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But I say unto you, love thy enemies; CoA
Topic Started: Jan 6 2012, 01:07 PM (176 Views)
William Spencer
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Lord Winchester (courtesy)
January 2, 1513

Christmastide was always nearly a fortnight of nothing but merrymaking, culminating in a twelfth night of revelry. There was always much glory to the chapel which was decorated, but it seemed much to William like festivities to make up for the looming Lenten season instead of any celebration of Christ. Then again, even in the most depraved of environments--even worst of all in Rome when he was there at twelve during the Borgia times--William was always in touch with his faith. As he had talked about recently with his friend, and in a way spiritual mentor, the Bishop of London, receiving the Viaticum when he was but seven and then again receiving it twice this year that they had just left without dying could do something to any man who had a good, Christian fear of his Maker.

Could one ignore the presence of God if three different, very experienced nobles of the church--who had often given Last Rites and knew well what dying looked like--read one theirs and yet did not end up dying? From the self-same injury as the first time when he was seven, no less? William could not. Heretics would say it was typical Catholic superstition he was sure, but he did not believe in such coincidence.

His sins were many, he would not deny; however, when he was lost, he sought guidance; when he had sinned, he had repented; when he could succumb to arrogance, he tried to retain his humility. He had been raised in a strict household, one of prestige and importance on the continent, and he had been taught and governed by many great and learned men who struck a strong sense of duty into his mind and body.

It was for those reasons that in the wake of his rise to favour, from his sacrifices in war, that he did not do what any typical man of his position, means, and inheritance would have done: he did not try to rid England of the remaining Spanish. There could have been many legitimate reasons he could have done so, other than his own self-interest. He could have queried why they should shoulder the expense of the Dowager Princess when her father never even delivered on her full dowry and yet spat in their face in an alliance, using the English and their young king. He could have said that she would serve no purpose other than to report things back to her father. He could have said it would not look good to their new allies, the French, to keep her at their court. He had not done any of it. In fact, he had done quite the opposite. William had done nothing but say what he believed: a woman should not be punished for the actions of a man simply because she is within reach and the man not, that she had now likely been longer in England.

For someone who had thought he was being smote at the ending of the war for spilling the blood of his own family with his own hands, he was in such pain and agony, he could not ignore God's words...lest it, well, happen again. He did not know how many more trials or how much more pain he, his heart, or his soul could shoulder, but FitzJames had indeed said that God does indeed test those closest to him, whom he loves very much.

So with the words 'But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you', he had written a missive to the Dowager Princess to ask her for a time and date for an audience if she would grant him one. If there was another here who bore many trials, he felt it would likely be her, and she carried herself with dignity and grace even as this time. How alienated she must feel with all the French around, as if flaunting her misfortune because of her father's thirst for more, at no one's expense but hers. Indeed for the paradox that he was likely her closest blood relation at this court while also being one of her deepest blood enemies, the young earl wished to make her a Christmas gift. He could not imagine she had funds swimming out her ears, and while he was low on actionable coin from having played host to the French for His Majesty, he was of far better fortunes. When he had last seen her privately, she had been much distraught, as much as a princess ever did if she acted in a manner befitting of her. He could not wish her ill.

He showed up at her apartments at the appointed hour, with a cadre of his liveried servants carrying two pretty, but well-traveled, chests. A bit of clanging could likely be heard from inside, hinting that at least one likely carried wine.

William waited to be announced and then entered and gave her a gracious bow, "Your Highness." Straightening, he gave her a smile, "I am pleased you would see me that I might extend to you my well-wishes for a more peaceful and prosperous new year this Christmastide."

*it's Matthew 5:44
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Catherine of Aragon
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Sometimes, during the long days of Christmas, Catherine found herself wondering what the English thought they were celebrating. They gave gifts. They had parties. They drank much and danced much and were merry. But she did not feel the spirit of Christ here as she had done when she was a child, did not have the same sense of closeness with the blessed Mary, she who conceived her child without touch of man...

...and always, when her thoughts came to this part, she would sigh softly and redouble her efforts on whatever work was before her. Mary had been a good woman, and so God had rewarded her with a child, a son. Catherine was not a good woman - a proud one and a stubborn one - and so God had punished her with widowhood and loneliness. Especially during these weeks when joy and love were in the hearts and on the lips of those around her, she thought often that perhaps she might be happier as a bride of Christ than waiting here. Uselessly. To be despised by the English court.

While festivities continued throughout the court, she stayed mostly cloistered in her room, bent over the charity work that occupied most of her time. She was clever with a needle and thread, and there was no need that such skill should go to waste simply because she had neither husband nor children for whom she need sew. She made many garments to be distributed to the poor, and often went herself to the church to help with giving them to those destitute souls that made even her lack of funds seem positively resplendent by comparison. But today she put away her work and made herself fine, looking at herself for a time to judge if there was anything left of the gay young woman who had come to be Arthur's bride so long ago.

Yes, she was still handsome.

But handsome did not a desirable bride make. A dowry, power, privilege. These were what men sought in a bride, especially a widowed one.

But, looking within herself, eyes turned one more time to read over the invitation with a puzzled frown touching the edges of her mouth. It did not read like a summons to answer for the crimes of her father, but like something almost... friendly. Folding it, putting it away, she arranged her stately poise for William's arrival, seated, two of her ladies quietly sewing nearby, everything as one might expect for an audience with a friend-enemy-whatever-they-wer. His greeting, formal but not cold, further put away the twinge that gnawed at the edge of her thoughts, and she answered it with a smile that offered genuine warmth. They were neither truly friends nor truly enemies, but that did not mean she did not hold him in high regard. No matter how bitterly they ought to despise each other.

"My Lord Wilmington," Catherine returned. "I am grateful to you for the invitation. There has been much celebrating these past months," celebrating the French, the blasted French, "and it seems that I have seen you but a little." A flash of rare, dark humor shadowed her expression - not unhappily, only with grim mirth. "Thank you for the well-wishes, although I am not sure that it is possible to have a less prosperous and peaceful new year, considering the one we have left behind."
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William Spencer
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Lord Winchester (courtesy)
She must have seen everybody but a little, he would wager. All that he could do in response was to give her a gracious bow of his head.

"My Lady, I do hope you will forgive me. I have been most occupied with the extra duties His Majesty has charged me with during the French visit as well as adjusting to the duties of being a husband," he said, with a humorous sort of smile, one side quirking more than the other. It was pure honesty, not meant with any malicious verbal duplicity. It would have mattered little who he was commanded to entertain, he would have done it with the same diligence. His pleasure seeing to many who were his relations and friends was certainly secondary, and he was bearing the burden monetarily for that minor pleasure. "I have been in neglect of many things I would rather not be in neglect of," he added.

He held himself tall and quiet, his servants just as still and quiet, holding the chests as if it were no burden to them. Presence and manners were important to him, and it was that he did not make exceptions to what he expected in behaviour from those around him, wearing his livery or that of His Majesty whilst under him as Master of Horse.

"Indeed, let us hope that it is so, because many have suffered this years many injustices." It was no secret he was not fond of war. One war had been far more than enough for him as well as being in the background during some of the battles in Italy. He might have the mind for strategy, but his body would not allow him to fight. He'd survived war in France merely because the French were on divided fronts North and South and turned tail and spurred. There had barely been a battle, and he'd nearly died. War was not practical for him for many reasons.

"But I did not come to spread recollections of such things, but rather quite the opposite." He gave her a hesitant smile. He did not know her well, although they had spoken before of candid and serious matters, and he would not wish to offend her either. "This time last year, my lady, I was treated less than what I was, because while I was English, I was also...foreign...in an island culture unaccustomed to the dignities of continental kingdoms. Yet I am a man, in control of my own destiny, who thus cannot presume to understand the delicate situation of ladies." Was that his way of trying to say that he understood a small measure of how she felt? It was, to the best of his ability.

"There is common interest we share, and with that in mind I wished to make Your Highness a gift, if you will receive it? I have heard tell you are fond of Italy, so I have brought you wine from Santa Paolina in Naples made with Sangiogheto grapes. I am sure you tire of the varieties at court..." As with the French came out the French wine, most assuredly. Of course, it would be easy to guess where he had heard that she was fond of Italy. The French prince had told him of the encounter he had with the dowager princes, at least in its generalities. William loved Italy. He would wish nothing more than to go back.

"The fathers there make the wine, they are fantastic tenants,"he explained. And having given over the place to priests rather meant that it would be safe from anyone taking it, and some cases of wine was quite payment enough for him for them to occupy it. It was a good arrangement for both.

"And blood oranges, lemons, and...melocotogno, it is similar to an apple, it is perhaps membrillo in Spanish. I do not think it has an English name, and my Spanish is not strong and is unpracticed." His Spanish was not the best, he could have called it a pomegranate for all he knew, but he thought he might have it right. There was too much basque influence on his tongue, much more of Navarre than Aragon or Castile. Despite not being sure of the proper name, he indicated the other chest with a sweep of his hand. She, of course, could look at them if she liked, his servants would happily open them for her to inspect. Then she would assuredly know what it was that he spoke of, either to his credit or his embarrassment (if he called it the wrong thing).
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Catherine of Aragon
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That same, brittle humor fractured the low, rich voice of Catherine when she answered for his apology. "How can I do other than forgive you, Lord Wilmington? Of all people, I understand only too well how much effort has been expended to welcome the French to court, and how much time and energy you must be called upon to devote to their entertainment." Oh, certainly she could be accused of letting her irony show a little too thickly in that comment, her bitterness at the open arms shown to Francois and his retinue while her own country had earned the cold shoulder. But here, in her own rooms - if she could not speak her mind, shrouded by only a thin veil of dark amusement here, then she would never find cause to do so.

It had been in mind, with these greetings accomplished, to gesture him to come within, to the little sitting room of her chambers where they might talk at their leisure - or as much leisure as two such as Catherine and William were capable of summoning. But, though her ladies waited for them to join her, she paused at his words - a man, in control of his own destiny - and she turned her head as if to listen more attentively, the dark humor fading from her smile to be replaced with a more genuine, more usual expression: a smile that bore suffering without complaint, that accepted her place in life with grace rather than rebellion. "God gives us each our own burdens, sir. As mine are mystifying to you, so should I be unsure how to walk in your shoes."

A few blinks followed those words, her eyes flickering from the man to the servants as though just realizing the importance of their presence. And so her expression was no longer either wry or patient, but it transformed into something honestly touched and grateful, even colored by a subdued chuckle while he attempted to translate between too many languages. "You are too kind, sir, and I am at a loss for how to repay such generosity."

Indeed, the combination of curiosity - to see this wine, to see these fruits, to know if he actually spoke of the fruit she had in mind or had just missed the mark - had Catherine approach the servants with the flash of a pleased smile for the offerings they bore. "I think that the English call them..." And she paused, reaching out a slow hand to liberate one of the greenish fruits from the chest, to hold it in covetous fingers for a moment, flashes of the quiet satisfaction that comes only to those with happy memories brightening her expression. "...quince? They try to grow them sometimes here, I have seen, but it is long since I have tasted any. At my home, we turn it into a jelly?" Paste, but that's hardly an appetizing word. "And eat it so."

Daintily, she put the fruit back into the chest and turned to her unlikely benefactor instead, lowering her head in a deep, gracious nod. "You must make sure to save some time away from your duties, Lord Wilmington, and partake of these gifts. My ladies and I cannot dine on such delicacies alone, so you must allow us to feast you on your own gifts."
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William Spencer
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Lord Winchester (courtesy)
William smiled genuinely. He could look at her and assuredly be disgruntled, but he found he could not do that. Maybe it had to do with his own sufferings and fortunes. It didn't matter. She had no control of her situation or her birth, and he knew enough of her to know she wished no spilling of blood.

"It is not a gift if one expects repayment," he said, simply. It should not be surprising of him considering he had not asked anything material of her in return the last time he had done something for her. There were many things he had done wrong over his life, he knew. Good deeds could hardly do his soul any harm. That was enough.

His lips pulled up a bit more as she looked inside the chests. They stayed their by the arch in his cheeks when she confirmed that they were as he had said. Perhaps this island had yet to rob him of his more continental skills.

"Quince? That is a very ugly word for such a fruit!" A chuckle, bounced through his lips. "I would not think they'd favour this dreary climate, but I shall take your word. I prefer the Italian for it." A small, playful grin on his face. The Italian word, he felt, was much prettier than the English.

"The Italians do as well and glaze mutton with it too, but I prefer their orange variety, with the rind right along, on these little cheese tartlets." He recognized that sort of look on her face. He had the same one at least once a day, really. Few had that same experience as he did. They at least had that in common. Sharing pleasant memories was hardly any telling crime against their blood.

"Ah, well, whatever use Your Highness puts them too, I shall be sure to be in acceptance of any invitations for such if you should allow myself and my wife to return the favour." He was married to her late husband's cousin, after all.
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Isabel Leigh
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Virtue alone is invincible.
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