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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 2: Dusk]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 4.0k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

The girl is from Milan, and Daeron is enamored with her: bright-eyed, beaming, blood rosy in his cheeks. Her name is Nicolosa, though she is adamant that everyone should call her Nico. She is one of those effortlessly informal people. She laughs too loudly and says all the wrong things, too-honest observations that would be offensive if the person breathing life into them was anyone but her. She spins around the hall as violins and lutes play, swinging from the willing arms of chuckling noblemen, an aisle of light in a goldenrod gown, the sun made flesh. She has the luxury of dancing until breathless, until she glows with the sheen of exertion. She could not possibly be carrying a child; she will not be wedded and bedded for another year.

This is a great triumph for Otto the Duke of Hightower. Milan under the House of Sforza is an enviable ally, wealthy and sophisticated, and eager for friends who will one day be willing to assist them in resisting French encroachment. This is the deal that the Duke of Hightower has struck. True, Daeron is still rather young to take a bride. True, Nico’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Milan, were insistent that they would concede to the match only if the marriage and consummation was postponed until next August. True, this does not resolve the immediate concern of Aegon’s lack of an heir. But it is another tile of a mosaic, another thread in the patchwork of the Greens’ objectives, another brick in a castle wall from which boiling oil could be poured down upon invaders.

The Duke of Hightower is accepting warm congratulations from the nobility of Southern England: Norfolk, Gloucester, Somerset, Buckingham, Suffolk, Clarence, Exeter. Those of the North—Lancaster, York, Stark—shun him. They stand instead with Rhaenyra, admiring her two eldest sons, pretending not to notice how little they resemble the late Laenor Velaryon. The Crown Princess is wearing black accented with maroon, as she almost always is. She sends a small, reassurance-seeking smile to where Daemon sits at the high table, and he raises his cup to her, his face sly, arrogant, proud. They love each other, this is clear; it may not be an especially conventional love, and it may be a love that emboldens rather than tames, but it is love nonetheless. This does not make your resignation to your own fate any easier. Queen Alicent, laughing as she joins Daeron and Nico dancing, is dressed in dark green to match her father and her children. You often wear purple, the color of royalty…just to remind people that you still deserve to be here.

You are at the high table too, albeit on the opposite side from Daemon; the Blacks are always seated to King Viserys’ right, while the Greens are on his left. Aemond doesn’t dance, you aren’t permitted to, Aegon is too drunk. He’s apparently not too drunk to leer, however; his bleary storm-blue eyes follow Lady Joanna Montford as she glides across the floor like a shark through surf, flashing luring eyes and flirtatious simpers. You’re a better dancer than she is, but of course that doesn’t matter, because no one ever gets to see you do it. Aegon won’t go so far as to touch her in public—he would consider that discourteous, you think—but he’s sleeping with her, and everyone knows he’s sleeping with her, and you can’t even truly wish he’d stop because you don’t want him in your bed anyway. But the humiliation of it…the hopelessness…that is more difficult to come to terms with.

“Portugal,” Daemon tells Aegon nonchalantly. “You could have married some princess from Portugal.”

Aegon guzzles his wine and says nothing. Aemond—scribbling messy lines of black ink onto parchment at the end of the table—glances up at you and then back down again.

Daemon continues: “The Infanta Maria was wed around the same time you were, and she’s produced a more than satisfactory son for her husband. Hugely fat, practically hoglike, I’ve seen portraits.”

“Daemon, please,” King Viserys scolds mildly, smiling as he watches Rhaenyra mingle with nobles who wouldn’t mind burning you alive if it meant the Blacks would ascend more seamlessly to the throne. The king has her son Joffrey in the chair next to him and has enthralled the boy with stories of jousts, hunts, feasts, Christmases and May Days. You wonder if he’s ever shown such interest in any of his children with Alicent. If he has, you aren’t aware of it.

“Or Savoy,” Daemon says. “Not as cultured as Milan, this cannot be denied, but of great strategic significance geographically. One foot in France, the other in Italy. I’ve heard wonderful things about Princess Louise. Very athletic, very…” He smirks, biting into a pomegranate. Ruptured seeds spurt juice like the gleam of rubies. “Flexible.”

“Oh, look, Prince Daemon.” You point into the crowded hall. “I think your wife is beckoning you to join her. Your third wife, I mean, the most recent one. The one who also happens to be your niece.”

“Or Naples!” Daemon exclaims, as if it has just occurred to him, as if he hasn’t been waiting to torment you like a wolf shadows a wounded stag, saliva filling up its mouth, fangs bared and dripping. Southerners detest Daemon because they fear he is mad; but that’s exactly what the North likes about him. “Or perhaps even—would we dare to hope?—a princess of France! Think of it! The poor Duke of Hightower would not know what to do with himself, he would be so delighted. At his age, the shock might just kill him.”

“Daemon,” King Viserys warns again.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be giving us so many ideas,” Aegon says, slurping his wine. “Aemond is still unspoken for, and now we have a tidy list of candidates to consider. How thoughtful of you.”

“Or you simply could have made the same arrangement that you did but in reverse,” Daemon goes on as if no one else has spoken at all. “You could have taken a Castilian bride, and Helaena could have been shipped off to the Pyrenees, and your circumstances would be wildly different than they are now. Princess Lucia would have been the right age for you. Do you want to know what she gave to her new husband this past Christmas?”

“I surely don’t,” Aegon replies.

Daemon grins beneath glinting eyes. “Twins.”

“Enough,” Aemond says, dark and quiet like midnight.

Now Daemon addresses you, resting his elbows on the table. “How many more chances do you think they’ll give you, Navarre, before some providential technicality that voids your marriage contract is discovered and you are discarded of in a nunnery?” Another bite of the pomegranate; another freckling of bloodlike red across the tablecloth. “The globe is crawling with royal women, they’re fish in a barrel, why would anyone jeopardize their dynastic ambitions for you?”

“My wife belongs where I am,” Aegon says: a fact, a dare. “And I will hear no more of it.”

You look at him, grateful but a little stunned. He does this sometimes. He will choose a seemingly arbitrary moment to make a show of loyalty, and then he will never mention it again. He doesn’t return your glance. Instead, he picks apart a roasted chicken carcass with his fingers and resumes staring at Lady Joanna Montford with his dazed, watery eyes. Aemond, engrossed in his writing, hasn’t eaten much tonight. Neither have you; but there’s a reason for that.

“Where you are,” Daemon muses, raising his strange white eyebrows. “Well, I hope she enjoys brothels.”

You fling back: “Like the one you fondled the Crown Princess in?”

“A baseless rumor,” Daemon replies, but he can’t smother the flare of wicked pride in his eyes.

“Will you stop it?!” the king roars at both of you. Joffrey gazes up at him with awe, like he’s seen a falling star or a dragon or the face of God. “This is supposed to be a joyous occasion, a royal betrothal, and you can’t conduct yourselves appropriately for one night—?!”

“What are they squabbling about?” the Duke of Hightower asks as he approaches the table. He can summon nothing more condemnatory than half-serious annoyance; his mood is too lofty, his victory too fresh. Behind him in the festive ruckus, Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra are exchanging awkward compliments and trying to ignore all the enmity that has stacked up between them since the king married his daughter’s lifelong companion and started producing white-haired children with her. Jace is dancing with Baela, Luke with Rhaena; Daeron and Nico have found themselves alone in a corner, giggling as candlelight glows hot and golden on their flushed cheeks.

Rather than answering, the king merely rolls his eyes and sighs, exasperated.

“You must be overjoyed, Otto,” Daemon says. “Another friend on the Continent. And yet, they are awfully far away, don’t you think?”

The Duke of Hightower smiles tightly. “Ships travel fast.”

“Ah, perhaps, though not faster than word from here to the Scottish border.”

“The Milanese girl will make a lovely bride for young Daeron, Otto,” King Viserys praises. He has either successfully deluded himself into believing that the whole of the realm will miraculously coalesce behind Rhaenyra upon his death, or he is determined to ignore the catastrophe that will ensue once he slips, gleefully ignorant, off into the afterlife.

Daemon nods. “Yes. Buxom, vivacious, amiable, she will be a fine mother someday. Unlike certain other people among us.”

Aegon says around a mouthful of chicken: “Grandsire, Prince Daemon was kind enough to point out all the other advantageous matches still at our disposal. Since we haven’t monopolized our bloodline by marrying exclusively immediate relatives.”

The Duke of Hightower chuckles. “Yes, I do sincerely hope that Jace and Luke’s offspring don’t all end up with fifteen fingers or gills or some such thing.”

“Fortunately, Harwin Strong’s blood should dilute the lineage,” you say.

Daemon turns towards you, twisting in his chair, grinning cruelly. “Gills or not, at least they’ll have children.”

You can’t think of anything to say back. Perhaps there is nothing to say. The Duke of Hightower and Aegon both avert their eyes. King Viserys has returned his attention to young Joffrey and is teaching him a prayer to invoke the protection of Saint George. Only Daemon looks at you; and Aemond watches him, quill hovering in midair, his sole blue eye a blaze of cold fire. You push out your chair and rise from the table, fleeing to one of the rooms adjacent to the exuberant, cheerful hall. You’re happy for Daeron and Nico, truly you are. But pain has a way of feeling heavier than joy, doesn’t it? It grips onto your ankles and drags you down into depths that nobody else can see.

The room is small and empty, the music muffled by the walls. Through the stained glass windows trickle in beams of pink-lavender light as dusk falls over Westminster Palace. And you stand there alone in the twilight, thinking of the past and the future and time itself, a ghost that will always be made of more secrets than answers.

You hear the door open behind you. “I’ll return to the festivities in a moment,” you say to the intruder, trying to keep the emotion from your voice.

“No need,” Aemond replies softly.

You wheel, and there he is, walking to meet you in the vanishing daylight. He takes your left hand in his and settles his right lightly, modestly, on your waist. “What—?” And then you understand.

Dancing. Here, where no one can see to forbid or ridicule. He’s come to take me dancing.

You smile up at him. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

“We’ll go very slowly.”

And slowly would be an understatement: you and Aemond move together in dawdling, careful steps, rotating like seasons, like the phases of the moon. He smells like he always does, of work and effort: smoke, leather, that scent he wears that is dark and woodsy and with an edge like a knife. His hands are calloused from sword sparring. Yours feel soft and helpless in his; they weren’t always so fragile, but they are now. “I thought you hated me,” you tell him.

“I’ve never hated you.”

“But you ignored me. For an entire year after I arrived in England, you ignored me.”

“I kept my distance. That’s very different from ignoring.”

“Alright, but why keep your distance at all?”

Aemond hesitates. “I am not in the habit of allowing myself to be noticed.”

“Because you fear people will see through the armor you’re wearing?” And when he abruptly stops dancing, you add: “I don’t mean that unkindly. I’m the same way. I wear all sorts of masks.”

He studies you in the lilac light. His gaze falls from your eyes to your lips to your throat. And then he resumes the unhurried dance. “There’s nothing about you worth hiding.”

You spin away from him and then return to be caught. “And you think you are a trove of scandalous secrets, Prince Aemond? Is that what’s in all those poems you won’t let me read?”

“If they were any good, I’d let you read them.”

“But you have the disposition of a genuine poet. Enigmatic, perceptive…” Alluring. Beautiful. You cast those thoughts away like coins into a wishing well. “Graceful.”

“So the dancing isn’t too terrible. I don’t do it often, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t do it ever to my knowledge. And no, not terrible at all.”

“I move best when holding a sword, not a princess.”

“I used to have callouses like yours, you know,” you say. “My palms and fingers were covered in them.”

“Because you sparred with your brothers,” Aemond remembers.

“For hours and hours. Especially with Alonzo. He’s the exact opposite of you, short and stocky and loud, with dark curls and heavy feet. And his poetry would send a lady sprinting in the other direction.”

“Do you miss it? Terrorizing men with swords?”

“Of course. I was almost somewhat good at that, unlike everything I’m tasked with here.”

Aemond grins, broad and mischievous. “Let’s have a demonstration then.” He releases your hand, goes to the door that leads to a stairwell, and waits patiently for you to join him.

This is improper. This is disobedient. But what has being obedient gotten you lately?

You follow Aemond through the doorway, down the stone steps, and out into the courtyard illuminated by dusk like amber, tiger’s eye, amethyst, rose quartz. It is empty except for the two of you; the rest of the palace is thoroughly occupied with drinking, dancing, and murderous scheming. It is a wonder with as lethal as the world is that women are meant to be so powerless. Aemond trots across the grass towards the blacksmith’s forge at the far end of the courtyard, then returns with two swords. He passes you the lighter one.

“How does it feel?” he asks you.

You twirl the sword a few times, admittedly rather inexpertly. “Wonderful. But I’m very out of practice.”

“Fear not. We’ll take this slow as well.” He taps his blade against yours, so tenderly it’s laughable; the sound it makes is blunt and low. Still, you’re both smiling as you circle each other, striking out with intentionally ineffectual thrusts and lunges, blocking, parrying. “Your footwork is excellent,” Aemond notes.

“It used to be better. But I appreciate your compliment. You’re more talented than Alonzo. Then again, you probably spend much less time skipping lessons to chase women around.”

“Undoubtedly,” Aemond says in a tone you can’t decipher. Then he asks, interest piqued: “What sorts of masks do you wear?”

You shrug, your blade skating down the length of his. “All sorts.”

Aemond parries. “I’d be interested to know.”

“A genuine poet would be astute enough to sift out the truth from the lies.”

“So lie to me,” Aemond says, his stare direct and bold, his sword balanced in one hand and pointed at your ribs, your heart. “And we shall find out if I can tell.”

You side-step him, thinking of frivolous diversions. “I love English ale and drink it all the time.”

“Lie. Apple cider.”

The blades clang. “My favorite color is, dutifully, green.”

“Lie. Red, like the flag of Navarre.”

And like blood. “It’s beginning to lose its charm,” you confide in Aemond.

“Don’t do that,” he says severely. “Don’t let them take something you’re proud of away from you.”

You consider him as stars rise in a violet sky. “Why are you encouraging my rebellious inclinations? You don’t give the impression of being much of a rule breaker.”

“I don’t see what good can come from you being denied any source of happiness,” he says simply. “Go on. Let’s have another attempt at a lie.”

You block Aemond’s benign, cautious swing as you circle him. “I’m pregnant again.”

Aemond halts; every muscle in his body goes still and inflexible. And he knows immediately that you’re telling the truth. “I’m…I’m very glad to hear that,” he manages at last.

You laugh fleetingly, cynically. “You can’t even properly congratulate me. No one can. Because everything’s gone so horribly thus far, people don’t want to get their hopes up.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Not yet. But I can recognize the first signs by now.” Constant low-level nausea, difficulty waking in the morning, dull cramping. You force a thin smile. “At least your brother won’t need to visit my bed for a while.”

“You don’t find pleasure with him? Is Aegon not…” Aemond searches for the right word, nervous, bashful. Hot blooms of blood appear in his cheeks. “Attentive to you?”

“It’s not his fault. He tries, really. He’s never been selfish or rough. It is entirely my own deficiency. I’m just not…at ease with him, I suppose. I can’t relax enough. I can’t reach…well…” Euphoria? A climax? A peak? You know what euphemisms others use, but it’s difficult to describe something you’ve never experienced before.

Aemond nods, meaning that he understands, that you don’t have to wrench the words out of you like entrails from a slaughtered animal.

“I know that other women can,” you say, tapping your blade against his. “That their husbands are well-matched with them and that they enjoy great pleasure. It’s difficult for me to accept that isn’t something I’ll ever get to have myself. At least…I don’t believe I’ve ever had it.”

“I think you’d know if you had.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert in a woman’s pleasure, are you? As an unmarried prince?” Your voice is casual and teasing; but the thought of him with a lover is like a bolt of lightning. It pains you, it paralyzes you, it hits you without any warning.

“Years ago, Aegon paid for a woman to…initiate me,” he explains. “Several times. He meant it as an act of compassion, I think. I was speechless around anyone I found desirable.”

Your nausea swells from a ripple to a wave. “Oh. I see.”

“It’s not something that I especially wanted at the time, and it’s not something that I have cared to repeat since. But it was very…informative.”

He gives you an infinitesimal little half-smile, and something passes between you as the last threads of dusk are unwoven from the sky and night engulfs Westminster Palace, something like a promise, a note, a whisper. The queasiness in your belly vanishes and is replaced by something else: a sensation like falling, like wanting. You are overcome by an ache to say something, though you don’t know what.

“What the hell are you doing?!” the Duke of Hightower bellows, striding out into the courtyard. Aemond takes several swift steps away from you and hurls his sword to the ground. You toss yours away as well.

“Grandsire, the princess and I were just—”

“You!” the Duke of Hightower shouts, turning on you first. “You should be in a chair or in bed, you should be resting, you should be thinking only of your health and of the wellbeing of the heirs you will produce with Aegon, not gallivanting around in the darkness and playing with swords, of all things! What would your husband say? What would your parents say?! Are you what we were promised when we signed that godforsaken contract?! Surely, princess, at this very moment you are not.”

Aemond begins: “Grandsire, it wasn’t her idea—”

“And you,” the Duke of Hightower growls at him. “You will immediately rid yourself of your baffling aversion to marriage, because you’re next, Aemond. Be prepared to discuss the candidates tomorrow and decide upon your preferred bride. Your brothers and sister are spoken for. We have one last card to play, and it cannot wait any longer. Not with this enduring…” He glances bitterly at you. “Uncertainty.”

Since you arrived in England, there have been innumerable discussions of who Aemond will marry, and he has staunchly evaded every proposed match. His rationale has wavered from needing to focus on his studies to committing himself to training as a warrior to interrogating the strategic wisdom of each potential alliance. This is strange for a man who is otherwise so constrained by familial loyalty, so devoted to the advancement of the Greens. “I won’t even get to meet her first?”

“You’ll learn to like her. Daeron met his betrothed today and he is happy.”

“Daeron is lucky,” Aemond objects. “I might just as easily not be.”

“You will marry,” the Duke of Hightower insists. “Without protest and without further delay.”

Aemond looks down at his empty hands—lines and callouses, fresh scars and ancient heritage—and he says quietly: “Do you care nothing for love?”

“Have you ever wondered why the old put so little stock in love, Aemond?” the Duke replies. “It’s not because we don’t believe it’s real. It’s because we know it doesn’t last. Women die in childbirth. Men die at war. Thousands die of Plague or the bloody flux. People who once would have killed for you grow to hate you, or worse, feel nothing for you at all. Love is transient and painful and changeable and destructive. Best to skip over such things and think of legacy instead. That’s all any of us are left with in the end.”

And then the Duke of Hightower clasps your wrist and leads you back inside the palace, gently, as if you are made of glass.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is several hours later when Aegon staggers noisily into your bedchamber, knocking over a Florentine vase by the door. Shards of it tumble across the floorboards like wounded men littering a battlefield.

“Sorry,” he slurs, pulling off his tunic and then the plain white shirt underneath. “I’m very drunk, wife, I cannot deny it, but there’s only one part of me that you’re in need of and I think that I can still get it up—”

“Aegon.” You’re lying in bed and sipping a cup of apple cider. “You don’t need to stay. Your part is done.”

He stops cold and blinks at you, comprehending it sluggishly. His eyes flick down to your belly, covered by a blanket decorated with green roses. “Oh.”

“It’s alright. You can go now. You have other places to be, and I know that’s what you want.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? To make it easier?”

Be a different sort of man. Be more like Aemond. “No, I’m fine. But it’s very sweet of you to ask.”

“Okay.” He lurches away, stepping on pieces of the shattered vase. His bare feet leave stains of blood on the floor. And then he pauses under the doorframe, gripping it so he doesn’t fall over. “Wife?”

“Yes?”

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with you, you know,” he says. “It’s the pressure of it all. It’s the responsibility. I don’t have to feel that when I’m with anyone else.”

I don’t wish he was more like Aemond. I wish he WAS Aemond. “I understand, Aegon.”

He gives you a pitiful, off-kilter, childish smile. “Goodnight,” he says just before he leaves, clutching the doorframe with clawed hands. And then: “Goodnight to both of you.”

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader

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admiralnelsoniii · 6 months

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The Dam Busters. The Allies decided they needed to destroy some dams. The RAF used Lancaster bombers to "Skipbomb" using these drum shaped bombs and skipping them across the waters surface and into the wall of the Dam. It was a wild plan, but they freaking did it. They destroyed Dams by skipbombing with Lancaster bombers.. Just another tale of people pulling crazy shit off for victory in wartime.

#history #ww2 art #ww2 #wwii #wwii art #warship #art #artwork #warbird #fighter #dambusters #lancaster #military art #military aircraft #military history #military aviation #life during wartime

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ips-northstar-official · 16 days

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Hello,

From what I've seen of your replies this might be a bit outside of your wheelhouse, but I was wondering if you had any tips for setting up or piloting a Lancaster that doesn't use a MULE Harness or a winch.

The Restock Drones and ACESO Stabilisers seem pretty dang handy, but it can be a difficult deciding what to slot on the mech with its available systems capacity. Only having one weapon mount is precarious and I've been leaning on some personalised systems for redundancy and added durability.

Is there anything you think I'm missing?

Hello! We’re more than happy to assist.

The MULE harness and cable winch are common for a reason—many pilots find they help a Lancaster find a good supportive niche. But don’t worry! There are many other ways to be supportive.

Here are some tips for Lancaster end users who wish to try a different experience than the common Fomorian-pattern MULE:

The Lancaster possesses a rugged, robust sensor and computer processor package! End users are encouraged to use these systems either to debuff enemies or bolster allies as necessary.

While the Lancaster may only possess a single weapon mount, it is an incredibly flexible Main/Aux mount. Try to find two weapons to install on the chassis that compliment both each other and your piloting style. For example, our own Blackspot Targeting Laser is well-suited to be mounted along with a drone nexus for accurate attacks. Many pilots also choose to mount auxiliary melee weapons to take advantage of the extra mobility such systems can offer.

Support comes in many forms! Systems from other mechs (ours and not) such as the Drake, Saladin, Kidd, Hydra, Napoleon, Black Witch, and Emperor can provide you with a variety of support tools to meet your team’s needs. Don’t be afraid to experiment—IPS-Northstar frames are built with compatibility in mind, so no matter what you install we guarantee our hardware will interface with it.

We hope we have given you a better idea of the capabilities of the Lancaster frame. Feel free to contact us with any further questions. Safe travels, pilot!

#lancer rpg #lancerrpg #intern’s note: oi just because I’m not the only one who answers doesn’t mean I don’t see the posts I forward to the marketing team

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thatbanditqueen · 11 months

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Basic Training Ch 2

This is a new Elvis Fan Fic set during his basic training at Fort Hood WIP I am playing around with for the summer. Comment, reblog , tag and let me know what you think or if you would like to be added to the taglist.

Thanks to my ever alpha @whositmcwhatsit who read the rough draft and made it so much better. Thanks Jader Gator. I love you and I think you know that I go between being so in awe of your writing that it is paralyzing to being inspired to write just to get close to what you create.

There are so many good writers in our fandom, and I am lucky to be friends with a little group of horny elvis witches who put up with me, answer my random questions and help me figure out narrative roadblocks, so thanks, as ever, to my sister wives @be-my-ally @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @ellie-24 @from-memphis-with-love @powerofelvis for helping me write. You guys are so talented I feel lucky to breathe your air, you teach me everything.

Summary: Elvis surprises Bess at her office to thank her and gets to know some of the other women on post.

Word Count: 4.9 K

Warnings: None. Swear words? Handsy charming naughty Elvis?

I have formulas, tropes, motifs that I always go back to consciously or unconsciously.... whatever... as I was naming this chapter I realized how chapter two is always about the nicknames..... Here we go...

If you need to catch up, read Chapter 1: I Don't Date Soldiers here

Basic Training Chapter 2: Lil Moo Moo & Tupelo

Wednesday, April 2, 1958

1715 Hours (5:15 p.m.)

Fort Hood Front Office

“Oh, give me Burt Lancaster any day over Elvis Presley.”

Mabel’s eyes didn’t leave her work as she said this, not even when she placed her cigarette in the ashtray on her desk, the keys on her typewriter plunking up and down in her glasses’ reflection as she typed. Unflappable and wry, Mabel was a career civil servant with the commemorative lapel pins to match each milestone from her twenty six years and counting career at Fort Hood. Her light green metal desk was set in the center of the large outer room in the base’s front office, right in front of the CO’s door. Bess’s desk was to the right, across from the XO’s secretary Rose, who left everyday right at five o’clock on the dot.

The other two women Bess shared an office with were almost polar opposites. Rose worked punctually from eight to five every day, while Mabel was always the first to arrive between 6:45 and 7, and often the last to leave, determined to stay on post until the CO left.

Bess fell somewhere in-between, arriving most days with her father at 8 a.m. and then pushing him to leave as early as possible. But with her father out of town, Bess was mistress of her own destiny; a mistress who apparently couldn’t bear to leave until the final details for an awards ceremony tomorrow afternoon were hammered out.

Which is why she was perched on the corner of Mabel’s desk at 5:15, or at least it had been before Dori arrived. Waiting for her father, the CO, to return from inspections, Dori had turned the conversation to her favorite topic of late: her quest to meet Elvis Presley. Tonight she was specifically wondering if he would come to the MWR dance that weekend. This had prompted Mabel's unsolicited preference for the tall, athletic physique of Burt Lancaster.

Dori giggled. “How many times did you see From Here to Eternity when it was in theaters, huh Mabel?”

“More than I’d care to admit, Ms. Crenshaw.” Mabel lowered her bifocals as she hit her typewriter keys slowly, looking down every few seconds at some hand written notes. “And every time they play it on TV or show it here.”

“And how many times did you see Jailhouse Rock, huh, Bess?” Dori teased.

Bess blushed. “Only once.”

Mabel paused her typing and picked up her cigarette again. “I have the feeling Bess has turned sour on those Presley pictures. You should have seen her last week, damn near punched a dent in her desk after a reporter ran her off the road.”

“Ah, no, Bess loves Elvis.” Dori checked her lipstick before putting her compact back into her purse. “She’s lying too. I remember seeing Jailhouse Rock with you and the soldier on duty said you’d been to our sweet 'lil ol base theater every night that week.”

Bess fixed Dori with a grimace, mumbling defensively. “That was Loving You, and I only saw it three times. People were talking through it the first two times.” She shifted, rolling her thigh over Mabel’s desk as she balanced herself. “I didn’t care for Jailhouse Rock, though, kinda thought the main character was a jerk.“

“Oh honey, that’s what made it so good.” Dori’s high voice vaulted up the ceiling “Don’t you just find him scrum-diddly-umptious actin’ all tough and mean, but then being hung up on his lil ole manager the whole time?”

Bess straightened the stack of files on her lap.

“No, Dori, I don’t care for quiet, mean, brooding types who can’t just be a man and tell me how they feel, playin' mind games instead. And, as for Elvis, honestly I can take him or leave him. There are twenty thousand men on this base.” Bess straightened her ponytail, balancing her files on her lap as she spoke. “Why, I could find you ten Mississippi tall boys who can play gee- tar and yodel at you before mail call is done…”

Bess’ voice trailed off when she noticed Dori gasp and cover her mouth with her hand, eyes wide with shock as she smacked Bess’ knee. Mabel whistled low, her eyes quickly fixing on her typewriter as Bess shifted around on the big desk.

“What? What is it….” Bess’ jaw fell open and dropped her files to the ground. She felt them slip over her skirt on their way, unable to stop them, it was as if she had forgotten how to use her hands. No, all she could do was cringe with embarrassment at Elvis’ downward smirk as his eyes flitted up to look at her.

“Oh cluck a fuck, I mean fuck a duck - I mean, oh cluck!” Bess heard herself cry out reflexively, then remembering how to move, she scrambled to pick up her papers. She was grateful for Dori’s unflappable poise as the blonde hopped over Bess’ hunched body on the ground and introduced herself to Elvis, adding:

“Please excuse my friend there, she flunked outta finishin’ school.”

Bess watched Elvis kiss Dori’s extended hand with mild amusement as she squealed and smiled and unleashed her excitement onto him, her hand already on his chest.

“I been prayin’ every day to run into you, Elvis - Oh, may I call you Elvis?”

“Yessum, I -”

“Oh good! See, I knew we’d be great friends, I just knew we would! I have been all over this base hopin’ to run into you. Why, we’re all just pleased as punch ta have ya round here, aren’t we?”

She turned to see Bess still on all fours, curly brown hair half loose from her ponytail, while behind her Mabel looked up and grunted softly in salutation before continuing to type.

Mabel’s cranky glare and Bess’ antics on the floor did not create the mood Dori had envisioned for her first meeting with Elvis Presley. She looked down and her broad smile wavered for a moment as she realized the top button of Bess’ shirt was undone, revealing her bra completely. Dori’s painted pink lips popped as she nudged Bess with the tip of her heel and whispered through her teeth.

“Stand up, Bess honey, fo-ar gawd’s sake, ya shirt!”

Bess jumped up, fixing herself as a big red blush grew over her face, made worse as Elvis caught her eye with a wink. Mabel stopped typing for a moment and motioned for Bess to come and look at something while Dori kept right on talking to Elvis with her hand now firmly around his bicep.

“Now, don’t pay no mind to Bessie’s talk about you and your pictures, why, we’re all big Elvis fans round here, the biggest fans ya ever met.”

Elvis cocked his eyebrows up at Bess’ simmering glare from where she now stood behind Mabel’s chair.

“Huh, yeah, that’s sweet of ya, ma’am -”

Dori put her finger to Elvis' lip. “Dori, honey, puhleeze!”

“ - Uh, Dori.” Elvis’ spoke carefully, as if forming every word in the back of his throat before speaking out, his voice was soft and shy. “I don't s’pect everyone to like all my pictures. After all, I didn’t write them, it’s just a job to me.” He winked again at Bess. “S’pose I mind even less if they like some of my other movies. Like ‘em enough to see ‘em every night a tha week.”

Bess felt her cheeks redden even more, but before she could think of a clever reply, Mabel elbowed her and pointed at the XO’s handwriting.

“Can you read that? It looks like repercussion, but it could be reprimand as well.”

Bess picked up the legal pad for closer inspection and turned to the others, motioning for Dori to come take a look. She hadn’t expected Elvis to follow, but he did, making himself right at home and angling his tall body behind the women.

He snuck his hand around Bess’ waist as he looked at the writing Dori held up for him, eyes forward and completely detached from the movements of his fingers rubbing along the waistband of Bess’ skirt until she pulled them off. This made her stumble to the side and gave Elvis an excuse to openly grab her waist and steady her, She frowned, flustered by the way his long fingers navigated the crease right where her waist met her ribs, his thumbs squeezing tightly and then rubbing gently over her as he asked if she was ok.

Pushing Elvis’ hands away, Bess whispered that she was fine, trying to slow her pulse and still the shivers that ran up her spine. Her whole body trembled, aware of his proximity to her, and she refused to meet Dori’s now extremely curious eyes over Elvis’ shoulder. Nodding, he turned back to the others and helped himself to the paper, declaring that it was repercussion as he introduced himself to Mabel, kissing her hand, and asking her about the tiny, porcelain figurines on her desk as she giggled.

“That’s Lady and Lola, my brother brought them back to me from Japan. Are you a dog person, Private?”

Bess made her way back to her desk, taking in the youthful bloom of Mabel’s beaming face and girlish laughter. She had never seen her co-worker this cheerful and open before. Dori’s face was aghast as Elvis ignored her and made himself comfortable on Mabel’s desk, asking her for a cigarette and then turning with a conspiratorial whisper as he asked them not to tell anyone.

Dori began tapping her fingers along her crossed arms harder as she watched Elvis put his hand on Mabel’s shoulder, while the older woman batted his thigh and chuckled at his jokes about dogs. Bess smiled to herself at the way Dori tried to wrest the conversation back by talking about how she used to have the sweetest lil ol’ poodle in the world when she was a girl. But it was an uphill battle, because now Mabel was pulling out her secret tin of homemade shortbread and asking Elvis what he thought. He had to try five pieces before he could adequately decide his verdict, and he moaned as if he had never had shortbread before. His voice was low as he stuttered “Mmm hmmm mmm hmm mmm” in a hum, and Bess dropped her pen when he caught her eye and licked his lips, proclaiming through crumbly mouthfuls that it was “the best doggone cookie he’d had in a long while.”

Bess shook her head at Elvis’ transformation from the shy soldier who had walked into the office to the confident, cocky rascal he was now, only minutes later. Elvis was masterful, she mused, and it was down to the attentive way he looked at each person he spoke with, talking to you as if you were the most important person in the world and responding to everything you said and did with his eyes. No, with his whole body really, she thought. He had a magnetic energy that had drawn her in the moment they met Friday. Now that same magnetic energy was doing its work on Dori and Mabel before her very eyes, as he engaged with them in a way that was humble, considerate and disarming. Some soldiers were stiff and uncomfortable here in the front office where there were often three to five women bustling about. Elvis on the other hand, seemed to be in his element amidst a group of women vying for his attention.

Bess found, to her own chagrin, that this included herself and was disappointed by her own desire to get his attention. She held out until she could no longer help it and interrupted their conversation with a loud, authoritative cough.

“I’m sure you didn’t come to our building to talk about puppy dogs and shortbread, Private, we don’t want to keep you from your tasks or the mess hall.”

Elvis turned to look at her from where he sat on Mabel’s desk and began throwing his olive patrol cap from hand to hand as he gulped.

“Uh, well ma’am, actually, I came up here hoping to get a word with you, Bessie. Uh, I mean Miss Schwartz.”

Now it was Bess’ turn to swallow and once again avoid Dori’s questioning eyes. Mabel’s eyes snapped down to her typing, her face back to being an expressionless stone wall.

“Sure thing, um, walk me to my car? I just, I was just about to leave, I just, uh, need to put these in the Commander’s office.”

As she walked back to her father’s desk, she heard Dori’s voice ring out behind her.

“I didn’t know you were acquaintances with Bessie. That busy bee, she really gets around this base, huh? I reckon she knows more soldiers than the rest of us combined.” Bess smiled to herself at Dori’s insinuation. “ Are you here to ask her to the dance?”

“Uh, no ma’am, Dori, Miss. I, uh, reckon it's better for me to keep a low profile this weekend, let the boys enjoy their night.”

“Well, you know, that attitude might give our boys the wrong impression, like. Make the guys think you fancy yourself too good for our simple, lil ole MWR dance.”

“Uh - well- “ Elvis’ face lit up when Bess rejoined them and they shared a lingering smile that Dori vowed to interrogate Bess about later.

“Oh let him be, Doreen,” Bess murmured, her voice breathy as her heart fluttered once more at the depth of Elvis’ knowing, penetrative gaze. “Uh, he, uh, the boy, man, the man clearly doesn’t want to go. And he already knows that I don’t go on dates with soldiers.”

Mabel had stopped working again and was now chewing the edge of her glasses, leaning forward on her chin as if she was watching a soap opera unfold in front of her desk.

Dori pursed her lips and placed her right hand on her hip energetically. “Oh he does now?” She said playfully, flouncing up the bottom of her blonde bob. ”Well, Private, you’re in luck, because I do date soldiers. I’ll pick you up at 8.”

Elvis looked to Dori, then back at Bess, his confused expression transforming into a smirking wide smile as he registered Bess’ frown. Bess looked down, picking at a chipped piece of her thumb nail until it came off, as if it was the most important thing in the world and needed her attention immediately.

“Huh, well, whoo boy.” Elvis eyed Bess again, then his lips screwed up into a wider grin as he chuckled mischievously. “I don’t hardly know ya, but I can’t say as that’s ever stopped me before.”

Bess’ heart did a series of flip flops as she watched Elvis laugh with Dori. She wasn’t sure what she disliked more, the fact that her friend had just maneuvered herself into a date with Elvis, or that she was jealous. Bess decided it was the later and that she would will herself not to care.

Elvis' eyes flickered over her for a second and Bess suddenly had a sense that he could tell exactly what she was thinking and feeling in that moment, and she returned to picking at her thumb nail. She was vaguely paying attention as she heard Dori tell Elvis that she’d meet him up at his barracks Saturday night, but she thought Elvis smirked wider as he took in the smile that she forced her lips into.

“You’ll be there, won’t you, Bess. Even though you don’t date soldiers?” Dori looked at her, adding another few fluffs to her hair for absolutely no good reason.

“Hmmmm. Well, I usually do, since the CO encourages all the single female employees to go, but I did have some research st—”

“Don’t be silly, of course you’ll come, it’s gonna be so much fun. I can already tell. There’s gonna be a live rhythm and blues band we hired in from Houston. They are just the bee’s knees, and I’m on the MWR committee. My theme for this dance is Spring Fling, cuz it’s spring! The decorations we got are so adorable, floral Chinese lanterns y’all. I cannot wait.” Dori squeezed her hands into fists and did a little dance in place.

Elvis turned back to Mabel. “You comin’ Saturday night, Miss Maybelline?”

Mabel giggled like a school girl instead of the fifty year old woman she was.

“Every one I can make it to, CO’s memo encourages all single women on base to attend.”

Elvis took Mabel’s hand in his, softly trailing over the top as he kissed her knuckles and smiled devilishly as she giggled again.

“Well, be sure ta save a few dances for me, mmkay, honey?”

Mabel nodded with a giggle and a wink.

Elvis’ cocky smiled followed Bess' curt nod out of the office and into the back stairs of the building where her voice echoed down the concrete stairwell.

“You know Private, I really wish you wouldn’t come to my office unannounced.” She paused two steps below him and turned around so he had to stop himself from slamming into her finger as it pointed back at him.

“Hold on a minute there, baby, now, what’s wrong with being friendly?” He grabbed her finger. “Careful where you point that thing, woman. First lesson of basic training is safety. Thought you’d a know by now.” He grasped her hand and softened it into his fist. She seemed to lose her train of thought looking up into his eyes. “What’s got your panties in a twist, Bessie Boo, you ain’t jealous, are you?”

Elvis was decidedly less polite when they were alone, Bess realized. She wasn’t sure she liked it, or the way it made her feel as she pulled her finger away and kept descending down the stairs in front of him, her voice a little shaky.

“Of Dori? No, no, not at all. In fact, that all seems to have worked out the way it should.” She shoved the door at the bottom open and headed toward her car as Elvis’ long legs made easy work of striding next to her.

“Why’s that?”

Bess turned as she got to her car.

“Cuz, well, you seem like a good match.” She smiled, trying to really mean it, trying to keep her voice cool and nonchalant. “Dori, is, well, she seems to have the sort of, um. Well, that is, she’s very glamorous. And popular. And attractive. She’s a lot like the girls you’re always with in the fan magazines. I think you’ll have a lot of fun.”

Elvis stepped closer, fixing his work cap back on his head. “So you read the fan magazines, huh? Thought you could take or leave Elvis Presley.”

Bess didn’t know if her cheeks could take the constant flushing she was experiencing. She leaned into the hood of her car, changing the topic as she spoke to the blue paint.

“Look, why did you come by my office?”

Bess leaned her back into the car, and he reached out for her waist, rubbing his hands along the sides for a moment, before taking the handle next to it and pulling it open, tilting his head to get in.

“I uh, I came by because I wanted to thank you. Think we could just talk for a spell?"

Bess swallowed and nodded. After a few moments searching, she discovered her tongue where she had left it on the roof of her mouth and did her best to eke out intelligible words. They scooted along the white vinyl car bench until Elvis got to the other side and leaned back, stretching out his arms and looking at her.

“I know'd it was you that talked to Sergeant Norwood.”

Bess looked down. “I, ugh, actually. That would be highly inappropriate of me to talk to a senior instructor in your company and ask for any special treatment.” She looked back up at him. “But, um, how’s it going?”

Elvis grinned wide. “He’s, uh, well, he’s instruction’ alright, instructed me to come over to his house here on post after dinner most nights. He, uh, well, I uh, he lets me use his phone to call home and get a few hours of shut eye at their place. Though I preferred the bed at your house, Bessie bug. Cushioning there was better.”

Bess let out a snort as Elvis slid down to put his head in her lap, just as it had been that first night in her guest room. He pulled her right hand in his over her chest, threading his fingers through hers as he looked up into her face with apt admiration.

“Ya are the first real friend I’ve made here.”

“Hmmm. Seemed like you were doing all right making new friends upstairs.”

Elvis smirked, his squeezed his fingers between hers.

“You are jealous a Dori. Jus say tha word and I’ll take you to the dance too, baby. I could take both of you as my dates, ya know, nuff a me ta go ‘round.”

Bess tried to take her fingers back, but it was a half-hearted attempt and his hand was so much bigger than hers. Resigned, she squeezed back and sighed, looking out the window.

“Ha, I’m sure. But, no, I’m not jealous, I’m just giving you a hard time, Presley. You sure seem like a fast operator.” Bess felt an aching warmth blossom in her belly as his thumb rubbed the inside of her palm.

“Honey, I didn’t operate nothing, I’m just an innocent bystander caught in the eye of Hurricane Dori. If anyone is operatin’ fast, it’s your friend back there.”

“Yeah, well, you have to forgive her, she had a lot more going on in Savannah than she does here. We are sorely lacking in ladies’ charities and fancy galas for her to host. So Dori gets all pent up, all that energy and nothing to do with it. Maybe you can help wear her out. " Bess arched her eyebrows suggestively, her voice was light and teasing. "By dancing, I mean, of course.”

“Huh, sure. How ‘bout you? Will you have any pent up energy ya wanna dance off with an ol’ friend?”

“Ha, I’m about as old a friend to you as Dori is.”

“Nah, honey, you’re different, we go way back now. I don’t know anyone who’d risk their job to take a po’ boy like me home an feed me an’ take care a me so good.”

Elvis' eyes welled up and Bess softened, thinking he might cry. She found herself soothing the top of his forehead with her left knuckles.

“Hey, ssshhh, hey. You would have done the same for me, right? If our roles were reversed and I was a new recruit being trained for combat?”

The left side of Elvis’ face lifted into a crooked grin. Bess was transfixed watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Course, course I would. You know, I’ve spent the last two years running from women chasing me, I reckon the Army’d be in better shape if they’d put ya girls into combat. Ain’t nothing more terrifying than a hoard of twenty thousand screaming girls coming for ya.”

“Ha, yeah, probably makes basic training seem like a breeze.”

Bess smiled down at Elvis, and made her fist into a fake microphone, affecting a serious, transatlantic accent like the reporters at his press conference last week.

“So, Private Presley, what do you think, is basic training harder or easier than running from women for a living?”

Elvis chuckled. His right hand let go of Bess’ fingers and snaked around her waist. “Well, ain’t nothing like getting clobbered by a swarm of women. I s’pose the main difference between those girls and the Russians is, they don’t mean to hurtcha. They’re just tryin’ to get themselves a piece of ya for a souvenir.”

Bess’ raised one eyebrow, her reporter microphone hand still at attention.

“Oh? Please tell us, the American people want to know, which piece of you are these girls trying to get their hands on?”

Elvis burst out laughing. “Uh, no comment, though I could show you later if you want.”

Bess blushed at the glint in his eyes, and kept talking. “Hmm, fresh. Next question, how devastating was it to get your haircut?”

“Well, now, that didn’t bother me none at all. You know what they say, hair today, gone tomarra."

He paused, grinning at her tepid "Ha. ha. ha."

"But no, I ain't sore. Now, if it weren’t never gonna grow back, yeah, sure, maybe I’d be sore, but I don’t mind following the rules and cutting my hair like all the other boys here. I’m actually starting to like it.”

Bess combed her fingers through his crew cut.

“MMhmmm. I liked it better long, but you know me, I hate soldiers.”

“Picked a weird place to work then, Bessie, ain’t nothing but soldiers here.”

“This is just temporary, till I figure out what’s next for me.”

Elvis looked down towards his knees, speaking softly. “Yeah, jus temporary. That’s what my manager keeps sayin’, but man oh man, I think it’s all over for me. Ain’t no one gonna remember me in two years.”

“That’s not true. Trust me, it just feels that way. How many records you sold?”

Elvis leaned his face into her fingers as they cupped his cheek, he could feel Bess’ thighs tremble slightly underneath her skirt and it made him smile. He looked up at her big brown eyes sheepishly.

“Oh, I don’t know, ‘bout 25 million I s’pose.” His voice was casual and aloof til he cried out at the smack of Bess’ hand hitting his shoulder.

“Ha, I would have guessed 4 or 5 million. 25? I can’t even picture a stack that high. It would go all the way to the moon, probably. You’re thick, you know that? Like we could forget you with all those records out there, spinning 'round in people’s homes, on the radio. No, I think the Russians would have to bomb us to kingdom come before we forget about you, what with 25 million records playing all over. ”

“You’re sweet, Bess, you know that? My uncle used to have a cow named Bess.” He grinned up at her and made a moo sound. “Lil' Bessie Moo Moo, she was sweet, just like you… Moo Moo.” His voice tapered off as Elvis' hand began to trail up the side of Bess’ body. His voice became low and earnest. “She had the sweetest milk.”

Bess shivered at the touch of his fingers before pulling her head toward him. Just as she was an inch away from his lips, she stopped him, and tilted back up, fake microphone fist in her hand again between their faces.

“And, I know our listeners will want to know this important detail, where exactly was this cow, Private, Memphis?” She was the reporter again, and her heart thumped with a beat of regret as she took in the split second of disparagement that played across his face as she lifted her lips away from his. But then it was gone and he was back to playing cool with a grin.

“Nah, back in Tupelo where I was borned and raised.”

“Tupelo, huh? Well, tell us Presley, why does all the good rock and roll music come from that part of the country, places like Mississippi, Tennessee?”

Elvis nestled his head back into Bess’ thighs, scrunching up his lips as he thought.

“Don’t know, I guess we jus have a history of it, it's a place where ya got Black rhythm and blues and country and western, spiritual music. It's in the air we breathe down there, I guess, gets all jumbled up and out comes rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Well, Private, is rock n’ roll the secret weapon we’ve all been waiting for to take down communism and restore civilization to Eastern Europe and Russia? And if so, when are you being sent over enemy lines?”

“Now, maybe you’re on ta something there, pretty sure it’s already destroyed civilization state side.”

“Oh, definitely, the very fabric of our society is crumbling, just ask any parent and they’ll tell you that their teenager hates school and wants to have sex, all because of rock ’n’ roll. No teenager ever felt that way before they heard your music.”

“Huh, you’re a smart ass, you know that?”

“I’ve been a smart ass since you met me. Try to keep up, Tupelo.”

“Huh, yeah, ya a piece of work, lil' Moo Moo. And ya asking for it talkin’ to a man like that.”

Elvis pinched her soft, springy sides as he chuckled. Anyone walking by the blue Ford would have only seen Bess’ silhouette sitting up, head tilted back in a deep, guttural laugh for the first time in almost a year, as Elvis lay back in her lap, tickling and pinching her. They sat in her car for another hour, as Bess fussed over a cluster of razor burn below his ear, and he asked her about her life, getting to know as much about her as she was willing to reveal until she had to push him off her lap to go meet Sargeant Norwood, dismissing his offer to come back to her house and show her that souvenir all the gals were chasing after

************************************************************************

Read Chapter Three Here

@eliseinmemphis @moonchild-daniella @tacozebra051 @ab4eva @kingdomforapony @everythingelvispresley @richardslady121 @dkayfixates @artlover8992 @peskybedtime @freudianslumber @amydarcimarie @toreigh @notstefaniepresley @18lkpeters @yynneessmons @lookingforrainbows @prompted-wordsmith @roadtogracelandx45 @ashtag2887 @literally-just-elvis-fics @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @returntopresley @girlblogger2002 @rjmartin11

#elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis #elvis fic #elvis presley fic #army elvis #1958 elvis #basic training #banditqueenwrites #wheeeee #because apparently i need another wip.....#xoxoxo #elvis x oc

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captain-price-unofficially · 1 year

Photo

Lancaster heavy bomber, 1942. The livery references Goering’s claim in 1939 that his Luftwaffe would protect Germany from any aerial threat or “my name is Meyer!” By 1940 he would be “Herr Meyer” to many Berliners and the air raid sirens that announced the arrival of yet more Allied bombers as “Meyer’s trumpets.”

#aviation #wwii #strategic bombing campaign over Europe #western front

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monky · 2 months

Text

A member of a local Palestine coalition just posted this. They are trying to raise funds for their 18 year old cousin to evacuate Gaza and reunite with his family. If you DM me a screenshot I can match your donation up to $20.

#palestine #gaza

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barbucomedie · 2 months

Text

Jungle Uniform of the Border Regiment from the British Empire dated to 1945 on display at the Cumbria Museum of Military Life in Carlisle, England

This uniform was worn by Private Vernon Cook from Glagate, Lancaster during their time in the 9th Battalion of the Border Regiment. The 9th Battalion was part fo the Burma Campaign 1944 - 1945 that pushed the Empire of Japan out of British occupied Burma.

The start of the war in Burma went very poorly for the Allies and many lessons were learnt. One lesson was the uniform as many British army and Commonwealth soldiers wore the Khaki Drill uniform that was useful in the desert campaigns like in North Africa but not so much the jungles of Burma. The more camoflaged green uniform and light weight material proved to be more effective as well as easier to produce as it was made locally.

Photographs taken by myself 2023

#uniform #military history #fashion #second world war #british empire #20th century #england #english #cumbria museum of military life #carlisle #barbucomedie

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heartofstanding · 7 months

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Seeing your views on Margaret of Anjou, I was told that Margaret of Anjou was firm, brave, but too radical, revengeful to the enemy and extreme political measures, which led to her failure. I want to know your views on the reasons for her failure?

Hi, sorry this took so long! I've been busy and this got very long. The short answer to all three, however, is that she had a shit-ton of bad luck.

The slightly extended version of is:

The Treaty of Tours which brought her to England had terrible terms for the English and thus terribly unpopular. As the face of the treaty, she was unfairly blamed for.

England was losing the Hundred Years War, badly. Her marriage was meant to bring peace but the only peace to be gained was through defeat and capitulation. Margaret was blamed for failing to live up to unrealistic expectations.

There was something of a succession crisis, the long wait for Margaret to conceive and give birth to an heir did nothing to easeit and only added to her unpopularity.

The long wait for an heir meant there was fertile ground for rumours and gossip, specifically the idea that she was an adulteress and Edward of Lancaster a bastard.

Henry VI's sudden mental breakdown, (probable) limited recovery and imprisonment left Margaret as the figurehead of Lancastrian rule and resistance. It made her the target for Yorkist propaganda attacks.

Following the Battle of Towton, the Lancastrians were in a weak position to negotiate with potential allies, meaning they made great concessions that were then seized upon by Yorkists to turn the general public against the Lancastrian side.

Severe weather hampered the Lancastrians on at least three occasions: Towton, Barnet and Margaret's return to England in 1471.

She lost. Yorkist rule continued to denigrate her and the Tudors weren't interested in challenging that idea.

Want more detail?

The Problem of Determining Personality

To start with, we don't know a whole lot about Margaret's personality. We don't know a whole lot about any medieval individual's personality, the evidence simply isn't there to tell us about their personal thoughts beyond brief flashes of insight. It's a fraught issue, as Rosemary Horrox points out, with reference to Margaret herself.

We also have to contend with the layers and layers of propagandistic narratives. Again, this is true for almost every figure in medieval history (cf. A. J. Pollard on Elizabeth Woodville). When we shift through the Lancastrian, French, Yorkist, Tudor and more narratives about Margaret, how do we know which one is telling the truth? The virago Yorkist writers derided is unlikely to be the true Margaret but that doesn't mean that the tireless heroine of French writers is the "true Margaret" either. Both images are stereotypes, both come from biased sources. Nor does acknowledging that the image of Margaret as the virago was a propagandistic creation that served Yorkist interests mean that Margaret must have been the exact opposite and she was really sugar, spice and all things nice.

These type of stereotypes are attractive to historians and historical fiction writers alike. They're simple but dramatic. They work well with other stereotyped figures, with "accepted" versions of history that are accepted because they've been repeated so often that they now seem true even if the evidence isn't there or doesn't tell us the things we think we know. It produces a simple, coherent narrative which confirms our own biases. The image of Margaret as radical, revenge-seeking and extreme is often tied to the narrative of Richard, Duke of York as a noble, hard-working and good man who was forced to rebel against his king (who is not rightful king, of course, because that's York) due to the plots and schemes of Margaret and her cronies. Margaret's inability and unwillingness to acknowledge and accept York's greatness becomes the reason for her defeat. She's just too petty and self-serving. She brings it upon herself. She could have been safe - but she unfairly and evilly attacked York and he was simply forced by her actions to rebel.

I don't find that view of York convincing. I don't find that view of Margaret convincing. It's too simplistic, too much of a children's tale where the good guys are so good and the bad guys so bad that the bad guy forces the good guy into any acts that are morally dubious. There's more than a little misogyny in it too, blaming a woman for the actions of a man.

"The Bad Queen" and Queenship

Margaret has long been seen as the "bad queen", a woman who abjectly failed as queenship and was the reason why the Wars of the Roses broke out. I've already discussed some of the issues with that view but I want to talk about a couple of other points.

One: the Lancastrians lost, which cemented Margaret's reputation. As Katherine J. Lewis has pointed out, if the Lancastrians had been successful, Margaret would have likely been celebrated for her bravery and steadfast loyalty that saw the restoration of her husband and son. Instead, they lost and the Yorkist narrative about her became the norm.

Two: Margaret appears to have behaved as a conventional queen for as long as possible. She did not arrive in England and immediately begin she-wolfing it up and instead tried to behave in a way that lived up to gender expectations, even when she was forced to move beyond them (cf. Helen Maurer's comment here).

Three: when we talk about the ideals of queenship, we have to realise that while these were kind of a job description, they were subjective and often based in misogynistic "ideals" of womanhood. e.g. "motherhood" reduces the queen to her reproductive ability and this was something she had little to no control over. An infertile queen is often deemed to have "failed" at the "most vital" aspect of queenship by modern historians and commentators (for an alternate view, see Kristen Geaman on Anne of Bohemia) but very rarely is there an acknowledgement of how misogynistic this standard is.

Margaret was not a popular queen before the Wars of the Roses began. She became queen in a situation where she was set up to inevitably fail. She arrived in England to pageants hailing her as a bringer of peace, as the figure to end the war with France, but the terms of the treaty that included her marriage contract ensured that any benefits she could bring were minimal. There was a short, 21-month peace, a paltry dowry, the outlay of considerable expense to bring her to England, and her father had little to no influence with Charles VII of France to be able to help any future negotiations.

Another factor was that the surrender of Maine and Anjou came to be widely associated with her marriage. It wasn't an official condition of the marriage but it does appear to have been promised at the same time. It was disastrously unpopular in England and it very likely inflamed tensions within the nobility. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset held large amounts of territory in Maine and Anjou and was made Lieutenant of France to make up for these losses, which offended his predecessor in the role, Richard, Duke of York. It has been argued, though I'm not convinced, that York continuing in the role would have at least maintained, if not improved, the English position in France instead of the massive decline that followed.

None of this was Margaret's fault. She was 14 years old when her marriage was negotiated. She had no role in negotiations beyond the symbolic. There is also some thought that the English side was hamstrung by Henry VI's instructions to make a peace at any and all cost. We don't know how she felt about marrying Henry or about the surrender of Maine and Anjou beyond speculation based on preconceived ideas of what she was "like". We don't know what she was really like to guess how she felt about these things. And even if she was in favour of the surrender of Maine and Anjou, she was still a teenager when it happened. Are we really saying that a bunch of experienced adult men fell over themselves to do exactly what a teenage girl wanted even though it was disastrously bad for England?

Margaret had basically walked into a scenario where she had very little chance of being the peace-bringer she was expected to be and her popularity suffered as a result. She wasn't the one making choices - at best, she might have influenced others to make choices, but most of the problems with France that she was blamed for began before she set foot in England.

The Succession Crisis

Margaret also walked into a succession crisis.

Typically, the succession crisis tends to be talked about as occurring from after the death of Henry's last paternal uncle and his heir, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, in 1447 but I would suggest that there was an underlying anxiety about the succession that predated Gloucester's death. Since 1435, Henry VI's one and only heir had been his ageing and childless uncle Gloucester (before 1435, Gloucester's elder brother, also childless, had been the heir), who was not terribly popular with Henry and his court. On one hand, Henry and his favourites did not want Gloucester to become king because they disliked him and his policies. From another perspective, Gloucester was getting on in years, childless, unmarried and possibly in poor health, so if he became king, he wouldn't be expected to reign long and if he managed to produce an heir before his death, the chance are this heir would still be in single digits when he succeeded the throne. If there was no child, the question of the succession was wide open. As it was, Gloucester died two years after Margaret's arrival and there was no longer a clear heir.

I know that you're probably thinking, "York, though. It's York." Well, yes and no. York probably had the claim with the least complications. He was Henry's closest male relative who had not descended through the female line or through a legitimised bastard line. But there were were two other lines that had viable claims to the throne: Somerset and Exeter.

Exeter's claim derived from from Elizabeth of Lancaster, the daughter of John of Gaunt and his first wife, Blanche of Lancaster, making her the full sister of Henry IV. Somerset's claim was derived from John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset who was the eldest son of Gaunt and his third wife, Katherine Swynford. The Beauforts had been born bastards but legitimised by both the Pope and by Richard II. This legitimisation did not contain any clauses barring them the throne (this was done under Letters Patent in Henry IV's reign), quite possibly because Richard appears to have chronically avoided making any pronouncements on the succession and quite possibly because the there was little reason to imagine the Beauforts in contention for the throne.

Somerset was probably Henry's preferred heir. Since Exeter derived his claim through the female line, naming him heir meant that the female line counted in the succession and if it did, York had a better claim to the throne than Exeter and Henry, as he was descended from Lionel of Antwerp (Gaunt's elder brother) through the female line. It risked exposing the weakness at the centre of the Lancastrian claim to the throne which would in turn would reveal the reigns of Henry's father and grandfather were illegitimate. York seems to have never been particularly close to Henry; as Michael Bennett pointed out about Richard II (who, like Henry, faced a similarly uncertain and difficult succession), it's hard to love your winding cloth. But Somerset was a favourite, a Lancastrian from a cadet line and Henry's closest living paternal relative who was of legitimate birth.

These competing claims and the uncertainty about who would succeed caused anxiety. If Henry died childless, who would become king? How would these claims be settled? Would there be civil war and strife? What would it mean if the Lancastrian dynasty came to an end and a new one began?

So it's easy to imagine the pressure on Margaret to conceive and bear a child was almost certainly immediate on her arrival to England. Bearing a child would help ease these anxieties considerably, continuing the Lancastrian dynasty, putting to rest any civil discord caused by competing claim and ensuring a peaceful succession. In view of the unpopularity of the marriage to Margaret, it would also be seen as having a legitimising the marriage.

The Long Wait For An Heir

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. It was eight years between Margaret's arrival in England and the birth of Edward of Lancaster.

We don't know why it took so long. There's speculation of course - a delay in consummating the marriage due to Margaret's youth, the stress and pressure of the situation, Henry being too pious for sex, Margaret undergoing rigorous fasting as part of religious devotion, Henry requiring a sex coach, Henry being the medieval equivalent of asexual and/or sex repulsed, or there being some subfertility issue. There's no real evidence, one way or the other.

Henry VI's sexuality and piety are one of those sort of myths of the Wars of the Roses, embedded in the narrative as a "truth" but lacking contemporary evidence (as Bertram Wolffe points out, there is little direct, contemporary evidence for Henry's piety, most appears in retrospect as part of an explanation for his failed kingship and part propaganda for the (Tudor-sponsored) efforts to canonise him as a saint). The evidence of a sex coach is based a historian failing to understand how a medieval king's bedrooms worked and going, "we don't know that these people in attendance on the king at night in his bedroom left when he had sex with his wife so... sex coach? Please buy my book!" We don't know that there was a delay in consummation or that Margaret was considered too young for sex (for comparison's sake, Henry's grandmother, Mary de Bohun, conceived her first son - Henry V - around her 15th birthday). Margaret herself complained of poor health caused by rigorous fasting during times of "many sufferings and tribulations" but we don't know that she was fasting throughout these early years. We don't have anything like medical records for Margaret (or Henry) to know how she tried to manage this childlessness.

But we generally don't know why a medieval couple was childless. Where we do have evidence, it's often speculative (e.g. Kristen Geaman's work on Anne of Bohemia suggests Anne suffered at least one miscarriage based on a letter she dictated).

What we do know is that Henry and Margaret never attempted to promote the image of having a chaste marriage, even though it would have provided a bulwark against criticism of their childless state - they were choosing the holy, pious option. The birth of Edward of Lancaster and Henry VI's joyous reaction to the news of Margaret's pregnancy also suggest that they were trying for a baby. I think this suggests there was some kind of uncontrollable issue, possibly medical, causing their childlessness than it being a deliberate choice to assign "blame" for. It was, in short, just bad luck.

The long wait for an heir meant the anxieties around the succession and continuation of the Lancastrian were not quickly eased. In some ways, they might have been exacerbated. Before his marriage to Margaret, there was no reason to believe that Henry would struggle to have children when he married (or at least, there is no evidence this was the case). Once married, though, Henry's continued childlessness began to appear to be an issue that couldn't be easily or quickly resolved, perhaps even being a permanent issue.

We know, too, that their childlessness was used to criticise them from as early as 1446, and Margaret was the chief target of this criticism. An example of this comes from 1448, where one felon in Canterbury gaol accused his neighbour in the isle of Thanet of saying:

oure quene was non abyl to be Quene of Inglond but and he were a pere of or a lord of this ream he woulde be on thaym that shuld hepe putte her doun for because that sche bereth no child and because that we have pryns in this land

There does seem to have been some view that in marrying Margaret, Henry had betrayed his promise to marry a daughter of the Count of Armagnac and the lack of children from their marriage could be seen as a sign of God's disapproval. It would have added to the unpopularity Margaret was already facing.

While the news of Margaret's pregnancy does seem to have been greeted with joy, the long wait for such news had exposed Margaret to ample criticism and hatred. It made it easy for the allegations of Margaret's adultery and Edward of Lancaster's illegitimacy to take root. It meant that when Henry VI had his breakdown, there was no son who could serve even nominally as a regent for him and the question of who was to govern while Henry was incapable exposed the conflicts between York and Henry and York and Somerset.

Conflict with York

A lot of the conflict between York and Lancaster began with York's quarrel with Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. Somerset was considered a favourite of Henry VI and Margaret but we don't know how much Margaret was responsible for his position in comparison to Henry or how much York's quarrel with him was really him quarrelling with the crown without openly doing so and risking a charge of treason. It does seem likely, imo, that Margaret had sympathies with Somerset given her husband evidently trusted him, but we don't know if that's true and even if it is, it was Henry VI who ostensibly promoted Somerset.

Despite the retrospective reading we put on the events leading up to the outbreak of war with the First Battle of St. Albans, we lack surviving evidence for Margaret and York being in direct hostility to each other. As Helen Maurer says:

If there is no concrete evidence of hostility between Margaret prior to the crisis of 1453-54, there is some indication that they were on reasonably good terms. York's recent biographer, P.A. Johnson goes so far to characterise Margaret as a 'politically neutral figure', whose attitude prior to January 1454 was 'if anything sympathetic to York'.

There is no evidence that York opposed Margaret's marriage to Henry. We have evidence of Margaret intervening in a property dispute in York's favour and giving York and his servants' generous New Year's gifts. The gifts to his servants in 1453 were of the same value as she gave the to the servants of Somerset and Cardinal Kemp so there was no deliberate slight there. In 1447, they were higher than the gifts she gave the Duke of Gloucester's servants (although alienated from Henry VI, Gloucester did outrank York so you'd expect his servants to get the more valuable gifts), the archbishop of Canterbury and duchesses of Bedford and Buckingham. Maurer speculates this was to reassure York in the face of his appointment to the lieutenancy of Ireland. We also have evidence of an outwardly cordial relationship between Margaret and Cecily in the early 1450s. It is not enough to suggest Margaret and Cecily were friends or what they really felt about each other but it does suggest they were both invested in keeping up at least the facade of cordiality.

The relationship between Margaret and York did sour some point. It's impossible to know what was the fatal blow was or who was the first to turn hostile. It may have been Margaret's attempt to claim the regency when Henry VI suffered his breakdown, it may have been York's imprisonment of Somerset during his protectorship, it may have been when York lost the protectorship, it may have been the rumours of York's involvement in William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk's murder in 1450.

Maurer notes that Margaret probably viewed the First Battle of St. Albans as an alarming attack on Henry's royal authority by York. She would not be wrong to do so. York may have felt justified and may have been justified in taking action to remove the individual he saw as a threat to his own authority - Somerset - but he raised his banners and fought a battle against his king. A battle where the king, Margaret's husband, had been injured. Regardless of whether or not York was "justified" or whether or not Henry pardoned him, his behaviour was, actually, treasonous (and it is likely he was only pardoned because Henry felt forced into it).

We can argue about the semantics and justifications for York's behaviour but it doesn't really matter when it comes to Margaret's reaction. York had raised an army against his sovereign and fought against his sovereign's own forces in a battle where his sovereign was wounded in the neck. There is no world in which Margaret would not see York as a threat to her family after this. If we argue that York was justified in this action because he perceived (correctly or not) that Somerset was a threat to him, then we must also accept that Margaret had every justification in viewing York as a threat to her family.

I tend to get the feeling that by 1456, Margaret and York were both in the same position. They were at a point where they viewed each other as a threat to the safety of their position and family. Whether one was more justified than the other is impossible to say. It's likely, though, that York held considerably more responsibility that the myth of him as the noble-hearted man forced to rebel to save himself.

The Problem of Henry VI

Another factor in "who do we blame for the Wars of the Roses" is Henry VI himself. We don't know when he began ruling in his own right and what periods, if any, he was unable to rule beyond the breakdown of 1453-54. We don't really know if the criticisms of his favourites, i.e. Suffolk and Somerset, were really criticisms of individuals who were ruling for him or if they were more in line with the attacks on the favourites of Edward II and Richard II. In the case of Richard II, the Lords Appellant maintained the image of loyally serving Richard while purging his household, threatening him with deposition, executing his friends, and placing themselves in positions of power by claiming that they were merely rescuing the king from the influence and bad advice of his evil councillors. This doesn't mean they didn't also have a grudge against the king's favourites, that their attack on them didn't really matter (after all, they killed a lot of them), but by focusing on the favourites, they maintained the image of loyalty to the king which helped them sidestep a charge of treason (though they also forced Richard to pardon them) and maintain popular support.

All of that is just to say that this may very well have been the case with Henry VI. York's attacks on Somerset (and maybe Suffolk, since he was rumoured to be involved in Suffolk's downfall and murder) may have simply been an attack on Somerset, perhaps justified or not, but York may have also been using Somerset as a proxy for Henry.

If he did, his quarrel could, at its core, actually be with Henry. It also raises the possibility that, after Somerset's death at the First Battle of St Albans, Margaret was simply the last one standing between York and Henry and so became the proxy for his attacks on Henry. This only intensified once York gained custody of Henry, and Margaret, with Edward of Lancaster, was out of reach and leading Lancastrian resistance.

We know that Tudor efforts to rehabilitate and canonise Henry tended to place more blame onto Margaret to absolve Henry of blame. All of this means that in terms of "how responsible, really, was Margaret for the policy decisions that alienated York?", we simply don't know. She may have served as a receptacle for blame (though personally I think she was more involved than not) or been the prime actor but we can't negate the possibility that some of the things she was blamed for were actually Henry's fault.

On the subject of Henry's mental illness... obviously, neither he or anyone else are to blame for it. Certainly, no one wakes up and goes "I know, now I shall have a deliberating mental illness that will ruin the kingdom, I totally want and will this to happen". But it did make things... very difficult. The medieval monarchy just wasn't set up to deal with a king with a severe, incapacitating mental illness (this was also the case with Charles VI of France). It tended to aggravate factionalism as nobles jostled against each other for power and influence. It placed the queen in an unenviable position of trying to protect her family and govern for the king while also appearing politically neutral, above factionalism and still living up to the ideals of queenship and only wielding soft power. Even if Margaret had managed to be appointed as regent for Henry, the case of Isabeau of Bavaria who had been regent for Charles VI suggests she wouldn't have fared much better.

On top of that, Henry's breakdown came at a bad time. He was unable to recognise Edward of Lancaster as his son upon his birth, which may well have provided some of the initial fodder for the rumours of Edward's illegitimacy. Once again: none of this was Henry's fault but it all had an impact on how much Margaret was viewed and blamed for Lancastrian failures.

Military Defeat

Margaret was widely regarded as the head of the Lancastrians and very likely this was true during the times when Henry VI was unable to rule (i.e. due to mental illness or breakdown, during his imprisonment by Edward IV). However, she was not a military commander and there is no evidence she ever donned armour or was present at any battle (we know she was in Scotland at the Battle of Wakefield, not personally overseeing any indignities heaped on Richard, Duke of York's corpse, for example). When she was travelling with the army when a battle took place, she probably stayed nearby in reasonably secure locations, such as a castle or abbey, a short distance away from the battlefield.

Responsibility for the Lancastrians' military defeats should be laid at the feet of those who actually commanded the Lancastrian forces, not Margaret. We don't know if the Lancastrians had better commanders to say that was Margaret's fault for not appointing better ones (and given the position was often granted to those of high rank, this seems likely - to appoint a man of greater ability but lesser rank risked disaster, as the narratives about the French defeat at Agincourt tells us). This is something more down to misfortune than any choice Margaret could have made. We know that Margaret had wanted to return to France following the news of the Earl of Warwick's defeat and death at the Battle of Barnet but was overruled or convinced otherwise by other Lancastrians. Had she gotten her way, the Lancastrians may never have gotten another chance (or at least a better chance) to challenge Edward IV but they probably would have survived.

There were also elements of bad luck in the Lancastrians' military defeats. The Lancastrian forces at Towton were blinded by the snow and their arrows ineffective against the wind. At Barnet, a heavy fog caused confusion amongst the troops. Storms delayed Margaret and Edward of Lancaster's return to England in 1471; had they arrived earlier they might have been able to take a better position or unite with Jasper Tudor's forces and won the Battle of Tewkesbury. Had the weather been against Edward IV and the Yorkist forces at Towton or at Barnet, had Edward IV's return been delayed by storms - well, the Lancastrians might have won.

This isn't to say that nothing was Margaret's fault. Margaret's delay at returning to England during the readeption was also partially credited to her own mistrust of the situation (a fair if ultimately fatal judgement, given the risk involved to her son and Warwick's untrustworthiness as an ally). The delay meant that Warwick struggled to muster forces under his own authority to deal with Yorkist resistance. This situation wasn't all her fault, though. Her delay was also caused by Louis XII of France, who had refused to let her leave until he got guarantees from Warwick about English support against Burgundy and the storms mentioned above. Another factor is that Warwick was simply reaping what he had sowed - very few Lancastrians had reason to trust the man who had been the chief ally of York against Henry VI, who had put Edward IV on the throne, then attempted to crown George, Duke of Clarence before allying himself with Margaret. He also seems to have been heavily involved in the creation and promotion of the stories slandering Margaret and her son.

We should also be wary of suggesting, as B. M. Cron does, that Margaret of Anjou was partly to blame for her son's defeat and death at Tewkesbury because she didn't let him fight in battle before Tewkesbury. For a start, Lancastrian hopes rested on Edward's survival. He was the viable alternative to Yorkist rule, the figure around whom opposition could gather, and the future of the dynasty. Putting him at risk was a very bad decision. His death meant the end of Lancastrian hopes.

Secondly, Tewkesbury was the first major battle he was actually of an age to fight at. Was he supposed to fight at Towton when he was 8? Hedgeley Moor or Hexham when he was 11? Thirdly, from the few accounts of his time in exile, we know he was military-minded and dedicated to martial exercises so it seems he was prepared as much as was safely possible. Finally, it is unclear whether Edward engaged in the battle proper or whether he was killed attempting to escape when it became clear the Lancastrians had lost.

Summing Up

In short, there were a lot of factors in Margaret's failure and a lot of them compounded on other. Her initial unpopularity only grew as the the English position in France weakened and as the years went by with no sign of an heir. As unrest broke out and Henry was incapable of responding or ruling, Margaret became the de facto head of the Lancastrian court and the focal point for anger at the way things were being governed. Yorkist and later Tudor propaganda built on all these factors, depicting her as the central flaw in Lancastrian rule, the one reason for its failure.

We simply don't know what Margaret was really like. The image of her as a radical, extreme figure bent on revenge fits into narratives that imagines Richard, Duke of York was faultless in his actions, that she had pushed him to an extreme and he reacted in order to save his own life. The idea that Margaret could have felt similarly threatened by York's actions is never once considered, yet she had every reason to fear him.

Do I think Margaret was entirely the innocent in the Wars of the Roses? No. Of course not. But she probably was at fault for far less than is typically attributed to her.

#asks #anon #i think more than anything that we need to be far more sceptical of yorkist narratives than we are #margaret and edward of lancaster were living figures who served as a focal point for resistance against yorkist rule #of course the yorkists were going to use propaganda to denigrate them and try to manage the problem #margaret of anjou

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rainbinni · 1 year

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Published books recommendations 📚

Here are some of the best books I’ve read so far. I have a lot more to read so I’ll probably made other posts. Let me know your favorite books so I can read it ;)

!! All of those books content strong and mature language !!

Off campus serie - Elle Kennedy [5 books] (Young adult)

The deal (Garett & Hannah) [400 pages] The mistake (Logan & Grace) [336 pages] The score (Dean & Ally) [384 pages] The goal (Tuck & Sabrina) [384 pages] The legacy (everyone) [337 pages]

Follow the stories of four hockey players roommates and their sex/love life. Each books are about one of the roommates except the last who reunited everyone.

Briar university series - Elle Kennedy [4 books] (young adults)

The chase (Fitz & Summer) [368 pages] The risk (Brenna & Jake) [408 pages] The play (Hunter & Demi) [400 pages] The dare (Conor & Taylor) [336 pages]

This four books are the following stories of the off campus series. It’s about four roommates (2 girls 2 boys) who moved in the house of the off campus roommates (who leaved after graduation)

Twisted serie - Ana Huang [4 books] (young adults)

Twisted love (Ava & Alex) [343 pages] Twisted game (Bridget & Rhys) [438 pages] Twisted hate (Jules & Josh) [504 pages] Twisted lies (Stella & Christian) [558 pages]

Those books follow the stories of four best friend and their love life. You can find tropes like e2l, s2l, best friend brother/ brother best friend, bodyguard…

Devil’s night serie - Penelope Douglas [6 books] (Dark romance)

Corrupt (Micheal & Rika) [499 pages] Hideaway (Kai & Banks) [522 pages] Kill switch (Damon & Winter) [638 pages] Conclave [100 pages] Nightfall (Will & Emory) [727 pages] Fire night [95 pages]

30th October. Devil’s night. Their night. Every year the four horsemen put their masks on and pull the best prank on the city without fearing any consequences. Having rich family make them untouchable. Or at least that’s what they thought…

A million kisses in your life time - Monica Murphy [554 pages] (young adults)

At Lancaster Prep, the girls love her. They all want to be her friend. Only Crew see Wren for who she really is. A repressed little virgin who keeps her feelings locked up so tight she’s probably close to bursting. She thinks she’s above us all. Even him. She’s not his type. Until they’re forced to work together in class and realize they might have more things in common than they originally thought. Soon enough he find himself completely obsessed. He will do anything for this girl to make her fall in love with him.

Icebreaker - Hanna Grace [414 pages] (young adults)

Anastasia Allen is a competitive figure skater since she was five years old, a full college scholarship thanks to her place on the Maple Hills skating team, and a schedule that would make even the most driven person weep, Stassie comes to win. No exceptions. Nathan Hawkins has never had a problem he couldn’t solve. As captain of the Maple Hills Titans, he knows the responsibility of keeping the hockey team on the ice rests on his shoulders. When a misunderstanding results in the two teams sharing a rink, and Anastasia’s partner gets hurt in the aftermath, Nate finds himself swapping his stick for tights, and one scary coach for an even scarier one. The pair find themselves stuck together in more ways than one, but it’s fine, because Anastasia doesn’t even like hockey players…right?

#booksbooksbooks #books recommendations #devils night series #off campus #briar u #icebreaker #a million kisses in your lifetime #twisted series #smut #fluff #angts #e2l #fake dating #fwb dating #there’s only one bed #and a lot more but I’m too lazy too right everything

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whencyclopedia · 1 month

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Lancaster Bomber

The Avro 683 Lancaster bomber was a four-engine heavy bomber flown by the Royal Air Force and allies during the Second World War (1939-45). Lancasters were particularly used in nighttime bombing raids and could carry the heaviest bombs ever dropped in WWII. Lancasters dropped the 'bouncing bombs' on several Ruhr dams in Operation Chastise, the 'Dam Buster' raid of May 1943.

#History #LancasterBomber #RoyalAirForce

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hotvintagepoll · 29 days

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Propaganda

Deborah Kerr (Bonjour Tristesse, An Affair to Remember, The King and I)— For several decades she held the record for most Oscar nominations without a win (6 in total), and she was a prolific leading lady throughout the 40s and 50s. She's best known today for the romance An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant, and as the governess in The King and I. Many people have this erroneous perception of her as extremely prim, proper, and virginal, but this could not be further from the truth. When she first came to Hollywood under MGM she was typecast into boring decorative roles, but broke sexual boundaries for herself and Hollywood generally in From Here to Eternity, when she made out (horizontally!) with Burt Lancaster (on top of him!) in the famous Beach Scene. She went on to play many sexually conflicted women, a character type that would define most of her post- Eternity work. She continued to break Hays Code boundaries with Tea and Sympathy, which addresses homosexuality/homophobia head-on, and even did a topless scene in The Gypsy Moths 1969!! One of the only classic stars to do so. She deserves a more nuanced and frankly a hotter legacy than she currently has!!!

Hend Rostom (Cairo Station, Eshaat Hob)— Egyptian movie star called the "Marilyn Monroe of the East", need anyone say more

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Hend Rostrom:

Deborah Kerr:

I think she was one of my first crushes before I realised I was bi in The King and I when I watched it as a kid honestly. The kissing scene in From Here to Eternity is iconic for a reason. Actually tried to learn the accents for the characters she was playing if they weren't English which is more than pretty much anyone else was doing then. Played very restrained characters who frequently seemed to be desperate not to be so restrained. Did horror movies without venturing into hagsploitation tropes. Gave Marni Nixon the credit she deserved for her share of the singing in The King and I.

Anne Larsen is a peak late 1950s bisexual with big MILF energy. Have you seen the behind the scenes pics of her wearing a suit?? Have you????? Vote Deb as Anne Larsen.

Nominated for an Oscar six (6) times and never won, but besides her having actual talent (hot), and besides her looking Like That (very hot, also beautiful), she was always playing women who are, like, crazy repressed. Which makes it fun and easy for me to read these characters as queer. Icon!!!! You know what's hot? Playing ambiguously gay in vintage Hollywood.

Her face and talent and body, yes, ofc, duh. But also!!! Her HANDS!!!! I may be but a simple lesbian, but she is the best hactor (hand actor) that ever lived and that's HOT! For propriety's sake I feel I must redact a large portion of my commentary on this subject. Anyway. She's hot in her most famous roles (mentioned above), and also some of her sexiest hacting is on display in An Affair to Remember (her hand on the bannister when Cary Grant kisses her off-screen??? HELLO???), Tea and Sympathy (when she's trying to persuade Tom not to go out and she keeps flexing her hands like she wants to reach out to him but can't??? ALLY BEHAVIOR! WE STAN!), and The Innocents (which opens and closes with extended shots of her hands bc director Jack Clayton was also an ally and he did that for ME). Much of her appeal also lies in the fact that she often played deeply repressed characters and you know what's hot? When those uptight characters finally unravel. It's sexy. It's cathartic. It's erotic. Plus, she's beautiful to look at in both black & white and technicolor, and the more of her films you see, the more you can't help but fall in love!

Literally is in thee most famously sexy scene of all time (or maybe just during the hays code era which is what we're talking about HELLO), which is the beach scene with Burt Lancaster in from here to eternity. To quote a tumblr post of a screen capture of a tweet of a video of joy behar on the view: "y'know, there used to be movies where they were kissing on the beach... From Here to Eternity. They're kissing-- Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr are Kissing on the Beach and then the WAVES crash!! You know exactly what they did!"

She might have a reputation of being chaste and virginal or whatever, but we all know it's the quiet ones who are certifiable FREAKS

#deborah kerr #hend rostom #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 2

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lostf1ndaydream · 11 days

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Are you Lancaster

1) This is indeed @whiteswanoflancaster — I just have a very strange blogging setup going on that I haven’t bothered to do anything about yet😭

2) a little self-consciously, but yeah! I find it rather strange to take sides in a 550–year–old conflict, but despite that I’d say I support the Lancastrians! This is because:

- While Richard of York was undoubtedly more competent than Henry VI — and while I’d even argue he didn’t want to take the crown — there’s no getting around either the fact that he did or the fact that, in doing so, he completely destabilised the system of government in England, which probably wasn’t a price worth paying — many historians argue that Edward IV and Henry VII introduced a “new monarchy,” their financial systems and tight control of the nobility actually resembled the systems of earlier rulers such as Edward III, and weren’t all that new at all! There isn’t really a huge difference between Edward IV giving land to his brothers and Edward III giving it to his sons, in my opinion — and so the Wars of the Roses and by extension York’s decision to disrupt the system by claiming the crown led to politics taking a bit of a “backward step” towards a less efficient system. Without that disruption, England might have been better able to flourish in the sixteenth century — and there’d have been far less death.

- Their story is just appealing in my opinion! There’s a certain romance to it that caught my attention and refused to let go — and it’s also there at the end of the wars, with Henry Tudor and his allies standing for Lancaster. It’s a little bit shallow, but I do love a good story — and this is certainly that!

- Margaret of Anjou was very, very cool and deserves to be more widely known about and appreciated. Enough said 😭

#wars of the roses #history #fifteenth century #house of lancaster #there are two wolves inside me #the serious historian #and the Margaret of Anjou fangirl #ask #thanks for the ask!

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smolvenger · 1 year

Text

The Wedding of the King (Henry V/fem! Reader)

Summary: Henry consents to an arranged marriage to a Lady Y/N. He is enthusiastic about marrying this beautiful woman upon meeting her. But as the wedding day arrives, he learns that she, however, is not.

Word Count: 6K

Warnings: Discussions of the fear of rape, as well as masturbation and sex without any actual smut. Men are gross (but not our boy Henry- he's a king in more ways than one). Medieval era attitudes and attempts at accuracy. Some angst but a lot of fluff. I snuck in references to Hamlet and Six The Musical. A reworking of a speech from Henry IV Part II

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @evelyn-kingsley @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise

A/N: hi guys! This one-shot takes place in the same universe as my miniseries The Twelve Days. But it's not required and hopefully will make sense outside the context. I got an idea from an ask to expand it with some one-shots and to write something more from Hal/Henry's POV. I was in a rush to write the first part bc I Wanted the whole shebang done by January 6th (and then I didn't. Oops.) So I realized I didn't go into detail about the wedding. I should have, because I read a blog post about how medieval-era weddings went and I thought it was fascinating. So this one will focus a LOT on the wedding, as well as before and after. I hope y'all like it- comments and reblogs and asks and dms about my work are appreciated!

The Earl of York spoke of her like that of a Disciple proclaiming the Word.

“This family shall be most advantageous in a match! They have always sworn duty and loyalty to our court. They have served us faithfully and will make excellent allies. I say you must reward them. And there is a daughter they have- the elder one. All of us in Parliament agree that she is the best match to be your queen!” he bragged.

Henry rested his arms on the ends of the throne. It was quite a tumultuous time. In less than a month, not only had he lost a father and gained a crown, but now the court had selected a potential wife.

“What of her? Who is she? What is her name?” He asked.

“Lady Y/F/N of the House of Y/L/N,” the Duke of York reported.

The Duke of Salisbury stepped forward, adding on.

“I met her at a ball hosted by her parents. A most virtuous, good lady. Her parents assure us she is chaste, of course. We know she will obey her parents should they agree to this match. No protestations, no running away, no rebelling- so the marriage will happen smoothly without incident. And, as a man, I must confess- she is beautiful too!

The Duke of York cut back in.

“Additionally, many kings and queens of many countries are your relations. And they say that marrying too much within the family distorts the minds and even bodies of the children from their union. I say, to keep the minds and bodies of your heirs undisturbed, you look to England for your wife. And what luck that we have found Lady Y/N!”

The Chief Justice nodded and then continued.

“You are young, but so is Lancaster’s hold on the throne. You are only the second one after your father usurped Richard. You must secure your claim by taking a wife and siring an heir to continue your line.”

Perhaps as king, he could refuse them. But there were too many practical advantages. And they were all right. He never expected as he took the throne to marry for love. No, kings married for alliances and heirs. He took in a deep breath.

“Then let it be so. Go to her parents and tell her the betrothal is done now. And then bring them here- I’d like to meet her at least once before we are married,” he ordered.

His powerful voice echoed in the throne room The lords nodded and headed through the wooden doors to begin writing some eager letters.

Part of him would rest a little easier. He would cement his hold on the throne, indeed.

But who was she? This Y/N? He was bursting with curiosity. Even excitement. The visit was set for the next week. He couldn’t help but count down the days amidst the parliament meetings.

Finally, the day they would be introduced arrived. He greeted each servant with a smile. As he breakfasted with his brothers- The Princes John, Thomas, and Humphrey- he announced.

“You all have a sister now. But she will also be your queen and you will still respect her-she is already part of our family! I asked you all to think of me as brother and father- think of her like a sister and mother.”

They nodded their brown heads and gossiped about her and her family.

An hour before, he went to his chambers. His attendants dressed him in the dark cloak with the jeweled clasp, the one from his father. Such dark, dreary colors he had to wear on what should be a joyous day. He looked out to where a bird chirruped right outside the stained-glass window.

“I would like some fresher air, let me walk the gardens for a minute,” he ordered.

He would meet his betrothed- not only a wife, a queen! In only an hour! He paced about the grounds, trying to urge his heart to still. How could he woo this woman? Many men won women over by saying pretty poetry that made them swoon. Others danced so well that one could see the love in the ladies’ eyes. He could do neither.

What did ladies like? He looked down to notice the flowers in the gardens. Most ladies liked flowers, so it was foolproof. Some still grew despite the October cold. But there was a small purple wildflower that caught his eye. He bent down and picked it up. That should be her gift! He could give her jewels. Offer lands. But that would only show him off- no. There would be time after that. A flower would fit for his first gift. He would show humility. His honor for the union. His honor for her.

The Lord of Exeter, his uncle, hurried through and approached.

“Your grace…they’ve arrived!” he urged with a smile.

Henry walked through to the inside, his guards following with their tall spears and silver helmets. His brothers were just behind among the attendants of lords. Eager to peek at the woman about to be their sister-in-law.

He paused before the throne room. Knowing she would be there. Just between those doors was England’s queen! He took a moment to breathe in and savor the last minute of being a bachelor. The old man with a black hat and a large cane stood before, awaiting the signal.

Exhaling deeply, Henry then nodded. The old man tapped the staff on the floor. The doors opened to the throne room.

The old man announced, in a booming voice “his royal majesty, Henry the Fifth!”

The crowd in the stone throne room turned to him. Bowing heads low as he passed through them. Which one was she-which one? There among the crowd, was a woman in a decorative pink dress. Two people- her parents- gestured for her to walk forward.

It was Her.

She bowed her head down. She looked up at him, hands folded before her, right into his eyes. Henry felt frozen where he stood.

They were right. She was beautiful. Truly beautiful to him. He felt a shock. The punch of desire, run through his body, his spine, his stomach, his groin. He felt pulled to her like a moon drew the current of the ocean. He took a step closer. She looked him in the eyes, but he noticed her shoulder raise up.

He knew he frightened ladies. Most shivered in his approach. Prior to being king, despite his title, the higher-born princesses he met scoffed in his face when he was introduced. They knew his exploits as Prince Hal. When he went to Eastcheap, the Lower born women bowed without speaking. And Tavern Women were the ones who loved him- because he paid them to lie with their mouths and for him to lie in their beds.

In her presence, he almost forgot to speak. Her eyes reduced him to be not a king but a silent schoolboy. Then he remembered his words, rolling out his tongue.

“Lady Y/L/N. I greet you, most fair lady.”

“Your majesty,” she voiced. She bowed again for good measure.

God’s blood, he loved the sound of her voice already. He could hear her say that all day. The wedding couldn’t be soon enough.

He reached out his hand and she accepted it. He moved it so her palm faced upwards. He put the wildflower into her hand, right on the palm. Then he moved her fingers to curl over it. Her eyes went big.

“May I kiss your hand and call you, my queen?” he asked.

She nodded. Rather than lifting her hand, he bowed his head low. Like the flower, he would offer humility to this woman. He kissed the hand that held the plant and then returned up.

That dinner, she was placed to sit next to him. Her parents across. Forks clicked on plates on the wooden table. Her elder brother leaned towards him.

“Your majesty, her father and I will have her trousseau ready. We will make sure everything is in order for her dowry as well- we will speak to you after dinner about it in detail.”

Her trousseau; Her clothes. The clothes that soon enough, every night he would remove off this beautiful lady, kiss her bare flesh. And for the first time in months, and he would…no, now was not the time for that sort of thought.

Henry nodded his head. He still felt himself blush.

“That is all good...So, tell me, Lord Y/L/N. How are things with the rest of your family?” he asked the father.

“My mother is sickly, and it troubles me, else she’d be there," the father explained.

Would Y/N make a comment about that? He looked at her-no she didn’t. The utensils clattered against the plates as they ate. Click, click, click.

“The Duke of Lancaster-John, here,- encountered Hotspur's fellow rebels a little while ago- he has grown into quite a warrior- John, would you to tell us that?” Henry prodded.

John nodded and told them all about what happened. She made no reply. Click, click, click, went her fork and knife.

“What do you think of this, my lady?” Henry asked, turning to her.

The lady looked up. And then she nodded.

“I…I think…I think it is well. The Duke of Lancaster did very well,” She answered politely.

“Do you like the food, my lady?” he asked.

“Yes, I was hungry,” she answered.

She only spoke in short sentences. But even that was enough for him to hear her voice.

“Are you excited about the wedding?” he asked.

“I…I am. I only hope it shall please his majesty. And my father and mother as well,” she replied, eyeing them.

“It shall, Lady Y/L/N, it shall,” Henry assured her.

Her plate was cleared. She set down her utensils and wiped the remnants off her lips with her napkin. What would those pretty lips be like to kiss? How would they feel on him? In November, when the wedding was set, perhaps he would find out.

“This castle will be your home soon, what do you think? You’ll have access to the chapel, libraries, and large gardens- the queen always receives a stable full of beautiful horses all for her. What do you make of that?” he asked.

“It…it sounds nice,” she answered.

She was only shy. It only made her more endearing to him. Perhaps with time, she would open up.

“Our daughter enjoys dancing. And she is accomplished at sewing,” the father added.

“Do you?” Henry asked.

“Yes, my lord.” She answered.

“I’m sure you will have all the time you like to sew as you want when we're married. And there will be balls for you to dance for hours- would you like that?” he added on.

“Yes, my lord,” she repeated.

Once the dowry was established, the Lord's Y/L/N- father and son-bowed low and kissed his hand. Far more formal than the usual masculine embrace of about-to-be in-laws. As they returned to the crowd about to set off, Henry approached his intended and kissed her hand one last time.

“I will see you anon, my queen. Sleep well and stay in good health,” he said.

“And may you stay in good health, also,” she replied.

That night, he felt himself burning. Every time he tried to write a letter, he found he couldn't find the words to write to her. He paced about his chambers in his night shift. Excitement, as well as arousal, bubbled inside him. Soon, she would be here. She was only shy for a first meeting- he knew he had the crown on him! That was natural! But that beautiful woman would be on his bed. Opening more of her thoughts to him, as well as her legs. There would be nothing on her, nothing on him either. Then he would lay on her. And for the first time in months, he would enjoy the comforts only a woman could give him.

The memory of touching her hand, her bare skin, made him hard during that those nights before the wedding. He had no taste for prostitutes or even concubines anymore. They weren't her. So, in the privacy of his chambers, with the memory of her touch, he merely imagined her there. He closed his eyes, and relieved himself with his hand, whispering her name like a prayer.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The day of the November Wedding arrived at long last.

Minstrels began to play on their lutes and drums as soon as he left his chambers. He embraced each of his brothers and then entered to begin the procession to the church outside the castle. Henry was draped in his own red cloak with gold in it with a rich red doublet and pants. They walked out to the courtyard just outside the castle entrance.

As he walked outside, the London crowd gaped and gathered to see the line of people forming the party. Already, he could hear the loud bells from the church signaling the start of the wedding. One group walked entered from outside the gates and the minstrels began playing even louder. His heart raced and he smiled noting a white blur as it got closer- the bride.

“A most joyous day of days- I welcome all of you!” he announced before his people.

They paused as the father approached with the about-to-be queen on his arm. He looked down and opened an arm to greet her.

But when he approached the head of the party, his feet stopped where they were.

She did look very pretty in her white wedding dress. It was trimmed with gold that shone when she passed sunlight. Her father stood, grinning right next to her. But there were circles beneath her eyes. He saw her hands shake as she clutched a bouquet of flowers. She was blinking rapidly as if to fight off crying. And she wasn’t smiling.

The English people and court were witnessing an exhausted, terrified, timid young woman on the verge of tears rather than a radiant and smiling Royal bride.

Her father placed her on Henry’s left side, as Eve came from Adam’s left. John, as the Best Man, checked his sword in his hilt. He was decked in armor and a red cloak, his sword by his side. It was tradition and not even royals were beneath it. John then mounted a horse to trot next to them. He was armed just in case the bride was kidnapped. But as Henry looked at her, she might have welcomed it.

They began to walk towards the church, the minstrels playing against the bells from the cathedral. Her gaze was always low, she never looked at him. When her eyes met his, she still didn’t smile. She backed off from even his cloak brushing her.

She seemed to shrink before the doors to the large chapel. It was as if her wedding dress regressed her into a little child. Even though everyone knew she was a woman grown and deemed fit for wedding and bedding.

His in-laws and behind, including his two youngest brothers and his uncle.

The priest for the ceremony would be the Archbishop of Canterbury an old man with a scratchy white beard. He held up a ring and asked in a scratchy voice.

“Does the bride’s father permit the marriage?”

“He does,” answered the father.

“Are the bride and groom related by blood?”

“They are not. He is of the house of Lancaster. She is of the house of Y/L/N,” answered the father.

The interview went on until the priest nodded his head. John swung off his horse. The doors swung open.

He took note of her, following her steps. She moved slow. Yes, it was ceremony. Henry partially wondered if she was delaying arriving at the altar just a little. When they arrived, her father caught up to be by her side. She handed him the flowers. John was by Henry’s side. Both escorted them to face the priest. The chapel was filled with the various courtiers. Members of her family were scattered amongst the pews as well.

The Archbishop took her hand and lifted it up. He placed it in Henry’s, he made sure to make his own hand light, as not to grip her. He noticed her chest slowly rising and down, deepening the breaths.

“Your grace, you will make your vows to the bride.”

He looked her in the eye. Trying to soften his voice. Maybe that would comfort her. He repeated after the priest.

“I will have and hold you in bed and at the table, be you fair or ugly, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” He vowed.

She gazed up at him like a doe. She blinked. He noticed her jaw unclench. The archbishop delivered a brief sermon on the sacred nature of marriage. He then blessed the ring and handed it to Henry.

Henry held the ring and repeated if after the priest.

“In the name of the Father…”

He slipped it on and off her first finger.

“…And the Son…”

He slipped it on and off her second finger.

“…And the Holy Ghost…”

On and off the third finger.

“…I thee wed.”

He then placed it over the fourth finger of her left hand. She looked down at the golden band. Admiring it.

“Now, both of you kneel before the Altar for Mass,” instructed the priest.

She let go of his hand and they followed suit. Her father, John, and the Archibishop brought out a canopy, a long, white fabric. It was placed over his and the lady’s head.

“Kyrie eleison…” sang the church choir before them.

She was close. So close. Hidden betwixt this sheet. But not the passionate bedsheets of lust. The chaste, sacred canopy of church. The sunlight from the windows and candles filtered over the white sheet and he could see her.

He looked down at her. She looked up at him. Her hands had been folded to pray. But here, they could be granted some privacy. At least during the day. Of course, it was right before the Sanctus, in the pause between liturgy. When he shifted his hands forward, she backed off a little. She didn’t want to be touched now. He had to use words.

“How are you?” he whispered.

“I’m tired, my lord,” she replied.

He gave her a small smile.

“I am too.”

He gave her a wink. She did break one small smile at that.

“We…we need to go back to praying. They might hear.” she prodded.

“I agree,” he replied.

Finally, after the Amen, the attendants took off the canopy, revealing them. The archbishop returned the lady’s hand to join the kings. Then he went to Henry and kissed his forehead.

“I Bestow you the Kiss of Peace. You may give it to your Bride.”

He leaned down and lightly, so lightly, pecked her cheek. The archbishop made the sign of the cross over the couple. John then went over and handed a tiara to Henry. Henry placed it over her head. A wedding and a brief coronation in one.

“I now bless and pronounce thee, King Henry the Fifth and Queen Y/N, husband and wife," the archbishop announced.

The choir sang “agnus dei” as they both walked out together.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It was a lovely feast. There were love songs sung by the talented minstrels. Flutes lilted as ale and wine decked the plates. Flowers and gold were everywhere in the throne room, converted into a dining hall. There were more meats, loaves of bread, fruits, and delicacies than the king himself could name. As he finished off a leg of chicken, he checked in on his new wife next to him.

She could only stare out quietly and sip on her goblet. She had not said a word to him since they were served dinner.

Her mother arrived, curtsying at the table.

“Your grace, I would like a word in private with my daughter,” the mother announced.

“Then that you shall…” Henry nodded, gesturing for his new wife to be dismissed.

The mother led her out to the hall outside the dining hall. But Hal himself walked up, saying he was going to speak to the Duke of Burgundy who traveled all the way from France to the wedding.

Then he stopped at a corner. Standing right outside the hall- his ears peeled for the conversation between the women. He then stole glances at them sometimes, when he knew they wouldn't look.

“Y/N, my dear…you are a married woman now. We’ve discussed the specifics. But you must be reminded. There comes the…responsibility you bear. That is, to bear him on you..this would happen no matter who you married.”

“Yes, mother.” She nodded.

“The act is…not pleasant. It is painful when he…enters you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she replied.

“I trust you are chaste.”

“I swear on it, I am.” She replied.

“There will be bleeding and pain the first time. Men tend to be…enthusiastic. They are full of lust. It is their nature, how God made them. But considering who your husband is…Tonight, it will especially be expected. You will fulfill the very reason you were brought here. You will do your duty to your husband. And you will do it tonight. You know how important it is for the king to have a male heir.”

“Yes, I do, mother.”

“The act is... It is uncomfortable. It is awkward. But it is your duty. As a wife, you must do it. You will be brave and do what you have sworn to do not only for your husband- but for your king, and for England…”

“I promise, I won’t let anyone down. I don’t want to disappoint you or the king…I won't be a disappointment, I won't!” she insisted.

“You won’t shut him off. You will enter the king’s bed…lift your skirt, spread your legs, and let it happen. It won’t be that hard. Just lie down on the bed- that’s all you have to do. It’s what he expects of you, and what he will want of you…men on their wedding night expect this. And the king will be no different.”

“Yes, mother.”

She touched her daughter’s arm to comfort her.

“Many men are…excited to bed their wives the first time. And no doubt, with such a vigorous, virile young king as we hear he is, he shall be. So tonight, it might not take long. Sometimes, men get so excited to perform the act that after they enter you…it ends quickly. It will only be a few minutes. Then you can go to sleep and go about as normal. And then you’ll have a baby to comfort you - doesn’t that sound nice?”

“It does.”

The young queen then touched her mother’s sleeve, her knuckles popping out as her hand turned into a grip.

“Mother will he….force himself on me?” she asked.

She paused.

“I don’t know…. And considering he’s the king…honestly, I’m not sure if you have a choice in the matter. When Henry says you and now…it’s you and now.”

He heard her start to cry. Her mother then hugged her, wiping the tears from her daughter's eyes.

“But you’ll live here in this wonderful castle, you will have dozens of servants and a baby someday…and you can always write to us…”

She broke the hug and then held her shoulder to look her in the eye.

“I say this only to prepare you. You will do your duty to the King -yes?”

“I will, mother. I won’t fail England. Or father and you.”

“Good. We are proud of you. And like I said, it will hurt…but it will be quick. Just a few minutes of pain, and then it’ll be done.”

He then turned his head and walked away. He asked for some ale and asked after the rotund, red-cheeked duke, per his promise. Noting when mother and daughter returned to their seats. He then got back to his.

“Would you like to try the beef they made for us? They spiced it well, my lady,” he offered.

Her plate, loaded with food, was untouched.

“No thank you, my lord…” she replied.

“Do you feel sick? Do you need to retire?” he asked.

That last one did not come out the way he intended. Her eyes flashed up at him in a glare.

“I do not feel sick, my lord,” she replied firmly.

There, in that voice, was a touch of how she really felt. The flash of anger. The look she gave him, with a frown and crossed eyebrows. There. She was just like every other lady. She was frightened of him.

More than that-He revolted her. He disgusted her.

In short, she hated him.

If she wasn’t under the pressure of a royal marriage, if she wasn’t under the guidance of the court, the church, and her mother’s words…she would bolt from his side. She would lock her doors tight. She would avoid him. And if he offered his hand up to even walk chastely with him through the grounds, she would swat it away, screaming, and fleeing off.

As king, Henry could have anything. He could have spices imported from the East. He could command armies to march and invade lands for him. He had his own stable full of horses and hunting dogs that were all his. He could have exotic monkeys as pets. He could eat feasts every night and throw parties as he wanted. He could have the money stowed for the church if he wanted. He could have every other woman in England as his concubines. He could lay heavy taxes and have all the gold and wealth of the people in England.

But he could not have a wife who loved him.

If only the feast would hurry up. There was no way he could be alone with her. To talk to her. Perhaps to calm her down, let her know who he really was. Not until it was time for dismissal. But he found his plate, though half-eaten, had satiated him. He set down his fork. He saw his wife’s eyes grow big at the sight.

He turned over to the Earl of Exeter standing by him.

“Uncle … I think it’s time the queen and I excuse ourselves.”

A servant brought away the plate of untouched food from the young queen’s table. Her head turned his direction. She placed her fists onto the cloth napkin and clutched it.

The Lord of Exeter gave a naughty smile and drew his hand up. The minstrels stopped playing and the guests stopped chatting.

“Everyone, the king is going to retire with his bride to his chambers. It is now the hour where-to quote that Danish song- he will open the chamber door, and she will enter a maid and leave a maid no more,”

There was some snickering from a few male courtiers. A knot formed in Henry’s throat. The bride kept her head down and curled into her chair. She looked like a dog scared of its violent master.

“The Bishop, the Lords, and her servants shall follow them to their rooms to sleep…or to be at it like rabbits…”

“Uncle, it is my wedding, let me speak,” Henry interrupted.

The Earl of Exeter closed his mouth and bowed his head. Henry stood up. He lifted his goblet in a toast.

“The rest of you shall stay here and drink another cup-for the blessing of the royal marriage. I am now not only a king, but a husband as well. We thank you all for celebrating with us today. We shall ask for your prayers for God to protect us both. May He lead us to wisdom and kindness with each other as we enter a new, sacred covenant…to health of the Queen of England!”

The crowd repeated “to the health of the queen!” as they all drank.

With a shaking hand, the queen took the goblet and downed water-maybe wishing it was wine. She then went up, and before the servants could escort her, she went down hugged her sister and her mother.

Then they gathered in a circle, lit torches, and walked down to his chambers. Minstrels beside them walked behind, playing away as one relayed a bawdy song about keys and locks with holes. The night had gotten dark and only that light was around. Behind were Henry’s three younger brothers. The Chief Justice, in a way, the surrogate father for the four Lancaster brothers, followed suit.

Down they walked. They entered the king’s room. Once it was father’s-and now it was his.

“Thank you all," he wished the party as they went inside.

Servants arrived and undressed them both. But he kept noticing many of the men leering at the bride as her ladies began to undress her. She eyed them nervously- a gazelle before a pack of hungry lions.

Henry then asked for a screen to be brought. A page boy arrived and set it up. She scurried behind it. One lord sighed in discontentment. Henry shot him a glare.

She would not suffer. If there was one thing he could do, he would not make her suffer. And he would remind them all who was really in charge. And she would know who it was she was really married to.

His jaw lowered when she emerged from the screen. She had no jewels or crown. She only had a simple white shift. Her feet were bare. She was raw, natural…and still beautiful. He wanted to embrace her in his arms. Kiss her head. Assure her all would be well. Protect her…

She was shivering. It was a November night, deep in Autumn with winter right in its nip. She raised her arms to hug herself. On her skin, he could see gooseflesh.

He brought her father’s old cloak and draped it over it. He offered his hand. She did not swat it away. She accepted it and he led her to sit down.

He then ordered all of them out.

“Now the rest of you- please leave the room…and do not stay at the door if you are not the guards…”

“But your majesty, we must make sure the marriage is consummated. You could at most close the drapes around the bed, but we must make sure you do your duty to your wife. For St. George and the sake of-“

“Yes, that is tradition. But seeing as I am the king now, here is a new one. I ask that all of you leave and go to your own rooms.” Henry protested.

They looked at each other in confusion.

The same lord spoke, “But how will we know if-“

“I’m sure once we discover she is pregnant, you will know the marriage is consummated. Now leave!”

No, he was the King of England now. Even as a prince, the guards had no choice but to let him out to visit Eastcheap. They couldn’t stop him. And every butcher and brawler bowed to him as he walked the streets.

And these earls would not be voyeurs on his wedding night. No matter how much they wanted to. Let them return to their rooms and pleasure themselves over imagining it. They would not see what would really happen.

And that poor girl would not be tormented before them.

She flinched when he turned to her, but he assured her. Then, slowly, she placed her hand into his. She felt warm, soft to touch. She confided that she was not ready to consummate the marriage.

“You don’t need to worry. Nothing will happen tonight…”

She let out a deep exhale. He poured her a glass from the jug fill of spiced wine. It was tradition for the husband and wife to share it before they went to bed. It smelled of cinnamon. As he poured his own cup and sipped it, he could taste it’s slight kick in it’s dry flavor.

“You didn’t eat anything at the feast. Would you like me to ask for a plate?” he suggested.

“Yes, my lord.”

When he went up to the guard, he quietly requested “Please bring a plate of food for the queen. The feast leftovers will do.”

The guard raised his eyebrows in shock. This was not the sound he expected to hear that night. But he dipped his head and went down. But she drank her wine and ate all of her food.

She fell asleep curled up beneath the blankets on the bed. Finally, after everything, she was at peace. He finished the letters he had to write at his desk. He kept peeking over to see the bump in the blankets and it’s slow breathing. He went back up to the guards.

“I’d like to delay the morning mass for later. Let’s say around ten. It was a long day. She needs to rest…and so do I.”

The guard nodded.

He went into the bed. It was big enough to where he wouldn’t be able to touch her. He curled up on his side, listening to her breathing as he closed the bed curtains and his eyes.

They slept in. The mid-morning burst through the room, through the curtains. He awoke before her. She was still asleep. He paused to admire her through the slivers of light.

The attendants arrived, surprised to find the king and queen turned to the opposite sides, away from each other. He wanted to shake her awake, but his hand stopped. No, he would not touch her when she did not want to be touched. He let a lady in waiting wake her.

They sat in the castle's smaller chapel for morning prayers. They waited for it to start when a bishop would arrive to lead them. He sat next to her on the bench on the first row. He turned to her.

“Did you sleep better?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“That’s good…may I eat with you, my lady?”

“Aye, my lord.”

At breakfast, they sat at the table. He was on one side with the high chair, just as his father did before him. She sat on the other side. Close and far away.

“I don’t think I ever gave you a wedding gift," he said.

“I received many wedding gifts, my lord.”

“The court isn’t around you…you can call me Henry," he suggested.

“I received many wedding gifts…Henry.” She corrected.

“Is there anything you would…you would like? Name it, and it’s yours.” He offered,

She looked down, a bit hesitant. Then she opened her mouth.

“I’d like some new dresses if you don’t mind…my trousseau was full of my old ones. I’d like ones that would fit me now that I’m…that I’m queen, please.”

“Oh, of course! I will alert several people. You can have as many as you would like!"

“Thank you, Henry.”

He felt himself blush a little at the sounder of her voice saying his name. He ate another bit of food. The lute in the corner began playing.

“Y/N…do you have a favorite color?” he asked.

She blinked. She answered him. He kept note.

“Mine is black…black and red,” Henry replied.

It was small, but a start.

He asked to enter her room in December. It was the day after the Feast of St. Stephen. They would eat dinner together. The Earl of Warwick had to be the messenger this time. He blushed and nodded. Everyone knew when the king asked to dine with the queen, it was expected for them to make love after the meal. But he would not expect that. He just wanted to be alone with her. To talk to her even more, with the guards at the door and not around the wall.

He had finished studying and his brothers and the chief justice saw them off. As he knocked and entered, the door closed. The Cheif Justice began chatting with John as they walked off to the halls. Yet the two youngest Lancaster brothers, stayed behind, peeling an ear to the door.

“My lady Y/N,” Henry greeted her.

“My lord and king,” she replied. “The dinner is almost ready- they’re about to bring it in. I’m sorry the table is bare…”

“Don’t be. We can wait.”

The servants brought in the food through the door and left. But as they walked off, they noticed Thomas and Humphrey remaining. They looked at each other and kept their ears at the door. The two little brothers kept spying on the couple until there was the sound of footsteps from the hall.

"Where are they? Where are the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester?! cried the Chief Justice.

He arrived with John right outside the door. The boys jumped and returned to their feet with obviously fake innocence. John crossed his arms at them. The Chief Justice looked red beneath his long, white beard. He huffed through his bulbous nose. He put his arms akimbo.

"What are you doing outside the queen's chambers?"

The boys looked at each other. Their lips were quivering.

“We just…just wanted to…to know…what happens, you know? The... Act. Father never got the chance to tell us what happens on the Wedding Night so…we just…” Humphrey explained.

The Chief Justice shook his head. John turned to them.

“I’ll explain it to them.” He offered.

He walked forward, and with both hands, yanked the ears of his two little brothers. They both went “urgh!” with the pain as he dragged them both away from the door. Off to give them the fateful talk without overhearing anything in person.

The guards stiffened their jaws to keep from smiling. The Chief Justice followed them.

If they managed to stay, they would have been disappointed. The “Act” did not happen that night. They only talked.

“My father compared me to Richard…Before I made an arrogant remark, and he struck me…” Henry recalled.

“Well, serves him right!” she said.

That made him laugh. They talked more as the ate.

“Has it occurred to you, Y/N, that you’re the Queen of one of the largest, and most wonderful countries of the world? And if they bow before me, they should bow before you,” Henry said. Her eyes widened and she blinked slowly. Processing the information.

Then they went to bed. But only to sleep. She told Henry she wasn’t ready yet. But they lay closer together.

“Y/N…has a man ever held you…held you in his arms….” he wondered.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I wanted…wanted to know…I can touch you without…without…”

“Are you asking to hold me?” she asked.

“It’s cold. And you get cold easily if I recall.”

“Then yes, you can hold me…” she confirmed.

He wrapped his arms around her and he felt her arms reach around him. She felt so warm and soft. She smelled of the lavender they must have put in her bath today.

“Y/N…can I kiss you…” he asked.

“You’ve kissed my hand," she replied.

“On the lips, I mean.” Henry specified.

That felt bold. But this time, she did not object.

“Yes, you can,” she answered.

He raised his large hand to cup her smooth cheek, but as light as if she was made of glass. She looked him in his eyes, eyes he could stare at until they consumed him. As they laid their heads against the pillows, he craned his neck forward and kissed her. She tasted like wine and sauce. He felt himself blush red hot and could feel the breath from her nose. His heart burst forward and began to race with excitement. He was glad he was laying down, his knees felt weak from her lips. Finally, finally, he did it. He kissed her. And he knew that he would give her half his kingdom and his throne too if she blessed him with her lips again and asked for them.

He let go, the lips smacking quietly as they parted. The fire crackled as white puffs of snowflakes fell outside the window.

“Goodnight Henry,” she said.

“Goodnight. Y/N.”

He looked down on her as she slept. Far from the bride with shaking hands and blinking away tears in November. So peaceful. So warm. So safe. Henry felt something fill up his chest as he watched her quiet breathing again. Only this time, she was nestled close to him.

Once he was certain she was fast asleep, He then whispered lowly. Words like those he once spoke over the father he thought was dead.

“My gracious lady…my wife…”

She did not stir to awaken. She stayed in the realm of dreams, where she could not hear him. That made speaking these words easier at the moment.

“This is a sleep which gives much rest to those most troubled. You most of all. What is due from me is fidelity and acts of gentle patience, which nature, love…”

He leaned down, and lightly, oh so lightly, pecked her forehead.

“And marital tenderness I will give you, plenteously.”

The wind whistled as more snow well.

“Your only debt is to have someone who will treat you well-which as your husband I owe you. So, rest, sweet Y/N. And I will stay here I will guard you. Until I fall asleep beside you.”

He then prayed. Looking up, a small smile on his face.

“Dear Lord, I thank you…I thank you for her…she will be good for me…she will teach me so much…let me be a good man for her…”

She wouldn’t hate him. He would do everything he could to make sure she didn’t hate him. If he could not be loved, he would be liked. Perhaps he could be liked. And then, one day, one day at last…she would love him.

He smiled as he fell asleep, embracing his wife.

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