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It has almost been too long; mary willoughby
Topic Started: Dec 19 2011, 01:18 PM (205 Views)
Arthur Chamerlyn
Unregistered

late January 1512
Baynard's Castle, Chamerlyn residence


One thing the Marquess of Powis knew as he dismounted his horse and boarded the river barge, as the small boat pushed off from the wooden dock and was steered down the current of the gaping Thames, was that he missed his son. His beautiful baby boy that he had not seen since his birth, already four months past and gone. Pulling his leather and fur cloak tighter against him as the open, cold wind came to his face, Arthur wondered just how strongly the boy had grown. Of course, he had received weekly letters and updates concerning the heir's health, his sleeping schedule, his eating patterns and when most he cried out for whatever it was infants screamed for. Thinking on it now, the marquess questioned if it was for his mother... his beloved mother that would be with her son in only spirit. His eyes watered to their brims at the thought, but the cold was soon to sting them away and he made no move to sit down or turn away from it. Instead, he stood tall in the middle of the barge, his eyes fixated on the looming city of London and his thoughts, carrying him as the current carried the boat.

It was a bit of a lengthy ride, but after a few minutes floating through the city, Baynard's Castle was finally coming into better view. His heart lurched and his gut fluttered, anxiety overwhelming him. Was this such a good idea? Of course, he loved and missed his son, he wished to see the Mary Willoughby that was there overseeing his care, being much of a mother figure that had been unknowingly stripped from him, but the marquess was almost frightened. Oh, if only Arthur had such innocence... such ignorant memory. The boy would never know who his mother was save for the words of affection his father and family and perhaps a few servants in Powis that had come to adore the late marchioness would remorsefully share. Yet, Arthur hoped one day he would look back on the memory of Anne and feel joy, the sensation of delight with the idea of maybe seeing her again one day far, far from now... but that was only a hope in present time. For now, approaching the dock and pier that extended out from the castle, Arthur could only feel the grief that disrupted him for losing his wife, mingled with the excitement that jarred him for seeing his boy. His beloved, cherished boy.

"Lord Powis!" Though his face was a little stiff from the cold and the wind that channeled freely down the river, he managed a warm smile as he stepped off the barge and onto the solid, sturdy wood of the dock. A familiar face was there to greet him, an older man that had served in the late marquess's households since Arthur's childhood. He remembered him well, fondly, and wanted so badly to embrace him. Perhaps this visit would not be so bad after all. "William, it is so nice to see you," such a plain expression, but Arthur's smile was hard to miss and the man of loyal service felt the affection quite earnestly. He bowed deeply and quickly ushered his master down the pier, his page James following closely behind as they passed through the massive stone archway at the end and finally into the castle. The Roman architect had not changed a bit, as if he had been expecting it to either in his absence or since Mary Willoughby's uptake in residency, but nevertheless he was entirely comforted by the thick walls, the rich, deeply colored tapestries and rugs and the pair of maidservants waiting patiently to escort the marquess to his heir and the boy's Godmother.

"How are you faring, William, with Lady Willoughby's care?" He did not receive an immediate response, and as they began a trek up a flight of smooth granite stairs, he wondered just how deep Mary Willoughby's wrath and tedious behaviors had engrained themselves into the staff's tolerance. Arthur smirked and stifled a chuckle, progressing up the stairs and rounding to another flight as if he'd done it every day. "Our Lord Pembroke is faring perfectly, and that is all that matters." The older William could not help but smirk, despite his annoyance with the overseer that his master had appointed, and Arthur could only mirror the gesture. A fine answer, one that would satisfy any man... even the marquess. Finally coming to the third floor of the castle, Arthur paced just a bit ahead of the page and older man that attempted to escort, his heart beginning a steady race as he came closer and closer to Mary Willoughby's doors. He had nearly forgotten formalities, and that even though this was his own home, this was Mary Willoughby... and Arthur owed her more than he'd like to admit. Waiting for his page to announce his arrival, the marquess entered shortly after, his crystal eyes already on the face of his son's Godmother, his friend and confidante, and his heart nearly in his throat. "Mary."
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Mary Willoughby
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It was just as well Mary had left her darling daughter. Everything seemed to fall into place. The little brat didn't have the son Mary had been hoping for, how was she ever going to get rid of Warwick now? No, she was gradually giving up on all hope for her daughter to be greater than she. It mattered not that she was now a Countess, Catherine barely earned it. She had even gone to Norfolk to aid her in the match, Mary would have done it all on her own, and she had. She had favoured the late Wilmington for his strict mind, it was the same reason she had favoured Buckingham as well. All men whom were now lost from this world and she never even managed to seal any deals of marriage for her daughter. Instead the world was changing and she hated it for it.

One man though seemed to remember who she was. Her dear Arthur Chamerlyn, oh how she loved him like a son. It was his promise to his mother to look out for the younger man that had done it. She adored him greatly as he seemed to know her needs. Not only had he vouched for her when it came time to name a Godmother for his son, but in the time of his needs, he didn't hesitate to call on her. So different he was to her daughter, who acted like a spoilt brat sometimes and ignored all rules completely, at least her mother's rules.

Mary answered Arthur's call as soon as she could and wasn't it just a coincidence that Lord 'I don't care about rules either' turned up at the moment she needed to leave. And leave she did. She wasn't going to stick around when she now had three peers who wouldn't listen to her. And it was just as well...before she smacked that stupid Scottish woman's mouth clean off her face! No, she was respected here under Arthur's rule. It mattered not that the staff didn't appreciate her suggestions, but as the babe's Godmother, and mother to so many (even though only one survived) you would think she had the experience when it came to children. Which was just as well...because somehow God had made her pregnant.

Mary never thought in a million years she would have another child. Sure there were a few men she would have loved to marry, but they would not have her. So when she was finally convinced that she had a babe in her belly, she became angry. She ignored the fact that she should be angry at herself, but she wasn't. She was angry at God for creating this sick joke, and of course at the father. She calculated a rough estimate of when it would have happened and she knew of two men. Sir John Spencer and Sir Henry Owen. But the more she thought about it, she supposed it was Sir John's, and where was he? There were rumours that he was getting rather close to the recent widower, Lettice Knollys. Mary didn't care that people were saying he is the Godfather of her child, to Mary she didn't really care, she was still angry. She would have still been angry whatever the reason, all because he was likely to be the father of her bastard. Shit! How did she allow this to happen?

Yes, everything seemed to fit in nicely. She was able to get away from Grimsthorpe and now she had her own place to hide while her own belly grew. She kept it hidden though, and used her own trusted servants whenever she could. The staffs here seemed to like that arrangement and they all got along fine...well as much as they could. At least here without any distractions she got her peace and quiet, and was sitting sewing a new blanket for her Godson, at least her being here, she could give the boy a mother's touch, just as she promised to keep his father in her heart. So when dear Arthur was announced, she immediately put her sewing to the side and stood. She beamed when she saw him and drew him into her arms for a brief embrace and kissed him on the side of his mouth. "Arthur, my darling. I have missed you." They had parted on happier terms, but if someone knew the heart-ship one had losing a spouse, it was Mary.
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Arthur Chamerlyn
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The room smelled of Mary and her perfumes, and he wasted no time in coming through the door and engulfing the floor in his long, purposeful strides. He was pleased to see her happy and resting with an embroidery in her lap, and only for a second did he wonder what it was before she set it to the side, stood up and came to receive him. He bowed low as she approached, her slender arms held out for him to find himself in as he brought his hands to her cheeks and kissed either apple of them, and then finally giving her lips a quick, affectionate kiss before stepping away and smiling proudly. Something had changed within Mary, something unintelligible, but her skin seemed richer, brighter, almost as if there was an unseen glow about her... dismissing it, Arthur took her feminine hand and squeezed it gently. Though the Lady Willoughby was but eight years older than the marquess, she was the closest thing to a mother that he had had for over a decade... and would ever have again. "Nothing makes me happier than to see you here," he said with a smile, dipping his chin. Everything here was at Mary's disposal, and only the most incidental of things were left to her own purse. Everything else Arthur had taken care of.

"Your haste, too, is entirely commendable. I would have come sooner, my Lady, were it not for.." he paused, thinking of his son, how the little boy could be a potential threat to all the recovery he'd done in the past two months, and how quite frankly, Arthur had been too filled with grief to leave come. But, standing here, that had obviously changed, and his eyes and smile both were warm as they graced his expression with slow-growing contentment. "You look so well, my Lady," he continued, lifting her hand to his mouth to place a fond kiss on the slender row of knuckles. "I was afraid your time here could prove a bit taxing," he went on, "and not in the monetary sense." Arthur chuckled breathlessly, carefully releasing her hand and turning his eyes to glance about the vaguely familiar room. "But it seems exactly the opposite. Why am I not surprised? It looks as if you have governed the raising of my son and this household of servants whilst in your sleep." He chuckled again and gave his head a small, admiring shake, his sapphire hues flickering back to hers and fastening themselves onto her face.

"Please, you must take me to him," he urged softly, smiling as he motioned with an arm towards the adjoining rooms that he'd appointed himself as his son's nursery. He knew Mary would be even more familiar with it than he. Taking it all in stride, there was already a servant to open the doors for them, bowing low as Mary, Arthur and his valet James passed. Immediately Arthur was greeted with the sight of white, draping tapestries from the ceilings, the clean, paneled floorboards beneath his boots and the powdery scents of an infant through his nose. A few maidservants and wetnurses came to greet the heir's father, all curtsying low in either a show of respect, of condolence or perhaps even to show him the supple rise of their bosoms. Either way, he only nodded at them, thanked them for their services, and quietly made his way to the opulently cushioned crib nestled against the far wall. His heart was a drum not only in his chest but in his throat and in his ears, and with a long, thoughtful and anxious breath, the father approached the rich, deep crimson and cream furnished nest of his son.

What he saw was not a miracle, not a feat or otherworldly thing, but a blessing. A healthy -and heavy, by the looks of it- blessing and gift from the Lord Himself. Arthur nearly staggered there, both of his hands catching the side of the crib just as his breath caught in his throat, his eyes almost wide on the tiny face of his son. His son. "Oh m-" he paused, staring, staring at the infant that was merely staring back. Yet where the father was struck with awe, the son seemed struck with malicious confusion, as if to say, "what in God's name are you looking at?" In what had been unknowing words formed in Arthur's throat was now an elated fit of laughter, a hearty laughter that put a look of displeasure the infant's face from surprise. The marquess laughed again, softer this time, and touched a weightless fingertip to his son's flushed, round cheek. "He is beautiful." He spoke, smiling ever so, gazing at the tuft of brown hair on the babe's head, the familiar little nose, the tiny eyes that were still a dark shade of blue... and only time would tell if they were inherited from his father, or merely the blue of a newborn. Either way, the small bundle of warmth and joy was the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever seen, and he had known that the moment he had seen him after his birth. Now, though, he was no longer a red little thing bound up in blankets, but he was bigger, much bigger, and kicking, even cooing as this strange, big man gazed down upon him and touched cold fingers to his face and hair. "Thank you..."
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Isabel Leigh
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Virtue alone is invincible.
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Isabel is in 8 threads and can has more!
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