Blackwork (PG, RPF -- 16th-17th century)
Title: Blackwork
Fandom:RPF -- 16th century
Word Count: 1360 words
Rating: PG
Characters: Jane Seymour, Edward Seymour
Author's Note: My second yuletide fic! This stocking stuffer was written on the spur of the moment when I spotted a request by kenazfiction that was completely open for the 16th-17th century period. A plot bunny bit hard and, frankly, I would have liked a couple of weeks to work on this story but it was written and posted in the space of two hours. At some point, I want to come back and expand it. I loved all the comments on the story on the yuletide site.
The needle flashes in and out, in and out, of the blinding white linen. It leaves a trail of black silk stitches, filling in the geometric tracery that Jane has worked so hard to lay on these bands that she will soon give to the king, her husband, for a gift to mark their two month anniversary.
She's learned that such homely gestures serve her well and so she stitches dutifully, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, each one of them representing an ambitious family if not ambitious in herself.
They've seen for themselves, after all, how easy it is to make and break a queen.
Jane comes to the end of her thread, carefully weaving the last of the silk backwards into the underside of the cuff where it will be almost invisible. She cuts a new length of silk, demurring when two of the nearest ladies offer their assistance. In the corner of the queen's chamber, another quietly strums at her lute while three more sit in the window seat, gazing enviously out at the warm summer's pleasures of the Kentish countryside denied them by the queen's command.
Jane cannot stand the light, some days.
Jane furtively follows their gossip, hiding her interest behind the mechanical act of stitching. Tonight, after dinner, if her husband is not too distracted by his latest mistress or upset over some game of chance, Jane's eldest brother, Edward, will closely question the queen as to all she knows of the goings-on around the court. Even though she outranks Edward, Jane knows she cannot hold out against his dominating and cruel personality, so she stores up the stories of who has bedded whom, which lady is late with her courses and which gentleman is rumoured to have lost deeply at cards.
Edward has told her that Jane has only won the king's favour by the family's hard work. "Certainly not for your looks," he sneered when Henry had begun to court her in earnest.
Jane is unwilling to dispute this judgment. Edward and Thomas, her brothers, are acknowledged leaders in the king's court, each in their own way. Edward masters the intrigues and alliances that mark the true ways of power in serving King Henry. Thomas is one of the sovereign's merriest followers: always ready to do whatever the king desired whether it be hunting the day through or devising some fabulous premise for a joust or dinner's entertainment. And together, the two of them will stop at nothing to see their sister as the next royal consort.
Jane? She is good and honourable and plain. And she has spent years at the court, first in the service of one queen, than another, uncomplaining, watchful and wise. When her brothers told her that the king was interested in her, she laughed aloud which caused a stir amongst her family at Wolf Hall. No one had heard Jane laugh for years.
And when Henry came courting, all bluff assurance, Jane sought to turn him aside, this way and that. He was married, she was not. She was an honourable girl. But which ever way she turned, Edward and Thomas harried her back into the king's circle. Soon he had cast Anne Boleyn aside all, he professed, for her. When they sent for the executioner from France to bring an end to Henry's second queen's life, Jane had nightmares from which she awoke, gasping and sweaty. The dreams were dark and vivid, where it was Jane, not Anne, dressed in the rich, royal dress, marched off to the Tower to await her death at the king's pleasure. And so, once she is married to the king, his last queen not even cold in her grave, Jane works to keep her head on her neck by collecting gossip.
"Richmond is unwell, I hear. Maybe it was poison."
At this name, Jane's steady hand stops, ever so briefly. Richmond is, of course, Henry's son and, unless their marriage bears fruit, the one slender hope upon which England's succession stands. But she dare not show interest or soon all the court will know that the new queen is worried about her standing.
So she lets her eyes focus on the cuff, turning the fabric over to inspect the smooth lines of blackwork, while the speakers continue to discuss the unofficial heir's failing health. It had been all the talk during the late queen's trial that Anne and her brother had conspired to poison him. But even after their executions, young Richmond has not regained his colour. He coughs constantly while his young wife, Mary, huddles in the next chamber, praying for his safe deliverance.
"If he is not well enough to leave St. James, he must be ill indeed," said Margaret Borough, turning to look at the queen. "Would you not agree, your Grace?"
So directly addressed, Jane has no choice but to put down her needle and turn her eyes towards the waiting ladies. "Certainly London is not healthful in the summer, which is why our good king, my husband, has brought us forth to Sittingbourne." Jane pauses for effect. "Should the duke of Richmond continue unwell, it is, of course, a great sadness to us all. May God keep the young duke well and whole, for the good of all England."
Satisfied at the queen's conventional piety and sentiment, talk soon turned to gowns and fabrics and Jane retreats behind her mask of calm control. But underneath her partlet, she feels her heart race and trip as if it were a partridge startled by the beaters.
They were close.
***
That night, when Henry had grown maudlin from the quantities of clarey he'd ingested at dinner, Jane meets with her brother.
"We must be careful," he reminds her as she stands in the small chamber, gown clutched close to her throat despite the warmth of the summer's night.
Jane does not dignify this with a response. She knows as well as any at court that the accusations of incest against Anne and her brother, Rochford, were as baseless as any such claims made against herself and Edward. But the court cares little for truth.
"There is talk of Fitzroy," she says tersely. "His lingering at St. James has caused tongues to wag. No one who can leave would have stayed in the palace this late in the summer. They know he is failing. They talk of poisoning."
Edward's face pales. "Have they said aught of us?"
Jane frowns fiercely. "No, and I will pray each night for this to come to an end. Pray God, let it end and soon."
Edward clasps her hand fiercely. "I will ensure that it does. Thomas will leave tomorrow to visit Fitzroy and he will ensure that another dose of Basil Valentine's compound be put into the brazier."
Jane shudders and drops her head. "Pray God that it ends soon," was all she manages before Edward lifts her chin sharply.
"This marriage must end well for the Seymours. We have waged it all upon you, Jane, and I will not have the king throw the crown away on Blount's bastard son. Fitzroy must be eliminated and you," he sneers dismissively, "must give the king a son."
Jane allows herself to return Edward's vicious gaze for one instant before dropping her eyes obediently. "I will do my duty," she says tonelessly.
Edward turns to leave the chamber. "See that you do."
Jane stands quietly and clasps her hands in prayer. She dares not tell Edward that, since the death of Anne and since he had revealed the full details of the plot he had already begun to ensure the Seymour control of the succession by poisoning Henry's illegitimate son that she has regularly suffered from new and even more frightening nightmares. Now it is not to the Tower that she is escorted, like Anne, but instead she is dragged down to the bottomless pits of hell where murderers belong.
She will not sleep well tonight, this she knows. So she returns to her bedchamber, picks up the needlework, and, by the light of a branch of wax candles, begins anew the tracing of a complex pattern, black upon white.
***
Note: I've researched Jane Seymour extensively for my scholarly work. There is no evidence that Jane or her family were involved in Henry Fitzroy's death but I've always thought that Jane's brother would do a great deal to secure their interests. The rest, then, is my fiction.
Fandom:RPF -- 16th century
Word Count: 1360 words
Rating: PG
Characters: Jane Seymour, Edward Seymour
Author's Note: My second yuletide fic! This stocking stuffer was written on the spur of the moment when I spotted a request by kenazfiction that was completely open for the 16th-17th century period. A plot bunny bit hard and, frankly, I would have liked a couple of weeks to work on this story but it was written and posted in the space of two hours. At some point, I want to come back and expand it. I loved all the comments on the story on the yuletide site.
The needle flashes in and out, in and out, of the blinding white linen. It leaves a trail of black silk stitches, filling in the geometric tracery that Jane has worked so hard to lay on these bands that she will soon give to the king, her husband, for a gift to mark their two month anniversary.
She's learned that such homely gestures serve her well and so she stitches dutifully, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, each one of them representing an ambitious family if not ambitious in herself.
They've seen for themselves, after all, how easy it is to make and break a queen.
Jane comes to the end of her thread, carefully weaving the last of the silk backwards into the underside of the cuff where it will be almost invisible. She cuts a new length of silk, demurring when two of the nearest ladies offer their assistance. In the corner of the queen's chamber, another quietly strums at her lute while three more sit in the window seat, gazing enviously out at the warm summer's pleasures of the Kentish countryside denied them by the queen's command.
Jane cannot stand the light, some days.
Jane furtively follows their gossip, hiding her interest behind the mechanical act of stitching. Tonight, after dinner, if her husband is not too distracted by his latest mistress or upset over some game of chance, Jane's eldest brother, Edward, will closely question the queen as to all she knows of the goings-on around the court. Even though she outranks Edward, Jane knows she cannot hold out against his dominating and cruel personality, so she stores up the stories of who has bedded whom, which lady is late with her courses and which gentleman is rumoured to have lost deeply at cards.
Edward has told her that Jane has only won the king's favour by the family's hard work. "Certainly not for your looks," he sneered when Henry had begun to court her in earnest.
Jane is unwilling to dispute this judgment. Edward and Thomas, her brothers, are acknowledged leaders in the king's court, each in their own way. Edward masters the intrigues and alliances that mark the true ways of power in serving King Henry. Thomas is one of the sovereign's merriest followers: always ready to do whatever the king desired whether it be hunting the day through or devising some fabulous premise for a joust or dinner's entertainment. And together, the two of them will stop at nothing to see their sister as the next royal consort.
Jane? She is good and honourable and plain. And she has spent years at the court, first in the service of one queen, than another, uncomplaining, watchful and wise. When her brothers told her that the king was interested in her, she laughed aloud which caused a stir amongst her family at Wolf Hall. No one had heard Jane laugh for years.
And when Henry came courting, all bluff assurance, Jane sought to turn him aside, this way and that. He was married, she was not. She was an honourable girl. But which ever way she turned, Edward and Thomas harried her back into the king's circle. Soon he had cast Anne Boleyn aside all, he professed, for her. When they sent for the executioner from France to bring an end to Henry's second queen's life, Jane had nightmares from which she awoke, gasping and sweaty. The dreams were dark and vivid, where it was Jane, not Anne, dressed in the rich, royal dress, marched off to the Tower to await her death at the king's pleasure. And so, once she is married to the king, his last queen not even cold in her grave, Jane works to keep her head on her neck by collecting gossip.
"Richmond is unwell, I hear. Maybe it was poison."
At this name, Jane's steady hand stops, ever so briefly. Richmond is, of course, Henry's son and, unless their marriage bears fruit, the one slender hope upon which England's succession stands. But she dare not show interest or soon all the court will know that the new queen is worried about her standing.
So she lets her eyes focus on the cuff, turning the fabric over to inspect the smooth lines of blackwork, while the speakers continue to discuss the unofficial heir's failing health. It had been all the talk during the late queen's trial that Anne and her brother had conspired to poison him. But even after their executions, young Richmond has not regained his colour. He coughs constantly while his young wife, Mary, huddles in the next chamber, praying for his safe deliverance.
"If he is not well enough to leave St. James, he must be ill indeed," said Margaret Borough, turning to look at the queen. "Would you not agree, your Grace?"
So directly addressed, Jane has no choice but to put down her needle and turn her eyes towards the waiting ladies. "Certainly London is not healthful in the summer, which is why our good king, my husband, has brought us forth to Sittingbourne." Jane pauses for effect. "Should the duke of Richmond continue unwell, it is, of course, a great sadness to us all. May God keep the young duke well and whole, for the good of all England."
Satisfied at the queen's conventional piety and sentiment, talk soon turned to gowns and fabrics and Jane retreats behind her mask of calm control. But underneath her partlet, she feels her heart race and trip as if it were a partridge startled by the beaters.
They were close.
***
That night, when Henry had grown maudlin from the quantities of clarey he'd ingested at dinner, Jane meets with her brother.
"We must be careful," he reminds her as she stands in the small chamber, gown clutched close to her throat despite the warmth of the summer's night.
Jane does not dignify this with a response. She knows as well as any at court that the accusations of incest against Anne and her brother, Rochford, were as baseless as any such claims made against herself and Edward. But the court cares little for truth.
"There is talk of Fitzroy," she says tersely. "His lingering at St. James has caused tongues to wag. No one who can leave would have stayed in the palace this late in the summer. They know he is failing. They talk of poisoning."
Edward's face pales. "Have they said aught of us?"
Jane frowns fiercely. "No, and I will pray each night for this to come to an end. Pray God, let it end and soon."
Edward clasps her hand fiercely. "I will ensure that it does. Thomas will leave tomorrow to visit Fitzroy and he will ensure that another dose of Basil Valentine's compound be put into the brazier."
Jane shudders and drops her head. "Pray God that it ends soon," was all she manages before Edward lifts her chin sharply.
"This marriage must end well for the Seymours. We have waged it all upon you, Jane, and I will not have the king throw the crown away on Blount's bastard son. Fitzroy must be eliminated and you," he sneers dismissively, "must give the king a son."
Jane allows herself to return Edward's vicious gaze for one instant before dropping her eyes obediently. "I will do my duty," she says tonelessly.
Edward turns to leave the chamber. "See that you do."
Jane stands quietly and clasps her hands in prayer. She dares not tell Edward that, since the death of Anne and since he had revealed the full details of the plot he had already begun to ensure the Seymour control of the succession by poisoning Henry's illegitimate son that she has regularly suffered from new and even more frightening nightmares. Now it is not to the Tower that she is escorted, like Anne, but instead she is dragged down to the bottomless pits of hell where murderers belong.
She will not sleep well tonight, this she knows. So she returns to her bedchamber, picks up the needlework, and, by the light of a branch of wax candles, begins anew the tracing of a complex pattern, black upon white.
***
Note: I've researched Jane Seymour extensively for my scholarly work. There is no evidence that Jane or her family were involved in Henry Fitzroy's death but I've always thought that Jane's brother would do a great deal to secure their interests. The rest, then, is my fiction.