sisters cast lots or did they vote to cast you out?”

“None,” you said, hiding your trepidation. There had been other girls? “I came of my own accord.”

He laughed as he pointed his knife at you. “And what lies did your father tell you? A house made of gold? A handsome prince?”

“He told me the truth, such as it is.”

He suddenly leaned forward, startling you, and you had your own knife out and on his neck before you knew what you were doing. He did not even flinch, though the blade pressed against his naked throat.

“You would not have come here knowing the truth, for I had scared your father beyond relief.”

You gritted your teeth, remembering how your father wept. “And yet here I am, prepared for far worse.”

“Far worse?” he mocked. “Am I not monstrous enough?”

“Disability does not make a monster,” you answered stonily. “Though if you explain why you take girls from their fathers, I might see where the idea comes from.”

If he pressed any closer, you would have to cut him for real, for his face was an inch from you, and you felt you could drown from the color of his eyes. “There is fear in you. Do not lie.”  

You inhaled deeply to steady your hand on the knife. “I fear what you want, not what you are.”

For a long time, he looked into your own eyes and said nothing, until you felt the room fall away. Then, in a quiet voice, softer–

“Beauty, why did you come? Willingly, too, as you said.”

The answer would do well on your gravestone. “I came to save my father.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “No one is that noble.”

“It isn’t nobility,” you disagreed gently. “It’s love.”

You lifted your eyes and was startled at the look on his face, open and unsure as he studied you. “Love,” he echoed, as if the word was unfamiliar to him.  

Perhaps it was, if he were the kind of person to scare a man to death for taking a flower.

He leaned back, and you dropped your knife. His attention was on the fire, thoughts far away and impenetrable. “The ones that cried on sight, I sent home the next day,” he said. “You were not crying, but if you had been dull-witted, it would’ve been the same, and you’d be back in your father’s arms before the neighbors raised questions.”

You held your breath. “So you’ll let me go.”

He shook his head. “You’re different. You, I will keep.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “Forever, I suppose.”

He had glanced at you, and your expression must’ve been plain on your face. His mouth curled into a bitter smile and his gaze became dark as he gave you back your space.

“Don’t worry, Beauty. It will not be as long as you think it might.”

You pressed, “What do you want of me then?”

He had picked up his fork to resume eating, as if the matter were trifling. “Nothing. I only ever wanted company.”

You stared at the food, but instead of appealing, it now made your stomach roil as a boat in a storm. “What does company entail, specifically?”

“Conversation. A dinner partner.”

“That is all?”

“Are you ready to offer anything more?”

You let the hooded comment pass. You sank into your thoughts, looking for insincerity in his words, clues in his expressions. But your thoughts had tangled hopelessly; nothing made sense.

After a while, he put down his fork again with a heavy sigh. “If you will not eat, then this is pointless.”

He stood, grabbing his crutch. Instinctively, you stood to help, then wondered if it would be welcome, so you ended up on your feet as if on ceremony.

“Your room is safe, you need not worry,” he said. “Every night we’ll have dinner. Beyond that, do what you want, you are not a servant. You may go where you wish, as long as you do not stray where you can no longer see the house’s fire or its smoke. And never go to the west hall.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so,” he said rashly, finally maneuvering out of the bench.

You opened your mouth as he turned, and he paused, head cocked to listen.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

He turned his face away, the words low enough to be swallowed by the crackling of the fire. “It’s Ivar. Ivar the Boneless.”

[themalhambird]

Wolves & Bastards

Chapter One.

“I should make rambling on in Privy Council meetings an offence punishable by lengthy imprisonment.”

Jane laughed as she poured wine from the silver pitcher in to two ornate

Goblets and brought them over to their bed. She handed one to Harry and ascended the wooden steps at the side of the bed to settle on the mattress next to him. “I don’t think you should.”

“I’m the King of Wyr.” Harry took a sip of wine. “My time is valuable.”

           “So make rambling on in Privy Council meetings an offence punishable by heavy fines,” Jane teased. “If it’s imprisonment, you’ll end up giving the windbags time alone to compose even lengthier, more rambling complaints.”

            “An excellent point.” Henry smiled at Jane, then looked past her to her chamber window. The rain was still drumming a relentless tattoo against the glass, and the stone walls of the castle. The weather had been foul for days now; his hopes that it might clear by the coming afternoon were going to be dashed. He wanted to go riding. He might anyway. He was fed up of being trapped inside, being forced to listen to old men whinge and wish that his father was still around- but first, Jane. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “How is our daughter?”

              “She’s in the nursery with her wet-nurse.” Jane set her wine and ran her hand up his calf to his thigh. “I am fine,” she said. Her eyes met his as traced a circle on his leg, and Henry’s smile widened.

               “Are you- “

             “My Lord-!” The door slammed open. Jane drew back as the King jumped, spilling his wine over the bedspread as he rolled to glare at the Earl of Bisclavret. “The queen-” Longspee pushed a lock of hair away from his damp forehead and back towards his ear as he caught up with his breath, “The baby- Harry, the Queen, her baby- “

              Jane recovered first.  “Have you forgotten how to knock?” she demanded. He glanced at her, contempt flashing those freakish orange eyes of his before he turned his attention back to King Henry.

              “My lord,” he said urgently, as Henry stared numbly at him. “The Queen is in labour.”

                “Not for another few weeks,” Henry felt like he was choking on the words as he tried to get them past his teeth. “She isn’t- the physicians. The astrologers! They all said…” he grabbed the edge of the mattress and lowered himself to his feet, turning to face the window. “It’s a bad omen,” he muttered, taking a step back as his eyes fixed on the tiny rivers forming on the outside of the windowpane. “Rain at the birth of princes. It’s always a bad sign.”

                 Longspee looked down. Jane crawled across the mattress and swung her feet to the floor. “My love.” She cupped Henry’s cheek and forced a gentle smile to her face. “My love, it will be fine. And if it isn’t fine, there’s nothing you can do about it, so there’s no point to worrying. Let me take your mind off things, hm? We could go and visit our daughter.” She pressed close to him. Henry took a deep breath and placed his hand over hers. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

                 “You’re right,” he murmured. “You’re always right, of course. And Blanche- Blanche will be- “he glanced over his shoulder, suddenly aware that Longspee was still there and holding the door wide open. “You can leave.”

                “The Mother Cardinal asked me to inform your grace that she would be saying prayers to the Queen Mother for your wife and child.” Longspee’s tone was carefully neutral. Henry sighed, then had to press his lips together to supress a snigger as he turned back to Jane in time to catch her rolling her eyes.

                  “Go, or you’ll be scolded,” she said, letting go of him. “Show your face for a rote or two to keep the crone quiet, then hurry back.”

                   Henry pressed her hand to his lips. “My word on it,” he promised, then kissed her mouth. He pulled away, but sighed, lingering briefly to caress her cheek. Then he turned and strode from the room.

                  Longspee bowed as Henry passed, then pulled the door to and fell in to step with the King. He said nothing, and Henry supressed a smile.  “You’re annoyed with me.”

                 “I’m not annoyed, my lord.”

                 “You’re a terrible liar Edward, you know that, don’t you?”

                  “I’m not annoyed,” Longspee repeated. Then, against his better judgment he said: “It’s just that- Phillipa is at Romdeen-and there’s still another three months to go and she writes every day to tell me that everything is fine but it’s still all I can do not to seize the fastest horse in the stables and ride straight home to be with her! And when the time comes, I’ll probably wear a hole through the floor waiting for any hint of news. And if the child comes early, I’ll be on my knees pleading with any of the Holies who care to listen to keep them and Phillipa safe!”

                 “The fastest horse in the stable is mine, steal it and you’ll find my glove in your face,” Henry retorted, “or possibly I’ll just clap you in irons for leaving Court without my permission. Anyway, you and Phillipa- it’s different. You’re disgustingly in love, you always have been. You wanted to marry her- she’s your wife.”

               “Queen Blanche is yours.”

              “No she isn’t.” Henry snapped. “Not really- not in any way that matters. I don’t love her, Edward, and I don’t want to fall in- it doesn’t count! Father was slipping back in to madness when the Duke of Releague tricked him in to signing that treaty- if he had been sane, he would have—”

            “Would have what?” Longspee retorted. “Let you marry Jane? Oh yes, every king in their right mind would far rather that their only legitimate heir married the object of their first, adolescent love affair- a minor gentlewoman with few connexions and even less money- over a daughter of Releague with a dowry of access to wealthy trading ports, the prospect of bringing the last of the Independent Duchies back under Wyrish control through a child who could inherit kingdom and dukedom both, the guarantee of peace with aforementioned Duchy just so long as the marriage lasted, and the sheer pleasure of showing three fingers to the Wroth Emperor and her plans for conquering everything! Oh, and before we forget: her actual dowry- a large influx of badly needed, cold hard cash. And regardless of your feelings about it,” he continued, though his voice softened, “Blanche is your queen. And you are about to have a child with her. I know that Lady Swanford has been your main concern these last eight months, but the girl the two of you had will never sit on the throne. You would find factions more willing to accept your half brother as King before they accepted a legitimate- “

                    Henry stopped short. “Edward,” he said. “Shut up.”

                    “My Lord,” Longspee bowed. Henry strode off, and Longspee followed a few steps behind, until they reached the Chancel and Henry stopped again.

                    He smoothed down his surcoat. He adjusted the rings on his fingers and put a hand to his head before he remembered that he wasn’t wearing the crown. Aware of Longspee behind him, and the two Chancel Knights standing guard on either side of the black, gaping hole that passed for a doorway in front of him, he combed his fingers through his hair. Then he squared his shoulders and stepped through the archway. He could feel the temperature drop with every few steps he descended. The air carried with it the heady scent of incense; expensive, exotic spices that their way in to his lungs with every breath he tried to take. It was the same cloying perfumery that had failed to mask the underlying stench of filth as his father sobbed and groaned in his sickbed. It was the same smell that had lingered on him for days when his mother’s body had been laid out in state in this very Chancel.

                   They would put Blanche down here if his child killed her. The realisation hit him like the ground after being unhorsed at a tourney, and Henry felt his stomach twist in knots as he reached the foot of the stairs, and stepped in to the small, octagonal room.

                 He hated being down here. The Chancel of the Holy Queen Mother was one of the oldest parts of the castle. It was stone, and very little else; there were no windows. The candles placed in to various nooks and crannies around the walls dispersed the gloom, but not the chill. The tomb containing the crumbling bones of Mathilde of Hydd, the mother of his ancestors who had won the throne over three hundred years ago, stood like an alter in the centre of the room. Ineffable silence and stillness pricked at Henry’s skin like knives.

                The Mother Cardinal stood at the head of Mathilde’s tomb. She had not looked up as he and Longspee entered; she did not look up as Henry sat down on the sole chair in the room, and Longspee sat next to him on top of the stone steps that ran around the edges of the room. She stood with her head bowed and her eyes closed, her frail fingers gripping the edges of the tomb as her lips moved silently. Wisps of white hair escaped from beneath the long grey veil that covered it. Henry debated as to whether or not he ought to clear his throat and decided against it. The diminutive, elderly woman presided at the head of a thousand different chancels and chapels and cloisters and oratories dedicated to a thousand different Holies and could keep every single one of them in line with little more than a raised eyebrow. She knew that her King was there, Henry thought sourly, she was just electing to ignore him. His marriage to Blanche had been her doing: she had advised his father; she had preformed the service; she was fonder of the Queen than she was of him, and never mind which of them she actually owed allegiance to-

                   Someone else slipped in to the room. Henry glanced across to see who it was and started in surprise. He got up and walked over as his half-brother sat on the steps on the other side of the door “Harchester?” he asked, frowning as he sat next to him.

           “I heard about the Queen. The news is…there’ll be more people, soon. Perhaps. It’s going around Court. And it’s raining.”

           “You’re dressed for riding.”

            Richard of Harchester hunched. “I’ll ride to Releague,” he muttered. “When we hear- whatever happens. To tell the Duke- “

        Henry briefly put a hand on his brother’s knee. The Mother Cardinal chose that moment to open her eyes and fixed them with a steely look. “Your Grace. If I might begin?”

        Henry flushed. “We are hardly stopping your eminence.” He said. Her mouth tightened. Silence returned. She closed her eyes.

       “That I may speak, and you might hear, that any gods that are left may hear my prayers through my lips or from yours,” she murmured to the bones and the memory of the long-dead mother of kings. The rotes were as familiar as breathing, to her, and this one in particular rose easily to her lips. She had said it for the Swanford woman, though no one had asked her to; she had said it for countless other women over the course of her life, noble or otherwise. But this time- this time she needed, from the very depths of her soul, to be heard. It was raining. She couldn’t hear the drumbeats from here, but she felt she could feel the walls vibrate with the force of them. Rain at the birth of Princes was never a good sign. She took a deep breath, and began, raising her voice so that her congregation, scant as it currently was, could hear. “Mathilde, mother of Kings and Queens; mother of the realm, grant strength to your daughter Queen Blanche in her travail…”

          King Henry shut his eyes.

                                                                  ***

Jane pushed her window open and stared out. She gripped at the golden wedding ring that hung from a chain around her neck so hard it made her hand hurt and stared as night spread across the sky. The downpour had become a torrent; the rain smashed against battlements and broke upon the aging cobblestones in the Courtyard. Streams rushed forth through the mouths of gargoyles from overflowing gutters. The smell of soaked earth and wet pine was caught by the wind as it moved through the nearby forest and laid siege to the castle, searching for a way through the stone. It howled as it rushed through Jane’s window, and rattled down her chimney, and made the fire in her hearth splutter and flare. Rain on the birth of princes. It was a bad omen. Jane leaned forward and yanked her window shut again as she wondered who, exactly, this was a bad omen for. With the glass back in place, the noise outside grew quieter- as though it was all suddenly very far away. Jane exhaled. Rain was a bad omen on the birth of princes— it had been raining when Henry’s father had been born and look how that ended. In madness. A pity it hadn’t happened sooner. If Harry had become king earlier, free to marry where he chose…

          If Blanche had a son…

         Jane felt suddenly tired. She ached- she wanted a bath, or to sleep. Perhaps both. She had sent her ladies away when they came to her after lunch, a twitter of silly hens- she regretted that now. She could do with the company. Someone to gossip with. Someone to tell her that women died all the time in childbirth, and even if they didn’t, the child might. Children died all the time. Few boys lasted long enough to turn in to men. And even if Blanche survived, and her brat survived- what did that matter. The King didn’t care about them. The King loved her. And their daughter—

         If Blanche had a son…

         “I am the Queen!” she shouted, slamming her palm against the wall. It stung. Good. “I am the Queen in everything but name!” She hit it again. Thunder rolled in; lightning flickered across the seething sky as she spun round, stormed to the door and wrenched it open. The ladies all stood and bobbed curtsies as she entered her daughter’s nursery; she ignored them and went straight over to the crib.

         Isabel was asleep. Jane leant over and stroked her sweet, tiny little nose, smiling despite herself. A girl, yes, but Harry’s girl- undeniably. She had his raven hair, and her eyes, when they were open, were green like his. And Harry adored her. He had been sweet and attentive throughout her pregnancy, for the most part. He adored his daughter. He was in love with Jane—

        Except he had promised her, once, that he would never sleep with the woman he had been made to call his wife. And he hadn’t yet come back from prayers.

                                                                  ***

It sounded like the rain was dying down.

        Blanche was exhausted, and she hurt, sweat and salt water clung to her face, but none of that mattered. “I want to hold him,” she insisted, as she struggled to push herself up. In a moment, Lady Anne was at her side, helping her to settle upright against the cushions. “I want to hold him,” she repeated, leaning past her friend and making grabbing motions in the direction of her son, and the midwife who was holding him hostage from her.

      “In a moment, look you,” Mistress Parry scolded. She smiled at the Queen’s eagerness, but she still had to make sure that the little prince was clean and swaddled warmly before the Queen could have him back. It had taken a few, heart stopping moments for the boy to start to cry, but he was crying now. No harm seemed to have been done by his being early, and Mistress Parry suspected that somewhere, a man had made a mistake in his calculations of the due date.

                                                                   ***

A son.

The ladies all sunk deep in to curtsies as Henry stepped in to the room. He raised them up with a cursory wave of his hand, glancing around the room.  “Our son?” he asked. A woman he took to be the wet-nurse stepped forward with a squirming bundle in her arms. He took the boy from her, gazing down at him for a moment. The boy looked up at him with round, grey eyes. He looked from his son to Blanche, who looked…radiant. “He has your eyes,” he realised. He hesitated, then went over to the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him as he sat on the edge. “Do you have a name for him?” he asked.

              Blanche reached out and stroked their son’s cheek. “Richard,” she said.

             “Richard?” Henry knit his brows together. “After my brother?”

             Blanche smiled as though she would laugh if she weren’t quite so tired. “After my father, my lord, and your father’s father. I thought it was fitting.”

            “Of course,” Henry said, looked down at his son. “Richard,” he smiled. “Hello, Richard.”

            Blanche hesitated. “My ladies inform me that Lady Swanford was delivered of a daughter three weeks ago,” she said softly.

           Henry looked up. Blanche’s gaze was clear and steady, her face open and innocent, and he felt a twinge of shame. “Yes,” he muttered. Blanche nodded, once.

         “I don’t suppose that you would send them away if I asked.”

          “She’s my daughter.” Henry said, “She’s not going anywhere.” He tightened his grip on Richard. His son gave an uncertain wail. Henry glanced down and, with effort, relaxed his grip. “Richard will have precedence,” he said, to reassure her.

         “Of course he will,” Blanche replied, as though there was no reason, she would have doubted it. “I am your wife, and your Queen, my lord; your daughter’s mother is a whore.”

         Blood rushed to Henry’s face. He leapt to his feet, looming over the bed. Richard began to cry in earnest; one of the women was immediately at his elbow taking the child from him; Henry let him go, eyes fixed on the boy’s mother. “How dare you,” he snapped, all earlier guilt at the pain he might have caused her expunged in an instant. “How dare you- “

      Blanche shrugged one shoulder, apparently unconcerned by his temper. Henry was suddenly aware of the crest emblazoned on the bed hangings behind her. The Green Dragon of Releague was glaring at him, wingspan spread wide and fire blazing from its maw.

      Henry took a deep breath. “Our brother will ride to Releague to inform our father in law of the birth of his grandson.” he said, fists clenched. “And of the good health of his daughter. Is there any message you would like him to pass on?”

      “Tell him that his daughter will bring his grandson to visit him before the year is out,” Blanche said coolly.

       Henry scoffed. “She will not,” he said.

       Blanche raised her chin. “Then tell him he is welcome to come and meet his namesake here,” she said. “If that is everything, my lord, I am tired, I wish to sleep.”

       Henry bowed exited the room. He had a son, he reminded himself, as he tried to recapture that feeling of elation he had had when he heard the news. A male heir- there would be celebrations throughout Wyr for weeks. Celebrations for the Court had been in the works for weeks already, he knew: Longspee and the Lord Marshal had both tried to interest him in the arrangements they were organizing. He had been busy with Jane and ordered them to leave him alone and get on with things themselves.

          He wished he hadn’t. He wished he knew what was going to happen.

                                                               ***

It was a few days’ ride to Releague, but Richard Harchester liked to be useful. That was one of the consequences of being a royal bastard- he felt compelled to prove that there was a point to his existence other than causing the irretrievable breakdown of the King and Queen’s marriage. Besides.  The Duke’s rank entitled him to expect that news of his grandchild would be delivered by someone of rank, not any old messenger, and Richard had liked the Queen’s father when they met at the wedding.

        He dug his spurs in to his horse’s side, urging it on towards the approaching dawn.

         Rain continued to fall.

[broadwaybaggins]

Hi Allison! Here is your Secret Santa present! It’s a modern AU, inspired by “Eloise at Christmastime”– which is, incidentally, my favorite Christmas movie, but I chose it here because I thought it provides a story for our dear Mary/Matthew and your original Downton OTP, Sybil/Tom. Because S/T is actually how I started following you, years ago now!

This is just part 1, an introduction really; the rest will come asap (December really got away from me) but I wanted to have at least a little something ready today. I hope you enjoy it!

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

It was the week before Christmas. Outside, the first dusting of snow had fallen, and inside, the staff were caught up in a whirlwind of preparations. Despite the hotel manager’s meticulous oversight and planning, there was always plenty to do– even before something went wrong, as it always did, and made extra work. That mishap, any time of year, usually could be traced back to the little girl who now stood in the middle of the great hall, watching as porters put up the Christmas tree.

She was examining them carefully, leaning first one way and then the other and then back again. Finally, she decided that the tree tilted just a little to the left, and told the porter so. However, she did not linger to see whether her recommendation was carried out (although it was), instead skipping off to the front desk, where she cut ahead of the line.

“Good morning, Mr. Carson!” she sang out, accompanied by a chorus of clucking from the two elderly ladies she had interrupted. “Are there any messages for me?”

“Yes,” the hotel manager replied solemnly, “–the Royal Ballet has asked you to appear as Clara in their production of The Nutcracker.”

Alice considered a moment, and then sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid I must decline.  I shall be too busy playing Tiny Tim. But perhaps next year.”

He nodded. “Indeed. I must also tell you that Mrs. Patmore has just finished a batch of gingerbread biscuits and needs your taste-testing.”

“That, I can do!” she exclaimed, beaming.

“Now, Miss Alice, I’m afraid I have work to do. But I am sure I will see you later.” He looked to the ladies apologetically.

“Alright, I’m sure you will.”

She headed away, in the direction of the kitchen, but was soon distracted by a girl at the end of the line who was holding a puppy.

“Oh, he’s adorable! What’s his name?”

“Snowball,” the girl replied.

“How darling!” Alice petted the dog, as she kept talking.  “Are you staying at Downton for Christmas? I hope so! It is truly the most wonderful time of year. It’s all decorated, as you see, and there’s the big tree, and there’s so many parties, and when it snows a little more there will be sleigh rides!”

“Yes, my family is staying here,” the girl said. “And yours? Have you been here before?”

“I live here, with my parents and grandparents. My family has always lived here, even before it was turned into a hotel after the war.”

“Oh!”

“It was called Downton Abbey then. Abbey, because monks used to live here a long, long time ago. But then it was the Crawleys, just by themselves. But my mum’s grandfather changed it to the Abbey Hotel, and I’m glad he did!”

The girl nodded.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you again this week! But I have to go now.” Alice kissed the dog’s nose, and then she was off again. On her way to the kitchen, she passed by the sofas in the hall where newly-arrived guests could rest their feet. On one, she noticed, sat a man in a grey trench coat and hat. Only his eyes were visible over the top of his newspaper. That was certainly peculiar; and even more peculiar, when he noticed her looking, he immediately raised his newspaper to hide entirely.

She decided not to investigate further at this very moment– the prospect of fresh-baked biscuits was too overwhelming– but she filed it away to think about later.

Upstairs was a coordinated sort of busy, but downstairs was chaotically so. Alice loved it– especially because Mrs. Patmore, the chef, always had a moment to spare for her (and a sweet treat to try). Everyone had a soft spot for the earl’s little granddaughter– even though some, like the housekeeper Mrs. Hughes, were more reluctant to admit it.

“Mr. Carson said you made gingerbread!”

“I did.” Mrs. Patmore wiped her hands on her apron, and led Alice over to the table, where trays of gingerbread people sat cooling.  

Alice delicately bit off the corner of the gingerbread lady’s skirt, and pronounced it, “Scrumptious!” She reached for another for the road, but the cook intervened.

“Your mother will have my head if I give you two biscuits before breakfast.”

“It’ll be our secret! Pinky promise.” Alice smiled angelically, and truly it was difficult to deny that sweet little face. She had inherited her father’s blue eyes, and her mother’s bright smile.

“Alright, then,” Mrs. Patmore relented, and Alice tucked the second into the pocket of her jumper.

Someone approached behind them. “How fine these look!” he said. “May I?”

Alice turned around, at the familiar voice. “Tom!” she exclaimed. “You’re in the kitchen! Are you helping as a waiter again?”

Tom Branson was one of her particular friends among the Abbey’s staff. He worked as a driver, usually, and they had met when he began driving Alice to school. He was a wonderful storyteller, with his specialty being Irish history.

He nodded. “Mr Carson has drafted me, in anticipation of a special event due to take place on Christmas Eve.”

“Ooh, what’s that?” Alice demanded. She prided herself on knowing all that went on within the Abbey, and she had not heard of anything out-of-the-ordinary on Christmas Eve this year.

Tom shook his head. “It’s still a secret, even to us. You must let me know what you hear.”

“Of course. But wait–” Alice’s brow furrowed. “Does that mean you’re not going home to Ireland?”

“I’ll go that evening, after– and arrive in time for midnight Mass, to Mam’s great relief.”

Alice nodded. “Oh, good.”

“It’s nearly nine o’clock, dear,” Mrs. Patmore informed them. “Your parents have rung for breakfast.”

“I’d better go! Thanks for the biscuits! And I’ll tell you if I find out anything but you must also tell me if you do.”

“You can bet on it.”

And Alice took off running upstairs. She and her parents lived in a suite on the second floor, right next door to her grandparents. Her great-grandmother lived down the hall. There were two other suites there, for guests, and then individual rooms on the upper floors.

Mary and Matthew were still in their dressing gowns, just sitting down to breakfast, when their daughter burst into the apartment and let the door slam behind her. She took her place at the table, where there was a bowl of porridge waiting for her.

“Hello, Al,” Matthew said. “How were the morning rounds?”

“Full of ribbons and holly and jingle bell cheer! I helped them put up the Christmas tree,” Alice reported, “and I saw Tom. He’s being a waiter for something happening on Christmas Eve. Do you know what that is?”

Mary and Matthew exchanged a glance. They did know, for Mary was her father’s second-in-command in all hotel business.

“Ugh.” Alice sighed. “Is it something only for grown-ups?”

“No, you’ll find out soon enough,” Mary promised. “But your Aunt Sybil wants to tell you herself.”

Alice’s eyes grew wide. “Auntie Sybil? She’s coming here? When?”

The family had, for all of Alice’s short life, gone to visit Sybil in America. Alice sometimes had trouble believing that her favorite aunt had grown up at Downton too.

“She’s coming back for good,” Mary said, before suddenly and deftly catching Alice’s hand just as she was about to spill a fourth spoonful of sugar into her porridge and steering the sugar back into its proper bowl. “That is far too much,” she scolded. “Must we have this conversation every morning?”

“We must,” Alice replied, now stirring in a generous serving of cream. “Porridge by itself is yucky.”

“It’s good for you, darling, and I’m afraid some things that are good for you just won’t be terribly pleasant.”

Alice turned pleading eyes to her father, but to no avail.

“Listen to Mummy,” Matthew said. “She always knows.”

And Mary knew then to change the subject. “Aunt Sybil is arriving later this morning. I have some work to do, so will you keep a lookout and meet her for me?”

“Yes!” Alice took one bite of her by now syrupy porridge, before pushing it away. “I just have to feed Dinah and Mrs. Piggle-wiggle first and then I’ll go.” These two were her cat and pet hedgehog.

She slid off the chair, and went round the table to Mary. “Love you, Mummy.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. Next she went to her father, and did the same. “Bye, Daddy.” And then she ran off once more.

“I’ve assigned Tom to drive the Allsops to York,” Mary said, once Alice was out of earshot. “He’ll be gone all day.”

Matthew nodded slowly. “That’s one day. But they must meet eventually.”

“Well, we have one more day to prepare ourselves.” She sighed, before holding out one hand. “Help me up? I ought to get dressed.”

He let out a theatrical sigh as he did so. “Phew!”

“Oh, shut up,” she replied, but fondly, resting a hand on her rounded stomach. “If I’m too heavy, you have only yourself to blame.”

“True, and I’ll gladly take responsibility for that.”

Now it was her turn to sigh. “Ugh, why does Sybil have to be getting married now? We’ve never met the man– what’s the rush? I say wait til spring, so we’ll know this Larry properly, and I’ll have my figure back.”

“Both matters of equal importance,” he teased.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” His expression softened, and he put his arms around her and kissed her forehead. “It’ll all sort itself out, I know it.”

“Well, I admire your confidence.” She returned the hug, and then said, “Alright, time to go. Busy day– busy week– ahead of us.”

Oh my goodness, this is beyond cute! I love Eloise, and the best part about this is there’s MORE TO COME! I’m so excited! Thank you so much, my dear!

[katybirdy95]

MARGARET OF YORK, DUCHESS OF BURGUNDY -  (3 May 1446 -  23 November 1503) Children of York

Margaret was born on the 3 May 1446 in Fotheringhay Castle. She was the youngest daughter and seventh child of the Duke of York and his Wife, Cecily Neville.

At the age of eight her father made plans to marry her off to Charles the bold, her future husband, but due to threats of war the marriage betrothal was destroyed. She would marry him fourteen years later on the 3 July 1468 between 5 am to 6 am in the house of a wealthy merchant.

A good-looking woman, but (rarely for the hyperbole of her age) never described as beautiful, Margaret had fine features, and was, at almost 6 feet, very tall, a feature accentuated by her slimness, and her straight and upright bearing. Her eyes were grey, and her mouth was small; her smile allowed her to demonstrate her wry humour, her wit, and her graciousness.

In appearance, she was utterly unlike the dark and burly Duke Charles the Bold, who was shorter than her: when they met for the first time, she was forced to bend in order to receive his kiss. But her intelligence was keen, and her will strong; she made a worthy bride for the Duke in nature.

Some of Margaret’s interest included - reading (her favourite past time), riding, hunting and falconry.

She became a surrogate mother to her young step-daughter, Mary of Burgundy, who she shared a close bond with, Mary also shared a great interest in the same hobbies as Margaret.

She was very close with her younger brother, George of Clarence, whom she would write to on a daily basis. They had ‘plotted’ together a marriage proposal for him and Margaret’s step-daughter when George’s wife, Isabel, died in childbirth, but the plan was rejected by her eldest brother, Edward IV.

When George was on trial for high treason, Margaret and her mother, Cecily Neville, pleaded for the young duke’s life, but because women were not allowed to be present during a trial, their appeals for mercy were rejected.

It was said by her mother-in-law, Isabella of Portugal, whom Margaret had an excellent relationship with, that she was -

“ well pleased with the sight of this lovely lady, and pleased with her manners and virtues ”.

A capable ruler, she proved a masterful Duchess; she was a Yorkist in sympathies, but she was before that the Duchess of Burgundy. She bore no male heir to succeed to the Duchy, but she preserved it from ruin; to her actions can be ascribed the survival of the Burgundian state, and the prevention of French dominance in Europe.

It was in the wake of her husband's death that Margaret proved truly invaluable to Burgundy. She had always been regarded as a skilful and intelligent politician; now, she went beyond even that. To her stepdaughter, Mary, now Duchess of Burgundy, she gave immeasurable guidance and help: using her own experiences in the court of Edward IV, where she had largely avoided being used as a pawn and contributed to the arrangement of her own marriage, she wisely guided the Duchess in deciding her marriage; against the wave of marriage offers that flooded to the two Duchesses in Ghent, she stood firm, and advised Mary to marry Maximilian of Habsburg, the 18-year-old son of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III, to whom Charles the Bold had betrothed Mary, and who was ambitious and active enough, in Margaret's opinion, to defend Mary's legacy.

Mary of Burgundy and Maximilian of Habsburg named their first daughter after Margaret and the duchess also stood in as Godmother to their son, Philip the Handsome.

Margaret was however dealt a devastating blow in 1482: her much loved stepdaughter, Mary, fell from her horse whilst hunting, and broke her back. The injuries were fatal, and Mary died on 27 March.

This was not the end of the problems for Margaret and Maximilian. In 1488, Maximilian was taken prisoner in Bruges by the citizens, and was freed only upon making far-reaching concessions. The next year, he was summoned back to Austria by his father, the Emperor; Burgundy was left to be governed by Margaret together with the Burgundian Estates, both of whom also undertook the guardianship of the young Duke Philip, although Maximilian continued to take a distant interest in the country, and a greater interest in his children.

By this time, Margaret had already suffered more personal tragedies. Her brother, the Duke of Clarence, had been executed by Edward IV in 1478; Edward himself had died of illness in 1483 and finally, her younger brother Richard, who took the throne as Richard III was in 1485 killed at the Battle of Bosworth by the leader of the House of Lancaster, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a cousin and nephew of Henry VI, who went on to become Henry VII, and to marry the daughter of Edward IV, Elizabeth of York. With the death of Richard, the House of York ceased to rule in England. Margaret consequently was a staunch supporter of anyone willing to challenge Tudor, and backed both Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck, even going so far as to acknowledge Warbeck as her nephew, the younger son of Edward IV, the Duke of York. Warbeck was probably an imposter, and would be locked up in the Tower of London and subsequently executed by Henry VII. Henry in fact found Margaret undoubtedly problematic, but there was little he could do, since she was protected by her stepson-in-law Maximilian. 

Margaret died on 23 November 1503, at the age of 57, shortly after the return of her step-grandson, Philip the Handsome, to Burgundy. Her death in that year allowed her to be spared the grief of Philip's untimely death of typhoid fever in 1506.