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a shining new era; chiara sforza
Topic Started: Jan 6 2011, 09:19 PM (149 Views)
John de Vere
Unregistered

mid January 1512

Ah, a day like any other. Hampton Court, though always moving, moved in the exact same way as any time before. If things began to ripple, they were quickly smoothed out with hardly a notice. This was how the Tudor dynasty would rule, living only in what they knew in fear of a repeated War of the Roses. Civil peace, for now, was the only desired solidity of Henry Tudor VIII and even though the Italian queen came with such promised peace, John de Vere could not help but notice the sort of unrest the foreigners were causing. Women were running rampant, men too aroused or too petty to stop them. Heresy and treason floated about as if a new trend, and as if to add the bitter sweet topping, the idea of a good Christian woman was becoming few and far in between.

Maybe a war was just what England needed. A time where the blood f men could go to their minds and muscles instead of their loins, where the women could be left to their own affairs and relieve their control over the lovesick ponies. John scoffed breathlessly as he walked through Court, having just enjoyed a small time of the dinner at Great Hall. As the Earl of Oxford, it was expected of him, but his tolerance for the routine frivolity stretched only so far. And instead enjoying the quieter hallways and corridors, John walked slowly and comfortably through the Court he knew as well as the back of his scarred hand.

Though he could predict the next twist and turn through the hallways, he would never be able to predict the movements of a foreigner. And though perhaps he should have been keeping a peculiar eye out for them, John refused to accustom as if they were welcomed. He came to an abrupt halt as one -a woman, no less- seemed to be walking right in his path. Her eyes were cast down, of course, and being a woman he could expect only further naivety. A single eyebrow arched skeptically as she continued to approach, simply waiting for her to realize just what she was about to collide into. "Ahem," he remarked, clearing his throat loudly and deliberately. "Have you any mind?" He spat, narrowing his eyes if only the slightest. As he appraised her, John came to realize it was the unmistakable Chiara Sforza. Probably one of the greater embarrassments and perhaps even mistakes of the Sforza family. John looked on rather ominously, unamused and most certainly anoyed.

"No, of course you don't," he said quickly as he eyed her from the bridge of his nose. Her Italian nobility, frankly, meant nothing to the Englishman. This foreigner, in her short, -though already overstayed- time at Court, had made a sheer troublesome disgrace out of herself. "*Sono esterfatto, signora, che nel suo harem di uomini, voi non hanno ancora trovato uno a insegnare decenza." The Earl, with his perfectly fluent Italian, hadn't a single problem with degrading an immigrant in their own language.

[* I'm appalled, lady, that in your harem of men, you have yet to find one to teach you of propriety.]
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Chiara Sforza
Unregistered

Chiara was obedient above all. She always did as told, and while she didn't excel, she always did what she was told well. Despite the fact that she had found herself to be miserably unwanted by her sister in England she still followed every order her sister issued. Chiara felt invisible.. just another one of Caterina's soldiers that she could order around with a stern frown and a wagging finger. And Chiara knew, she knew, that men followed Caterina's every whim. She knew she was respected and feared by those under her command. But not Chiara.. with every order she lost more and more respect for her. And yet.. she strove for Caterina's approval. She strove to be praised and patted on the head by her. Chiara did not realize this, but that was exactly what Caterina wanted from her sister. Caterina did not mind losing respect, as long as her orders were followed and her authority acknowledged.

Today, this cold winter day, she had a pile of papers laden in her hands. Papers that were either to be sent out, signed by people, or archived. Her arms were full, and her white and gold brocade dress was catching the still-wet drops of ink and wax. It was ruined, and Chiara might have been close to tears for it; the dress had been a bride's gift from her first husband, and while she never loved the man, she loved the dress. Now, it was ruined, and only duty kept the tears from falling. She had to do what Caterina said, even if she ruined her dress in the process.

Her eyes cast down at the front of her dress, sadly eying one of the ink blots, she failed to realize that others might be walking along the hallway. It was not surprising, then, that a man cleared his throat when she nearly collided with him. Her eyes moved, startled, up to the man who spoke. She looked frighteningly apologetic, the sadness for her dress intermingled with that very look, causing her to look the part of an injured deer. "I am sorry, Signore!" she exclaimed, for once in her surprised outbursts speaking English.

He spoke again. He knew her. Her eyes grew wide and almost pleading when she realized that he was not impressed with her unfortunate reputation. In an effort to lessen her constant desire for attention she had taken to the beds of many people in Italy.. since her arrival in England she had not slowed down her seductive pace. And it had not gone unnoticed it would seem.

Chiara was hurt. Frightfully hurt. She had no words. She thought herself a well-mannered lady.. she thought herself not disliked at court. His words spoke to the contrary, and with her already uncontrollably upset mood, her mouth gaped open in unspoken confusion. With a slight chin wobble it was closed again, and a single tear fell from her eye. "Why would you say such a thing?" she questioned, her Italian flawed by her cracking voice. "You don't even k-know m-me, Signore.."
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John de Vere
Unregistered

John had half a mind, if not more, to simply walk past the Sforza without any further acknowledgment, as if she were nothing more than the dirt on his heels or the ink spots on her dress. Truthfully, she was quite the humorous sight. He looked down at her, the corners of his eyes held already in annoyance. "What, are these matters so important you cannot use even your own eyes?" He asked, rhetorically of course, as he eyed the documents with the smeared and blotched ink. Hopeless, she very much seemed. Like any foreigner. "Surely not, for you've so ruined them." John shook his head and rolled his eyes. "And your dress..." how dull could she be? "It's horrid. Who in their right mind could entrust you with such a simple task as delivering mere parchment?"

In all honesty, John wanted to send this woman back from where she came. Her Italian Court had been stained by her dripping thighs, and now she had come to assist in defacing England with her very parts that should have been condemned to privacy and discretion. And making an embarrassment out of herself all the while. He looked unpleasantly down at her, unamused with the look of hurt and confusion written about her dark face. "Know you? Everyone at the English Court knows you, signora. If not formally, then carnally." His eyelids narrowed in disgust, already finished with the Chiara Sforza and quite frankly wanted to cast her aside in the nearest ditch.

"Do not act as if you're some deer caught in torchlight." He remarked, reaching a hand into the side pocket of his doublet and retrieving a scarlet handkerchief, lightly dabbing at his forehead with it. He noticed the single tear escape from her eye and slide slowly down her oriental cheek, causing him to sigh again and look at her as if to say really? Are you serious? "Not only is it propriety you need, but you also require some dignity. How have your peers let you go on thus?" John shook his head and extended the red piece of cloth towards her, as if to let her dry her eyes with it. But, suddenly, he withdrew it and returned it to his pocket.

"Why are you even here, signora? The English Court would thrive without your... *presenza indecorosa." He straightened his back and lifted his chin, having yet to truly offer her any gentleman manners of being a lady. She was, though, an Italian Lady... and though the English queen was Italian, this Italian was not. He cared not for the women that followed in the shadows of the wastefully-spent, distasteful wedding celebrations of elephants and parades. John had never thought frivolity would have ever made him so sick to the stomach, it nearly churned his wine and food right from it. Had Henry VII really spawned such a boy-king?

[* unseemly presence]
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