I've worked long and hard the last few days to provide the first
Vignettes de l'Obscurité for you. I hope you all enjoy, for I definitely enjoyed writing them and I feel like these snippets fit much better as an extra frame to the story rather than trying to introduce a narrative into our proper chapters. I'm unsure how many vignettes I'll feature per each Obscurité, but four does seem like a decent amount, each of varying length. I had some that I wanted to do, and of course one that I plunked from the suggestions.
I will definitely be down to continue these if the readership is interested. Some didn't make the cut this time, but they've been added to my list (like Nostradamus: we will check in on him in the 1550s/1560s; amongst others) to explore at some point. Obviously as we push forward into ATL, OTL will be farer and fewer between, but in that situation perhaps we can visit their possible descendants. The goal of the vignettes to make you think of who they may be: in this series, they're all pretty well figured out (either at the very start, by the middle, or by the end), but I hope as we go further they'll be more mystery about who we're seeing and what they're seeing. Certainly I hope these little snapshots give you another look into this world and how things are developing.
As always, open to suggestions for future vignettes and who we might see. There's no limitation in who we might visit, though Anno is primarily a European TL. Still, I don't mind to check in on European traders / explorers as they go further east, or those in the Spanish Americas. Ottomans and Persians are welcome too. 😄
Vignettes de l'Obscurité, Part 1.
“We understand why children are afraid of darkness ... but why are men afraid of light?”
– Plato
Musical Accompaniment: La Spagna
Elizabeth, wife of a merchant. Painted c. 1540; AI Generated.
Vignette 1 – Somewhere near Althorp, England… 1540.
As the carriage rattled down the dirt road of the English countryside, a woman sat comfortably upon her cushioned seat—a feather fan held in her delicately gloved hand, waving gently to dispel the vapors of the summer heat. Though now forty, the woman was still quite handsome—her blonde hair was delicately coifed, with nary a strand in sight, and was complimented by sapphire drop earrings. Her outfit was perfectly put together, an ivory and blue gown etched with silver thread. A pearl necklace clung to her throat—its finishing touch being the crown jewels: two sapphire gems encased in gold that hung above her bosom.
“Well, Bess—what do you think?”
Bess was shaken from her reverie by the sound of her husband, Lawrence. His hair was already beginning to gray in his fifties, but he retained a rugged handsomeness—his face etched with laugh lines, the sign of a delighted life. Like his wife, he wore a black jerkin covering his linen shirt, paired with matching Venetian breeches and white hose. Bess focused on the view outside her window—the acres and acres of nature and land—with nary a soul in sight.
“It’s beautiful, Lawrence…” Bess mused. “But when you mentioned Althorp, I suppose I imagined something else. I imagined a town or even a village.”
“It once was a village, my dear,” Lawrence explained with a twinkle in his eye. “There haven’t been any tenants here in nearly forty years. The land fell into the hands of the Spencers in 1508—well-to-do woolen merchants like me. They’ve fallen into some hard times recently. Young John Spencer, who owned it previously, was still but a boy when he passed three years ago, and there have been some… financial issues, from what I understand. They own plenty but are willing to let this land go for only £2000—all of it—some 400 acres and then some. Aside from the grassland we can enclose for sheep, there is woodland and water. And, of course, the manor house.”
The mention of the manor caused Bess to practically beam. “Oh, but truly?”
She was already imagining what this fantastic home might look like, imagining her childhood home of Kinlet Manor, where she had so many happy memories. She thought of her time at court as a maid of honor to the late Queen Catherine, and how sumptuous yet dignified the queen’s chambers had been—how she might decorate her own now. She thought sadly how the late queen had died only a few months past. Her marriage had not been a prestigious match—she found no lordling at court. Lawrence was a wealthy wool merchant who hailed from Northampton. But he was a kindly man—who had made her laugh, smile, and blush from the first day they’d met. When he proposed marriage in 1521, she was happy to leave behind court life and begin her married life. She could’ve done worse than wed a self-made man—and Lawrence could’ve done much worse than a daughter of the gentry. Their five children—three strapping sons and two beautiful daughters—were now nearly all grown, but they would have all the advantages their birth could afford them. Even now, she touched her stomach: who was to say God might not bless her with one last child? Her courses had not yet ceased, and she felt more robust and more able in her second flush of youth than in her first.
Even now, Bess recalled how kindly and generous the late queen had been—Bess had never been outstanding in Queen Catherine’s service, but she had been dutiful in her tasks. Despite this, the queen had seen fit to provide a gracious sum to augment her dowry when she left court to wed Lawrence—perhaps a token of thanks for the help her father had provided in 1513 in bringing the late king’s body home from France, uncorrupted and untouched. Bess still remembered using the sum to purchase a set of Venetian glass—bowls, glasses, and plates that Bess used only for the most special occasions. They would surely see more use when she had a manor to hold feasts and banquets. She would invite her closest friends, her husband’s business associates, and their neighbors from neighboring estates. They would have sumptuous meals… and the evening would close with a toast in honor of Catherine of Aragon, followed by a toast in honor of their queen.
“Truly. I’ll admit that the manor is not much to look at—but we can rebuild it as we please. I promised you the day that I married you that you would be the mistress of your own home… and now you will be.”
Bess smiled. “I have been mistress of my home since we wed. I have never lacked for anything.” But Bess would be lying if this opportunity sounded better than anything they had possessed. She had indeed married an ambitious man, and she and their family would be all the better.
‘Elizabeth Blount, Mistress Washington[1] of Althorp[2]… or perhaps we shall tear it down and build something new.’
Bess thought it over in her head—her smile growing wider. That would do just fine.
Washington Manor, located in Althorp. 19th Century recreation of how the house may have looked in 1550; AI Generated.
[1]Yes,
those Washingtons. Lawrence Washington (bd. unknown) moved to Northamptonshire, where he became a very wealthy wool merchant. IOTL, he would purchase land during the dissolution of the monasteries to build Sulgrave Manor, so he was quite well off. Lawrence was the ancestor of
that Washington we know quite well... (something like his great-great-great(-great) grandfather). The family wealth is decent now, but still a bit new: if they can enclose the estate as happened IOTL, they will be quite well off.
[2]And yes,
that Althorp, childhood home of Princess Diana of Wales. It was a parish at one point, though it had no tenants by 1505. The Spencers purchased it in 1508 for about £800. At the time, the Spencers were not glorious knights or barons, but wealthy sheep farmers and wool merchants not unlike Lawrence. They've been a bit unlucky in the 1530s... hence the need to sell the land and manor house, which they've done little with up to this point. At least they made a profit on the initial purchase.
Vignette 2 – Heidelburg, Germany… 1545.
Anna’s brow was furrowed with sweat as she labored in her chamber. The pain stretched throughout her body—radiating from below throughout every muscle and bone within her body. The last ten hours had rendered her on the verge of unconsciousness, her screams and howls blanketing the concerned murmurs of the midwives. She rocked and turned within the linen sheet of her bed—sticky with sweat and blood. In her wild eyes, she could see one of the concerned midwives hovering over her—crucifix in hand. Anna wasted no time as she slapped the woman’s hand roughly away from her, pure fury in her eyes and fire burning within her ears.
“No—and I mean
no crucifixes. I will not give the elector the son he desires surrounded by Romish superstitions!”
Anna practically bellowed as she screamed. Even amid her labor, her voice carried some semblance of authority as the women within the birthing chamber escorted the misguided women from her presence. For just a moment, Anna allowed herself to breathe—wincing as the pain tore throughout her for yet another time. Each pang of labor followed even more quickly than the one that proceeded it. Her hazy vision now focused on the head midwife—an elderly woman who smiled upon her kindly like a mother.
“Durchlaucht,” The midwife spoke, her voice wizened and tinted with kindness. “Your travails are nearly at an end now. Breathe, inhale sharply… and give us another push when I tell you to do so. Not a second before!”
The haze covering Anna’s vision was still cloudy, but she focused on the midwife’s voice. She nodded her head, complying with her request as she inhaled sharply. The room's smell was almost overwhelming: her musk mingled with the scents of herbs and tinctures: an oddly comforting scent that reminded her of home. There was a slight pang in her chest—though she had been married now for nearly five years and would now soon have a family of her own, it did not mean that she did not miss her own family: her mother, Maria—her sisters: Sybille, who left when she was just a girl to wed the heir to Saxony, was Electress of Saxony these past ten years. And Amalia, her darling sister and favorite… still unwed, but whom Anna had many fond memories of. Even now, she thought of her curmudgeonly brother Wilhelm, and the thought brought a smile to her face. He was a married man now, too—having wed a daughter of that rake, François of France—his beautiful daughter Victoire. She wondered how her brother and his beautiful wife got on.
“Now, madam!” The midwife's voice pierced into Anna’s reminiscences, and she knew now was the time to finish the task she had begun so many hours before. Anna focused only on the midwife’s kindly face—and when commanded to push, she pushed as hard as she possibly could—her thoughts and her desire to succeed in this moment, overcoming the exhaustion and weakness of her body. As she felt babe come forth, she let out another guttural groan. The chamber was ensconced in silence for a moment, and Anna almost wailed—wondering if she had failed. After a moment, the lusty cries of the babe soon filled the chamber. She had succeeded.
“Madam… you have given birth to a healthy baby boy.”
Anna von Kleve, Electoress Palatinate of the Rhine, holding her infant son, Friedrich Wilhelm (b. 1545); AI Generated.
Anna could let out a sigh of relief. Her—Anna von Kleve, Electress of the Palatinate of the Rhine, had given her husband, Friedrich, the son, and heir he so desperately desired.
“Clean him, and then you must take him straight to the elector,” Anna commanded. “Tell the elector that is God’s gift for the righteousness of our cause. He will know what I mean.”
Five years she had been barren—and she had succeeded. She knew of Friedrich’s wavering between the false Romish faith and the Protestant cause, which she championed so heartily. Friedrich had agreed that should their child be a son, he would be baptized as a Protestant. She expected he would uphold his end of the bargain—and perhaps soon, Friedrich himself might take Protestant communion and break finally with the Catholic cause—and that of the emperor.
Vignette 3 – Corfu, Ionian Islands… 1530.
As the flagship, the Santa Anna, disembarked in the port of Corfu, the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, Philippe Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, finally felt as if he could breathe a sigh of relief. The loss of Rhodes nearly eight years before had been catastrophic for his order. They had spent most of the 1520s without a proper home—they had spent time in Crete, Messina, Viterbo, and even Nice—but no adequate domain for their worthy cause. It seemed for a time that they would languish in exile and would never regain their former prominence. Philippe knew better than to have doubts—for God always provided, and he had once again. The Venetians had proved kind enough to grant the knights usage of the Ionian Islands as a fief—perhaps they had been pressured a little by King François of France to make over the islands to them, but it mattered not. The Knights would be able to resume their mission against the infidel—and to help patrol the Adriatic and Eastern Mediterranean. It was a fitting substitute for Rhodes, and he would ensure that he and his order made it truly impregnatable.
Posthumous Portrait of Grand Master Philippe Villers de l'Isle-Adam
of the Knights Hospitaller, better known as the Knights of Corfu; AI Generated.
Corfu was a charming town, a mixture of Greek and Venetian architecture. Philippe had decided to center his administration in the Venetian Citadel, the Fortezza Vecchia. It would allow him to oversee the defenses of Corfu and ensure that the town and islands never fell to the Turk in the way that Rhodes had. Of course, it would not be a permanent home—he had already dispatched a group of knights as surveyors to find a suitable area to build an actual palace. He had already received positive reports concerning territory north of Corfu, near a spring called Karkadi that provided water to the city. It might be a spot to consider—but for now, the fort on the marina would do.
The day and evening of Philippe’s arrival had numerous ceremonies. He met with the Venetian administrators, and in a grand ceremony it was them who presented him with the silver keys to the city. There was feasting and celebration; the knights and Venetians joined in a communal celebration that did not end until late into the evening. The natives seemed less enthusiastic; Philippe had noted the sullen looks upon their faces as his baggage train wound through the old city towards the Venetian Citadel bearing his goods. They would adjust in time—surely a group of Franks would not be too different from a group of Venetians? He would prove to the Corfiots that he could be a generous ruler.
Philippe’s next morning he started early. He rose before the sun and attended mass at the chapel dedicated to Saint Arsenius. Work had begun nearly a century ago on a faithful church to adjoin the fortress, dedicated to Saint James and Saint Christopher—but it was still unfinished. Philippe made a mental note to write to the Roman curia to seek funds for its completion. After mass, the Grand Master had a morning meal with his highest knights and officers—and soon retired to his private chamber to begin work with his secretary.
The Old Fortress, aka Fortezza Vecchia. Work rendered by the Knights of Corfu
to the Fortezza would render Corfu almost impregnable from Ottoman attack.
As early as 1537, Ottoman troops would be repulsed from Corfu.
“We have much work to do,” Philippe told his secretary. “First, we shall dictate letters to our Langues—in Auvergne, France, Provence, and Italy. It may not hurt even to write to our brothers in England, too—the Queen Mother is pious, and I’ve heard that the young queen is too. We must request their support because there is much for us to do. We must expand our fortifications and ports and construct new ships to rebuild our naval forces. As always, we are the bulwark of the true faith against the Turkish horde. We fell once—we cannot fall again.”
Even as he dictated to the young man who had served him, Philippe felt the need to push on—even as a nagging pain attacked his head and chest—a familiar pain he had dealt with for so many years.
‘Lord, I know that I am an old man, and soon my time comes… but I beg of you, give me just two, three, or even four years more. I must do all I can to ensure we flourish here; when that is all complete, I shall be ready to come when you believe it time.’
Vignette 4 – London, England… 1538.
Many in London knew that William Paget’s table was one of the best in all of London—but it was not through his work, but rather that of the work of his wife Jane—a former maid-of-honor to Queen Mary, whom he had wed in the year past, not long after he had risen to the position of King’s Clerk. With Paget’s position quickly rising through his work to the crown, Jane did whatever she could to ensure his success: hosting dinners for council and court members and glorious feasts that might rival the royal table. Tonight, she had worked hard with her cooks and maids to serve a magnificent dinner of four courses inspired by a medieval feast given to the Count of Anjou in 1455. The first course included a quarter of a stag, which had spent the night in salt and chicken stuffed with herbs and cooked in a sauce of spices—cloves, nutmeg, and ginger. The second course soon followed: a sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar and a stuffed fat capon. The third course included jellies and wafers decorated with the crests of their most exalted guests, to be followed by the final course: a cream with fennel seeds preserved in sugar, along with slices of cheese, strawberries, and plums stewed in rose water. The feast ended with prepared wines and preserves—fruits and various sweet pastries, with the arms of Anjou decorated upon them.
“I swear, Paget—the honor goes to you tonight.” Stephen Gardinier, the Bishop of Winchester, wiped his greasy fingers upon his linen cloth as he sipped his wine—a vintage that was his favorite.
William offered up a smile but shook his head. He knew he had made the right choice when he proposed to Jane Seymour. “The honor doesn’t belong to me, Your Excellency. The honor falls entirely to my wife—it was all her idea.”
Jane Seymour, Mistress Paget. Painted c. 1537-38; AI Generated.
“Ah, well then…” Gardinier murmured, trailing off slightly as he rose his glass. “Let us offer a toast then to Mistress Paget!”
Jane sat at the other end of the table from William. To her left sat Edward Layton, the Archdeacon of Sarum and recently appointed Clerk of the Closet. To her right sat John Williams, Master of the Jewel House (rumored to be a great-grandson of Jasper Tudor, the Duke of Bedford). Jane smiled at her husband’s compliment, inclining her head towards the Bishop of Winchester—one of the personages most often frequented their table. As the men around the table raised their glasses in a toast towards her work, Jane responded with a soft smile, raising her glass in turn. Her face became a slight shade of rose at the effusive compliments, but part of her enjoyed basking in the limelight.
“Thank you for the compliments, your eminence—and all our honored guests. I take great pride in my duties as mistress of the house. As do you all, William toils so hard for the crown and kingdom. Certainly, a good meal doesn’t go remiss after a long day!”
“Indeed not, Mistress Paget.” Edward Layton exclaimed, followed by murmurs of approval.
As the feast died down, the servants began to clear off the table, leaving only the decanters that remained filled with various fine vintages of wine that would be downed late into the night. Jane knew well how these events tended to go—and they would be empty by morning. If she were lucky, all the decanters would survive… but more often or not, two, if not three, ended up smashed and broken. Jane would likely spend her morning tomorrow seeking out replacements down at Cheapside. If she found no luck there, she would seek out the foreign wealthy merchants on Lombard Street, known for their exotic wares that Jane could not find elsewhere. As Jane rose from the table, she smoothed down her gown of black silk in the Spanish style—a favored gift she’d received from William on their wedding day.
“Excellency, sirs,” Jane began in an even tone. “I thank you for gracing our table for this bounteous evening. If all is well, I shall retire for the night—I am sure you are eager to talk business without a woman around.”
Jane knew that part of her charm was her overt femininity—she did her duties in her house and home, and men did not see her as a threat. What she might have overheard during these feasts was discounted because the men assumed Jane's mind dealt only with feminine fripperies. She was docile and quiet—a nonentity.
“Must you leave us so soon, Mistress Paget?” John Williams asked first. “I’ve been told its most unlikely you will take leave of us soon—that you often sit in a corner and work upon your sewing.”
“Indeed,” Gardinier added. “She will often sit with us for some hours yet—arising only when young Mistress Paget is fussy.”
Jane looked towards William—a twinkle in his eye. “Please sit, my heart. You have lately lamented that you’ve had no time to work on the kirtles for our serving girls. Christmastide will soon be upon us, and I cannot let the servants think I am a miserly master.”
An 18th Century recreation of the Paget Manse and how it may have looked in 1540; AI Generated.
Sold by the Paget heirs in 1634 to the City of London, it was tore down to
make way for tenement flats for London's rapidly expanding population.
Jane understood completely. Her sewing materials often sat at a small table beside a chair some distance from the table. She would sit and sew for a few hours—listening to every spoken word. When she and William retired for the night, they would recount what was spoken and discussed—and how it might benefit them. To the men, she was a woman merely doing what society asked of her. Jane took up the sewing in her hands—the clean, crisp scraps of linen bearing little resemblance to the kirtles they would soon become.
Her hands were nimble as she sewed; she thought of her serving girls, Thomasine, and Joan—poor little things who knew nothing but rough spun skirts and kirtles. She wished them to know what linen felt like and that they deserved better. Aside from these, Jane knew William would be generous—both girls who lived with them were paid 5s per quarter—and would receive 1s each as a Christmas bonus.
The sound of Gardinier’s voice punctuated Jane’s thoughts. “Both the young princesses fare well—Mary and Catherine both. The queen is truly prolific. I believe that this time next year, or perhaps next, she shall finally give us the Prince of Wales that the kingdom desired. The royal house has not had a son in nearly forty years.”
“Indeed,” Paget answered. “But at least the succession is secured. God bless Her Pious Majesty for many years—but should something ever befall her, we have a sovereign in King John.”
“That we do,” John Williams answered cheerfully. “He’s a bonny lad—handsome and brave. He cuts a good figure alongside the queen. When I see them, I feel that I have gone back in time—that I am seeing the late king and Queen Catherine in her youth. I attended the coronation as a lad… ah, but how handsome Great Harry was! And how beautiful Queen Catherine was!”
A toast was given in honor of the king and queen—followed by a toast in honor of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. Even nearly twenty years later, Jane could see the queen’s father’s hold upon the English. Killed in the flush of his youth, fighting their mortal enemy in France—England would forever remember him. Even now, tall tales spun: Jane recalled Thomasine telling her a story she’d heard from a grocer boy—that Henry VIII was not dead but merely slumbered in his crypt in Westminster. Should England ever face a mortal foe or threat, the boy proclaimed that Great Harry would return to conquer them before returning to sleep. A king, saint, and a legend—intermingled into one. Jane could not help but think of a portrait of Henry that hung in Queen Mary’s chambers and how often she would look at it.
‘How might he have reigned? What sort of glorious kings and queens might he have sired? What foes would he have vanquished…?’ As Jane’s hands were nimble as she thought of this, her gaze focused on the fine scraps of cloth—taking the sewing scissors from her basket as she began to cut away the scraps that she would not need for this task.
“Let us talk of present matters…” Gardinier murmured, seeking to turn the table from its reveries. “The Queen is much troubled by these matters in Ireland. Rawson was too addled during his time; though Parliament gave him funds at Drogheda, the Irish chiefs and lords laughed at his peace proposal. They have been allowed to do as they please for too long now. Queen Mary has long desired more decisive action and for the crown to have true control over the Lordship of Ireland. I do not believe the Earl of Ormond works in our interests.”
“King John agrees with the queen on this matter. He has suggested that Dublin ought to host a garrison.” Paget interjected. “Men are used to garrison Berwick, Portsmouth, Dover, and even Calais during peacetime. I believe it is a firm and good idea. His Majesty has learned much from his time in Denmark. Is Dublin not as important as Berwick? It, too, lies upon the periphery of our realm. He believes he has a good man to lead it, too… William Brabazon. A goodly jouster, he fought with the king in Denmark and has been knighted. He’s a good Englishman—he will serve our interests, especially with troops at his back and command over Dublin Castle.”
“Ormond will certainly not like it,” Leyton added. “But if what you say is true, Bishop Gardinier, he is already our foe. And our foes must be dealt with.”
‘And so, they must…’ Jane thought quietly.
‘God assists the righteous; that is us. He shall strike down our enemies, who must be the wicked.’
I figure they'll be a fun addition and we can go from there. 😀 Let me know what you think of the idea. They would be separate from our chapters.
