charles de beaumont. 

Charles de Beaumont learned from a young age that there were only two types of flowers: the variety which grows in a private garden, catered to and watered by hand, and that which blooms in the wild, surviving on naught but the strength of its roots. Once full grown, there was a fundamental difference between the two – even despite comparable beauty: that which was grown in a man’s greenhouse inevitably spent its whole life waiting to be pulled up and put on display as either a bloom beheaded or a corsage crowned.

It was the unspoken curse of nobility, he decided. Those belonging to the gentry lived with this duality of uncertainty overhead whether they knew it or not, and with each new day, they all took a roll of the die and gambled for a chance to be a rose in a bell jar, far and above the meager daisies and common violets that sprouted at whim. Among the weeds were those forced to pay the price for their unexciting affliction, such as the defendant he witnessed be sentenced to death during today’s trial. Try as he might, Charles could not erase the sheer brutality the accused had been dealt in front of the eyes of the noble court. And so, he sought to escape all thought of it for a little while, and brought along his lute to a corner of the castle where he believed nary a soul crept at this hour of the night. He sang and strummed, his hands manipulating the strings as deftly as a soldier commanded his sword or a queen played her king, and weaved a mournful little tune for himself and his surprise audience lurking in the shadows. Sensing the presence, Charles ceased playing and asked with a voice so weary, it might’ve disguised him entirely. “Have you a request?”

           Isabel was always restless. It was common for the Duchess to be awake when it seemed more reasonable for her to be asleep. She had slipped out of her chambers, passed the sleeping guards and carried on down the corridor. There was a calm in the silence, one which she welcomed. Sometimes, it was easier if she imagined that she was the only person in the world. If she did not enjoy finery so much, perhaps she would have been content to live on an island on her own. But, alas, she had inherited her father’s wits. Sapphire eyes narrowed at the sight of her husband tucked away in the corner of the castle, playing his lute as though he were its master. 

  ❛  Play whatever you like, ❜  she murmured distantly, struggling her cloak closer to her body. Despite the early summer warmth which made the days mild, there was still a chill at night which caused the lady to shudder. Isabel kept her gaze away from her husband, instead, she stared out of the window blankly.  There was a time in the early months of her marriage when she had tried to be more open, less cold. But after their loss, Isabel felt as though any warmth and affection which she felt for her husband had been swallowed up. It was numbness which she felt in his presence.   ❛  What keeps you awake, husband? ❜  Isabel enquired, not once looking at him. 

Isabel Neville, requested by anon.

costança of aragon‌.

she’s dressed in her most beautiful pink dress, the silk fabric clinging to her perfectly imperfect shape. and while there is a soft smile gracing her features, her eyes are not smiling. there’s almost no light in them. how can she enjoy even a second of this court gathering, when she the reason they are all here is the death of queen mother margaret? she does not understand how a death can be the reason for anyone’s happiness? and in times like this, the infanta feels almost like a child with her perfectionist way of thinking. utopia is not an option. a glass of wine is in the princess’s hand and she takes a small sip. she’s lost in thought, wondering when will she meet the prince she’s supposed to marry, when will she see her father, when will she see a known face? it is truly a curse to be surrounded by people and feel alone at the same time, the princess feeling like her own freedom is slipping through her fingers. costança only then realises, she’s bumped into someone, almost spilling her wine on them. the brunette glances up, aquamarine hues taking in the appearance of the person before her. “i promise, that’s not how we greet people in aragon. do excuse me, please?”

            Everything about the Duchess of Bedford was cold and immaculate. Her actions were a direct reflection of her fine breeding. Isabel listened patiently to the squawking courtiers, who all had a touch of gossip on their tongue. She nodded graciously as they spoke, adding a response only when it was polite to do so. It was a practised art, once which required refinement. She remembered her sister once asking her if she ever got tired of acting so perfect, Isabel had merely smiled conspiratorily at Anne. She felt a body collide with her own, although it only forced her feet to take a misstep to the side.  ❛  It is no bother, madam,  ❜  she responded through her teeth, a false smile on her lips. The woman’s clumsiness irritated her.  ❛  Is this your first time in England?  ❜ 

What is it? What is it? 

ofplantagenetprince‌:

The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten as dawn approached. The palace was still quiet except for the staff who work even earlier to prepare for the day. As for William, he’s grown up in this palace and as a child had managed to find all the nooks and crannies to slip unnoticed by anyone. Though it was no secret that the prince usually went out riding on the moors. He’d always loved horses and riding. He owned a dozen different horses in the stables and he tried to ride all of them. Though a black mare was his favorite.

That morning he had led that same black mare from her paddock and was placing the saddle onto her back himself. He already had dismissed the stable hand with a ‘I was never here’ and who was he to defy the prince. He hadn’t said anything in all the time William had been coming there. It wasn’t like he couldn’t go riding, it was more frowned upon especially considering his position.

He finished buckling the saddle and had been so focused on the task it took the horse to give a soft neigh to catch the prince’s attention to take note of the sound of approaching footsteps. “The stable hand stepped out he’ll return shortly if you’re looking to go out riding.”  

             Long skirts rippled over the dry grass, while the ends of her hair rippled in the light wind. The morning was beautiful and Isabel often witnessed the early hours of the day. She had always been a light sleeper and the slightest band of light into her chambers may as well have been beaming sunlight, for it roused her quickly from her fretful sleep. But, alas, she never let her lack of sleep show. Her face was often moulded like stone, a stoic expression adopted from childhood. 

She found herself walking towards the stables, not that she had any intention of riding. It was highly improper for her to ride alone, but she could certainly go and visit the horses. Isabel imagined that they might feel caged like she did, and any wild gallops were merely a piece of stolen freedom. The Duchess of Bedford did not expect to encounter the Prince of Wales so early in the morning. 

❛ Your Highness, ❜ she addressed the Prince, effortlessly curtsying to him. After the appropriate amount of time had passed, she rose and smiled politely. It was not often at all that Isabel would forget the manners.  ❛ It is not a ride which I came for. My horse Lady has been a little unsettled recently, I wished to check on her. ❜

❝ ⤚⟶ ENGLAND, 1458… can’t you see ISABEL NEVILLE, the DUCHESS OF BEDFORD from ENGLAND coming this way? they are at best LOYAL, and at their worst HAUGHTY. whilst residing in england, their ambition is to GAIN MORE FAVOUR AND HAVE A CHILD. SHE seems to remind everyone of ELEANOR TOMLINSON & THE COLD OF THE FIRST SPRING DAY, HIDDEN TEARS AND STEEl GAZES. ❞

The Nevilles were always a proud, noble and ambitious family, her father in particular courted the favour of the King and stretched his fingers too close to the crown. He always considered himself invincible, believing that a royal friendship would keep him safe. When his first daughter was born, he promised her that the world would one day be her own. She was his favourite and snatched the spot in his heart, which left very little room for her sister. 

Isabel was always the perfect lady, often to a fault. She stuck her nose up at others, especially those who were newly ennobled. The Neville’s had held titles for hundreds of years, and her father always impressed upon her the importance of a family name. Behind her back, people whispered that she was forged from ice and she had no warmth in her heart for anyone who didn’t have the Neville name. It was an unfair judgement, she thought. Despite appearances, Isabel was a loyal friend to those whom she liked and she always treated them well. 

When she reached nine years, her father was tried for treason. Isabel always thought his enemies conjured falsehoods to bring down her beloved father. When her father was found guilty, the shame of his treachery was branded upon her - but she never left another see it. Isabel concealed her pain and put on a brave face, especially when her mother was requested to marry a lord loyal to the crown - likely to keep her in line. 

In the years which followed her father’s execution, the Neville family regrouped and found their pride once more. Her mother’s marriage offered them a slight reprieve from the judgemental glances of others, who still condemned them for her father’s actions. Her step-father was a shield which they could find strength behind and while she offered him no daughterly love, she was always courteous enough. 

It came as a surprise that a betrothal was arranged between her and the Duke of Bedford, even though she was a member of the old nobility. Isabel hoped that her marriage would grant her the freedom to be her own woman and to make a name for herself. She was always loyal to the memory of her father, and it was his strength and determination which ran through her veins. 

Her marriage to Charles was disappointing. Perhaps, she was too cold towards him and was considered vapid, but she found herself unhappy in her marriage. A temporary peace came when she found herself with child - it was the promise that she had something to look forward to. But her pains came to early and she was left with nothing more than an empty bassinette.

In the months which followed her miscarriage, Isabel grew more distant from her husband and blamed him for it, even if it was not his fault - but she had wanted to blame someone.

Isabel is desperate to become pregnant again, to feel the sense of fulfilment and value which she derived from that experience. She also wants to be respected at court, to be coveted as others are. Secretly, she also hopes that she can make her marriage work, but that seems to be the most challenging task of them all. 

You are not alone. You have me and I will never leave you I promise, we will always have each other