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I hate and envy them beyond all measure; Margaret Kingston!
Topic Started: Dec 29 2011, 03:47 PM (247 Views)
Thomas Wyatt
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Such mocks of dreams do turn to deadly pain
Early February, 1513

Where does one look for poets if not in libraries? They haunt them like wraiths, looking appropriately tormented and troubled, sitting at small tables with dusty tomes surrounding them, with ink-stained fingers drawing back curled hair to keep it away from knitted brows and frowning visage. A finger, quickly licked, turns a page and it's nothing but the quiet rustle of faded paper and the scratch of a quill that fills a long recess of midday silence. Then, with a puff of breath, exhaled into the open air, the light sputtered and danced, and he pushed himself up from his elbows, sinking back into the confines of an uncomfortable wooden chair, finding himself in the real world after all.

Taking a deep breath, Thomas shook away the dust and cobwebs of his fancy, finding his eyes dancing not across the imaginary worlds of his writing but across the solid, dark confines of the library at Hampton Court Palace. Which may be more like fiction than my scribbling, he thought around a chuckled exhalation, the silence broken by the faint sound of that scrabbly amusement.

Further broken when he pushed his chair back from his table, the scrape of wood over wood sudden and jarring in the long, unbroken quiet that pervaded the space. He stood, feeling very much in his element here, alone with books and ink and daddy-long-legs, and stretched with his fingers laced and his hands up behind his head, giving some relief to muscles and bones that had been cramped from a few hours of disuse. The room was still primarily empty. And that really came as little surprise. There were not so many people at the Palace that were literate to begin with, and fewer still who cared to spend their leisure time among books. Some scholars, a few priests, the servants that dusted and polished...

Yawning, stalling, debating whether he wished to sink back down and allow himself to be swallowed by inspiration, Thomas let his glance wander idly. He needed a break.
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Margaret Kingston
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"Go and find the princess a nice book to read," the girl had said, a faint glint of deceit behind her eyes. Margaret had noticed this, even recognized this, and though the Princess Mary had specifically asked this girl in front of her for a book, everyone knew it wouldn't take much to put their burdens on Margaret's shoulders instead. "And don't take so long this time... you always wander." Margaret had wanted to retort, had wanted to snap and bite and turn away, but the girl was gone before she could even refuse the demand. Furrowing her brow, knowing it would be all of them to blame should the princess be left displeased, Margaret left Mary Tudor's apartments and huffed to herself. Why did she let this happen? Why could she just not go to the princess herself, confront her with a fellow maid's dishonorable tactics... surely it wouldn't be so hard? Oh, if only Margaret had the guts! Wanting only to please her princess, she sighed once more and finally made the journey through the palace and into the library.

It was like it was any other day. Not that Margaret found herself here between the shelves or on the chaises with a book in her lap... no, it did not seem to befit the young Mistress Kingston. She had learned to read by her older brother's letters, and from there managed to graduate herself to simple books and literature. Nothing like what King Henry had, nothing like what the Princess Mary got to read. Inhaling the scent of parchment, ink and perhaps a bit of dust, Margaret trailed through the library and did her best to keep her skirts from ruffling too loudly. The air was quiet, nearly silent, and she knew the sound of a pair of heeled footsteps or indecisive shuffling was the last thing an entranced author, artist or poet wanted to hear. Taking the cushion of her bottom lip between her teeth, Margaret aimed to disappear behind an unmarked bookshelf, her pale blue eyes flickering unknowingly over the book spines. Some lettering were lined with silver, with gold, some were merely embossed or pressed into the leather, but not one of them could she assume the princess would enjoy.

Cursing beneath her breath, Margaret floated from between the bookshelves and to a center of tables and chairs, all open for whomever took their leisure. She smiled at first at the calming sight, the cool gray light from the windows pouring onto the tabletops littered with literature ranged from mere pamphlets to entire atlases, and she found herself wishing so much that she could better understand the world. What it meant to keep a sea trade route open, how to strategically place a town or city with using only landmarks as guides; it was all seemingly magic to her. And she knew, somewhere in this vast library, there were stories upon stories and even poems about those very things... seemingly entranced, Margaret moved very carefully to the edge of a table, touching a few curious fingertips to the cover of a thick, compiled atlas of the world... "Oh!" She gasped softly, her eyes flickering up from the book and right across the table, noticing a man standing at the other end with his arms above his head seeking only to stretch his lax muscles. Margaret appraised him quickly and finally smiled, the distinct shape of his mouth as it fell into a yawn sparking a small flame of humor within her. "Sleepy, my lord?"
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Thomas Wyatt
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Such mocks of dreams do turn to deadly pain
It's a strange feeling for anyone - poet or not - to believe yourself to be alone and suddenly find that you are... not. Surely, the girl had not materialized out of thin air, but that is how the tale would begin when Thomas recounted it. For he recounted everything. There was not a moment in his life that had not, somewhere, been told and retold, sometimes with the veil lowered so the truth was obscured somewhere behind a gauze of silk and lace, sometimes in the stark simplicity that was the language of honesty. And so this tale would begin with soundless footsteps and sudden materialization, what had not been there moments before now standing alive and breathing before him. He had sought distraction, respite, a reason to - if only for a moment - put away his writing and reenter the real world... and now one had obliged him. That she had come upon him at a moment hardly decorous was, well, just a fact with which Mister Wyatt would have to live.

All of these thoughts took no more than the bat of a lash before, lowering his arms, conspiring to smudge his hand over his mouth and smother the tail-end of that yawn in the process, Thomas answered her question with a truthful nod. "Indeed, madam. Had you not heard? Writing about deeds is a far more taxing thing than enacting them." He gestured to the fortress of ink-and-paper that teetered around him, a barricade that kept the real world from encroaching too far into his realm of fancy.

Clearing his throat, Thomas gestured with the cup of his hand to the atlas that seemed to have caught her fancy, offering with the air of a man who had been host in this particular kingdom - that of the library - more than once, "Are you searching for something in particular, or..." Tilting his head, squinting momentarily, he was able to read the cover better, to see that it was indeed an atlas, of all things, his brows lifted in an impressed expression. "...are you merely browsing? Going on a trip, perhaps?" As if a young woman might plan her own holiday.

It might occur to him, presently, that the matter of introductions ought to be handled. Or it might not. That was the trouble with living half of one's life in one's own imagination: the real world was a second class citizen, the muse was paramount.
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Margaret Kingston
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Margaret's eyes, wide and blue, flickered from the open and closing orifice of his mouth and down the arm he had motioned towards the fortresses of parchment and ink she had not realized -until now- he had barricaded himself in. A faint smirk touched her lips and she glanced back to him, curious and amused by the idea. She had always wondered where the King's books had all come from, where Princess Mary had gotten her own selection, and had always pictured men who wrote novels or poetry were old, had hunched backs and long, skeletal fingers... but this man at the other end of the table had neither of those. In fact, he looked quite youthful, strong and lively, and his wrists were in no way crippled or deformed by the years of dutiful script. Her brow furrowed if only by the slightest; were authors every day people? She could not fathom a single man had created this single atlas, had been to all of these places and yet could live amongst fellow countrymen unnoticed. For some reason, Margaret found that entirely unbelievable.

As she had attracted his own attention to the textual emporium of the discovered world, the young mistress withdrew her fingertips and cautiously took the bottom plane of her lip between her teeth. A trip? If Margaret had ever been fantastical before, it was certainly now, thinking of the far off places that she had not the place nor right to see for herself. If there was any place for Margaret to journey to, it would be back to her family's farmland in Gloucestershire. "Oh, no, not for myself.." she replied softly, glancing around to the shelves of literature that surrounded them. "Though, it sounds wonderful... planning a journey. Would I use one of these to do that?" She asked, as if a shadow of a plan had materialized behind her skull, nearly rooting itself as an idea and soon as an entire thought. Of course, the girl had no means to even leave the palace, but perhaps one day...

Opening the atlas, she skimmed through the pages and smiled in approval at what she saw. Sketches of all sorts of land, of seas, even of people and cultures... all accompanied with dozens of pages of text and script. It was a fountain of knowledge and though it was not something the Princess Mary would find herself enjoying, Margaret would remember to grab it for herself the next time she was here unaccounted for. Sighing through slightly parted lips, Margaret took a tiny step back from the atlas and closed it, looking up to the man with wide, pale blue eyes. "I am looking for something that might appease Her Highness," she spoke, as if a small glimmer of hope hung onto her syllables in faith that this stranger perhaps had an idea as to what a sixteen year old royal might fancy herself with. Giving a moment's pause, she continued. "But of course, I was given no instruction. I know what she has been reading, but I do not want to disappoint... perhaps you have a suggestion, Sir?" Glancing to his fortress of parchment, Margaret grinned ever so. "Do you think she would like reading about the deeds you have been writing?"
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Isabel Leigh
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Virtue alone is invincible.
This thread has been archived either due to forwarding of board timeline or because of a month of inactivity. If you would like to continue, please PM an Admin!
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Isabel is in 8 threads and can has more!
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