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Nobody knows the trouble I've seen...; Phillybear
Topic Started: Jan 9 2012, 07:38 PM (232 Views)
William Spencer
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Lord Winchester (courtesy)
February 1513

The days were growing longer, or seeming to, with his confinement in the Tower. At the same time the days were growing darker and darker. His anxieties were taking hold of him, and while he tried not to fear, he could not help but fear knowing what the situation would be that he would leave behind if he was executed a traitor. Also growing was his anger. He knew that he had done nothing wrong. In his heart, he might wish to go back to France, but he never betrayed that. Nor was in particularly treasonous to go to where one inherited the highest rank; on the continent, it was quite common. Still, William had no intentions of yet moving to live back in France.

He'd been questioned about personal correspondence and letters and conversations, and somebody had surely told those responsible for asking him where his most excruciating weakness was--a mere grip of the shoulder could do more torture to him than any device. He had, though, nothing to confess.

When he had found out that the evidence against him was letters sent after the war, he had gotten even angrier. God's Blood, he could not write, how was he expected to send letters in his own hand? That all this could happen to him...if this was his end...

It took every bit of his noble bearing to keep his composure and focus. If that was his end, he could not afford to waste his remaining time railing with temper. Those responsible would be punished in the end.

Despite the fact that some of his things had been brought in, it mattered little to William. It would never be accommodating to his standard, even if there was nary a rat or piece of straw or filth in sight, and he simply spent most of his time at prayer anyway. It was dank, damp, and he was not overly fond of the smell. He could only do pray, read, or talk to Thomas, whose spirits were not bright either. The boy probably saw his future slipping away, at least as grand as he'd likely imagined it, and William felt poorly for him.

His shoulder was raging with pain as it did not get the level of relief that it got when he was able to tend to it in his normal fashion and easily have physicians. From the swelling, redness, and intermittent bleeding and seepage, he might never make it to a trial if this dragged on weeks especially as he would not imagine a trial happening during Lent. If the wound worsened and abscessed matters would be dire. He knew from experience.

William was sitting on a stool across from a chair in just his untied linen shirt and breeches as Thomas stood behind him, holding a hot linen against the aggravated injury on his shoulder. It was pink with blood as it rested on his bare skin, the neck of his shirt open and hanging down his right arm.

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Philibert de Chandee
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Philibert was furious. They had barely sent off the French for this to happen. Whoever was behind it had to have known that the French would offer Wilmington all the support he needed, but that stupid fool should have known that while the French were nowhere to be seen, Philibert was not going anywhere. And if anyone ever thought to ridicule Philibert for supporting the young man, well there would be hell to pay. At least His Majesty wasn’t stupid enough to defy him permission to see his Master of Horse. Philibert had refrained from slapping that boy silly for even thinking Wilmington could ever harm the King or his stature. Though Philibert was actually angrier at himself for not seeing it coming; they were both blinded by marriages and festivities of Christmas and the New Year, but distracted more by the French. Which is why, since he had promised Guillaume’s grandfather he would look out for him, he would do everything in his power to ensure the boy was freed. He would dig up his late friend, Henry Tudor and slap the young King with his father’s own hand if he had to, because this was all just ridiculous.

If Philibert could guess he would say Norfolk was behind it, but he didn’t like guessing there was only fact and there was no evidence behind it. Philibert only felt that way because he knew Norfolk hated the French, and well because Philibert hated Norfolk and there was no doubt Norfolk hated him. But this wasn’t about Philibert, this was about Wilmington, and apart from being French and housing the French, Philibert didn’t think Norfolk had anything against him. No, as much as Philibert would love to put the blame on him, he knew it wasn’t rightly so. There were others, plenty of others who could be behind it. If Philibert wasn’t told any better he knew the English court had taken time to accept the young man and the arrival of the French could have sparked up anyone’s fury, especially only months after the war.

Even walking with his limp, Philibert managed to walk up those stairs in the Tower. Once a guard thought he was about to trip and made the mistake of helping him, well he got whacked for that one alright. Philibert was in a foul mood and no one had the right to touch him, except maybe his wife. He had promised her too to help her dear friend as best to his abilities and he was letting no one down. Philibert didn’t just agree to assist Wilmington once the French was gone to fail at their first obstacle, no, he would get the boy out.

Reaching the Guillaume’s door, Philibert gave the guards a glare before he was allowed entry. But one look at the boy’s state and Philibert’s blood was boiling and he growled in French. “What have they done to you?” Philibert paid little mind to the young Thomas, he wasn’t angry at either of them, but the people who was stupid enough to conjure up this plan in their attempts to destroy Wilmington and his family. Well they didn’t expect Philibert would be staying now did they? He sat on the chair before Guillaume had the chance to offer it and reached out to lift part of the linen over his wound to inspect it and shook his head disapprovingly and once returning it carefully, he said gruffly. “They will pay for this.” He then straightened in his chair and asked. “Do you have any idea who would have done it? Or more to the point how we can prove their stupidity?” Philibert could probably answer all of these himself, but he wanted the boy talking and thinking for himself, Philibert wasn’t going to be around all of the time.
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William Spencer
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Lord Winchester (courtesy)
William was so desperate from any distraction from the pain in his shoulder, more than wine could provide, that he easily heard footsteps approaching. He looked down for a moment and sucked in a breath. He hoped nobody was going to harass him with more of the same questions or of trying to make him write. He could not, by God's blood, write one cursed word! The rest of his hand was even sore from them trying to close his fingers properly for him. What more could they possibly want as evidence that he could not write a thing in his own hand?

He was tired of it.

When he looked back up, composed and cool, looking at the opposite wall, he heard the door open. He did not turn to look right away, as if he was unconcerned. William would not give anybody--who was not his friend--the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure. When he finally turned his head, he was pleased and relieved to see Monsieur de Chandee.

"Please, My Lord, in English as to not raise any suspicions," he said, plainly. "I am pleased to see you." The man sat, not bothering to wait to be asked, and William could hardly care. Right now, he was not feeling entirely like what he was. De Chandee cut right to the matter and also unabashedly lifted the hot linen on his shoulder.

"Done? Why nothing other than give me a good grip or shake on the shoulder despite that they should not deign to touch me in any way," William replied, scathingly as his words spat out. "What harm could such a simple thing be?" He cringed as Thomas put another on top of the one already on his shoulder and gently pressed it against him. "It is made worse by the conditions, My Lord, as I do not get my usual method of respite here."

He put his own hand over top of the linens for a moment and then moved it when Thomas put a dry one over the top for him and pulled that side of his shirt back up by his neck, tying it for him wordlessly.

"Any number of persons...Norfolk would top the list or perhaps Seymour has decided to see me as a thread instead of an ally...I do not know which others dislike me enough that are powerful enough to assume such a thing." William lifted his chalice and took a long sip of wine as Thomas offered one to Philibert.

"My defense, My Lord? As I have told everybody, I cannot write, and have not been able to write letters in my own hand since the war. Many could give witness to that, including His Majesty's own sister and his physician," William spat. "It is asinine! Should all those people give false witness at their peril to help me, is that what they would think?" He put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and looked down and sighed, trying to compose himself. "I have not been privy to the letters to know what you might find...but in letters I have sent to France, I use the signet of Guise since I received it from my grandfather after the war. It is small and not easily copied, nor could any have seen it here, as I wear it to the inside of the hand. I do not know how this was done or how it cannot be proven untrue, but it is untrue. I sent no letters to France, by my hand or others, from last Christmastide until after Wolsey informed me that I should re-correspond in hopes of the alliance, that was in late August." He shook his head, "You can try and get my letters to France that were received sent back as evidence but such could be dismissed as having been in their hands and it would be in their interest to exonerate me if I have been their...spy...or whatever it is they have made me out to be."
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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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