#marie navarre

[garadinervi]

Jennifer Morla, Capp Street Project: 'Jim Campbell, Marie Navarre', 1995 [Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, New York, NY]

#graphic design #typography #art #visual writing #pattern #exhibition #poster #jennifer morla #jim campbell #marie navarre #cooper hewitt #smithsonian design museum #1990s

[roehenstart]

Portrait of Louis XIII by Marie-Victoire Jaquotot.

#royaume de france #marie victoire jaquotot #musée du louvre #louis xiii #roi de france #maison de bourbon #roi de france et de navarre #vive le roi

[kaos-mass]

Green

#green #pixelart #jet the hawk #ralsei #pokemon n #yoshi #luigi #link #slippy toad #frog #ogre #blanka #marie #navarre #lyn #terra branford #gex #King K Rool #sanae kochiya

[heartofstanding]

Henry V has two dads, two mums and two birthdays.

#shitposts #text posts #(i mean he kinda does) #richard ii as his spiritual father (via virtue of propaganda not baptism) and henry iv as his biological father #mary de bohun as his biological mother and joan of navarre as his stepmother #16 september 1386 and 9 august 1387 (the 'as recorded in a few documents' and 'monmouth celebrates his birthday then' sources)

[navree]

if that canal+ marie antoinette series does get a good international reception and proves that english speaking audiences actually will watch smth about the history of countries that aren’t america and england, i should be immediately given an hbo contract to allow me to make my louis philippe series

#personal #at least that would be about something that hasn't been done to fucking death #plus it wouldn't have to be about his kingship if that's too boring for the americans #just go from the revolution all the way to his coronation #there's still a lot of drama #all them dead family members and the like #(this is also a subtweet at ridley scott for blaming millenials (?????) for the last duel flopping) #(nah dude it flopped because a) the rape revenge trope is kinda fading out of fashion at this point in time) #(and b) because english speaking moviegoers who are the ones who DOMINATE the movie and tv market) #(really don't like history about anything that isn't the english speaking world) #(it's why in the course of ten years we've had like FOUR mary queen of scots movies/shows/whatever) #(but i can't have a single mention at all of jeanne i of navarre) #(so if a show about a french queen does okay i really need it to open doors for more interesting stuff about french history)

[une-sanz-pluis]

In the midst of these negotiations, in November 1395, John of Gaunt was negotiating with Jean IV for a marriage between the houses of Lancaster and Brittany for his grandson Henry (later Henry V) with Joan's daughter Marie, which would cement a bilateral alliance between them that Jean IV hoped would get the support he needed to get back both the honour of Richmond and control of Brest.While the matrimonial alliance suited both John of Gaunt and Jean IV, it did not suit Richard II, who reacted angrily to the news when John arrived back in England just after Christmas. Joan wrote two effusive letters to Richard II, in March 1396 and February 1397, to smooth over feathers ruffled by the proposed Lancastrian marriage. In both letters she stressed that she was “desirous to hear of your good estate” and stressed her maternal role by noting the good health of her children. She also noted the good health of her husband in the 1396 letter, with a gentle plea regarding the “the deliverance of his lands”, which appears to reference the ongoing dispute over the honour of Richmond or possibly the restoration of Brest. Joan signed off both letters with pledges that “if anything I can do over here will give you pleasure, I pray you to let me know it, and I will accomplish it with a very good heart, according to my power”.

Elena Woodacre, Joan of Navarre Infanta, Duchess, Queen, Witch? (Routledge, 2022)

#joan of navarre #richard ii #henry v #john of gaunt #jean iv duke of brittany #marie of brittany countess of alencon #historian: elena woodacre #marital negotiations

[dejahisashmom]

Reformation & Repression under Bishop Briçonnet of Meaux - World History Encyclopedia

https://www.worldhistory.org/article/2123/reformation–repression-under-bishop-briconnet-of/

View On WordPress

#1231 #Bishop Briçonnet of Meaux II #Catholic #Charles V #Concordat #Council of Sens #France #John Leclerc #Lefevre d&039;Etaples #Lodève #Marguerite de Navarre #Martin Luther #Meaux #Paris #Pope Gregory IX #Pope Julius II #Pope Leo X #Protestant Reformation #The Inquisition #Virgin Mary #William Farel

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 5: Bells Each Hour]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 5.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @ipostwhatifeel​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @serrhaewin​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @blackdreamspeaks​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @elsolario​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ ​

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

You’re waiting for Aemond under the hundred-year-old cedar tree at the edge of the forest, Alonzo’s most recent letter in your hands. Midnight is grazing not far away, dewy April grass trampled flat beneath her hooves, silky black tail swishing. She won’t tolerate a lead chain, so she travels the woods unimpeded; but you know she won’t run. She never does. The slender pink ivory wood box is open on the ground, your sword propped against the tree trunk. Weeks ago, you carved four dates there in Roman numerals, infinitesimal inscriptions that you periodically trace back over so they never fade. They’re the days when you lost your children. You were permitted to keep no remnants of them, no stained cloths or recorded names. They belonged less to you than to the kingdom, and you were never allowed to forget this. All you have left are these shallow marks on a cedar tree as the world wakes up again: blossoms unraveling in the palace gardens, sprigs of jade-colored herbs piercing through cool rich earth.

Mother is possessed by conspiracies, Alonzo writes, forever a touch hyperbolic; you can picture his familiar wry smile as you drink up his words like roots swallow rain. He’s your oldest brother and thus the Crown Prince of Navarre. He’s been married for six years to Ippolita of Ferrara, three healthy children so far, one a boy named for your father. She swears there is something wrong with the water there, or the air, or the wheat, the culprit changes by the day. She frets, you know. As she always has. She wonders if we should dispatch one of our own bishops to bless you, or if you should undertake a pilgrimage to some holy site to beg the Virgin Mary for healing. More than anything, I think, she misses you. Her other daughters have found happiness in their marriages, and so it is easier for her to let them go and imagine it was for the best, but you…it is a different circumstance entirely, don’t you agree? Even Father has begun reassessing the illustrious English alliance he was once so proud of. He mutters that if you are to be childless either way, you might as well be home with your family, not trapped in some far-off, gloomy, turbulent land with a degenerate husband. We’ve heard things about Prince Aegon. Father says he never would have sent you across the Bay of Biscay if he knew what waited for you there.

I suppose what I’m trying to ask is…if the Pope would grant an annulment…if Father could work out an arrangement with King Viserys and the Duke of Hightower for you to come home again…would you want to?

All my love (and plenty more from Lita and the children),

Alonzo

You shred his letter so no one else will find it, looking up at a turquoise sky cluttered with fleecy white clouds, the same sky that stretches eastward to Navarre and beyond. You can’t go home; it would be a surrender, it would mean giving up any hope of a grander future. And it would mean giving up Aemond too. He’s not yours, but you can’t lose him. You feel like you can’t breathe every time you think of it. And there’s another reason why you can’t consider trying to dissolve your marriage. Not yet, anyway.

You rest your palms on your belly, vulnerable flesh beneath emerald-green silk, still at least a month away from starting to show. It’s early, very early, but by now you know the signs as well as the sounds of horses, the feel of the hilt of a sword in your grasp. It is your fifth attempt in less than two years. You have no reason to believe that this time will be different, that it will end in joy and triumph instead of ruin. Still, you suppose that anything is possible. It would be traitorous not to hope, wouldn’t it?

At last Aemond and Vhagar appear, galloping across the field to meet you at the edge of the forest. He’s in the saddle with his hair flying like a white banner, the buckles on his tunic glinting in the sun. You smile until he is close enough for you to read his face: tension, vexation, thinly-veiled ire. He dismounts in one fluid motion and Vhagar moseys away to graze beside Midnight, her enormous hooves clomping, dandelions and clovers leveled like fields at harvest.

“When were you going to tell me?” Aemond demands. He comes so close he fills your vision, your air; your lungs draw in smoke and leather, work and skill, every thread of muscle fought for. “After everything, I had to overhear it from the gossip of servants?”

Oh. Oh. “I hadn’t decided how yet. I was trying not to hurt you.”

“I’m hurt that you kept it from me.”

“Aemond…” You hesitate. There’s no delicate way to say this. “I didn’t want you to have to think about that part.” His brother on top of you, inside of you, melding with you to create a new heartbeat.

“I already think about it,” Aemond replies, sharp and stabbing like thorns. “I think about it all the goddamn time.”

Now your voice is bitter too. “Well, soon it will be my turn to be so afflicted, right?”

He quiets and retreats a few steps, rubbing his face with his hands. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen him do that before. He looks genuinely rattled, pained, remorseful. Kunigunde, the lone surviving daughter of Frederick III, will arrive in London any day now. Sometimes you find yourself wishing that her ship would sink to the bottom of the ocean or that some last-minute diplomatic squabble would go unresolved and she would be returned untouched to the Continent…but to what avail? Aemond will have to marry somebody. You cannot seem to produce a son, Nico won’t even be able to start trying until her wedding in August. The Greens need more heirs, more allies. And no ally could be more beneficial to their cause than the Holy Roman Empire. You should recognize the momentous advantage in this match. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond lying with another woman and memorizing the secrets of her body until they begin showing up in his poems, hips and wrists and the bumps of her spine.

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says gently. “I don’t want to argue with you. You’re not at fault for any of this. You’re not who I’m really mad at.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit tired, a bit nauseous. Nothing new.”

“Good. But that’s not what I meant.”

You look at him as you stand in the shade together under the vast cedar tree. “I don’t feel anything,” you confess, words you could not share with anyone else. They would think you were in need of an elixir or a prayer or an exorcism. “I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel anxious, I don’t feel excited or afraid or hopeful. I want to be hopeful, it is my obligation to be hopeful, but I’m not. I don’t feel anything anymore. This has happened too many times already. Or maybe I’m just broken in spirit as well as in body.”

“You aren’t broken at all.”

You smile bleakly. “That’s kind, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“Believe me, I’d know. Brokenness and I are well-acquainted.”

And you wonder before you can stop yourself: What does he look like under his eyepatch? How exactly did it happen? Does it still pain him, does it enrage him? Does it make his hands ache for vengeance?

He asks: “What can I do?”

You get your sword from where it’s propped against the tree and twirl it once. “Distract me.”

“Gladly.” Aemond glides his blade out of its scabbard and lunges. You parry and strike him lightly across the back. Then you swiftly retreat, waiting for his riposte, on guard.

“I always wanted children, you know,” you say. “Not just because it was required of me. I grew up in a castle that was loud and full of footsteps. My mother was eternally playing with us, reading to us, tending to us. I imagined the same for myself. I craved it.”

“You’ll have children,” Aemond insists, forever so sure of something that feels impossible.

“You should have been the heir. Maybe this is how it happens. I’ll remain childless and Aegon will drink himself to death, and then you and your sons with Kunigunde will inherit the throne.”

He swings and you block, his blade clashing with yours once, twice, again, driving you backwards until you are pinned against the cedar tree. “I don’t want it that way,” Aemond pants from the effort, your swords locked together above your heads. “Not if it requires your sacrifice.”

You gaze up at him as his eye rakes over you; you’re close enough to kiss if you dared to. But you want much more than that. You want his long hair knotted in your fists, you want his hands on your bare skin, you want his tongue and his heat and his moans. But you have to be careful, so very careful. To be discovered sparring would be bad, but to be branded as adulterers would be far, far worse. For Aemond it would likely mean banishment. For you it would mean death by beheading or burning; only the king could commute the sentence. Rhaenyra would not persuade him to have mercy. And hers is the only voice you are confident Viserys would hear.

“Ivy,” Aemond whispers, a name that only he will ever call you. For a second, and only one, his palm skates weightlessly down your belly. You hear the distant chimes of the Tower of London, bells each hour, and it’s strange how so much time can pass without changing the heart at all. “I wish everything was different. I wish it was mine and you were too.”

And then he retreats in several long strides and waits for you to collect yourself so you can thrust at him with your blade again.

An hour later, Aemond helps you to rebury your sword—you’ve taken to keeping the pink ivory box in a shallow grave under the cedar tree so no one spies you ferrying it to and from Westminster Palace—and then accompanies you back inside once the horses are returned to the royal stables. He is mindful not to appear too familiar within sight of the court, but there are small gestures that he cannot seem to purge himself of: a hand on the curve of your back as you ascend stairs, shoulders and elbows that push others away if they inadvertently jostle you, glances to decipher the mood of your face. He signals to a servant and they scuttle over to bring you a cup of apple cider, cool and crisp and sweet.

“Where in God’s name have you been?!” the Duke of Hightower scolds you from across the hall, departing from a conversation with the Montford patriarchs. They wear serene, confident smiles. They’ve named Joanna’s white-haired bastard Aegon—not very subtle—and are basking in their recent procurement of titles, land, and influence. Already you’ve overheard the idea proposed, more than once and by various nobles: your marriage could be annulled, Joanna wed to Prince Aegon in your place, her son retroactively legitimized. The plan is certainly not without its own obstacles, but the Duke seems to be intrigued by it. Your husband will not entertain putting you aside. When the notion surfaces in his presence—like a shimmering fish from the depths of a pond—Aegon walks right out of the room.

You reply, with practiced innocence: “Just outside strolling through the gardens, Your Grace. The weather is lovely—”

“You shouldn’t be strolling anywhere. Not inside, not outside, not even to the chapel to beg God for the long-overdue deliverance of a son. You should be in bed.”

“Grandsire,” Aemond says. “Surely she cannot be expected to live as a prisoner.”

“She will live in whatever manner gives us the greatest chance of an heir. She may not be a prisoner, but she is a princess and a wife, and sometimes the requirements of these stations are not as divergent as you might believe.”

Aemond’s face goes dark, goes defiant. “You cannot put it all on her shoulders.”

The Duke of Hightower grins arrogantly; he’s caught him in the perfect trap. “But it’s not all on her, Prince Aemond. Within a week you’ll be sharing that burden. Making it lighter, even.”

Aemond glares at the Duke and says nothing.

“You will be married as soon as Kunigunde arrives. Within two days, mark my words. You’ll begin trying for a son in April, Nico in August. Now we have no heirs. But by this time next year we could have three! Isn’t that a happy thought?” And he marches away to resume his scheming, still smiling about it.

Aemond walks you to your rooms and stays there with you. You embroider pillows as he reads to you—a book about Aegon I’s Conquest in 1066—in a voice that is soft and low and secretive. Nico and Daeron join you both for dinner, and then you and Aemond are alone again. It’s wonderous and yet excruciatingly painful, profoundly unwise and yet necessary. You never speak of the night when he touched you beneath your nightgown, but it’s always there between you, a ghost that flutters curtains and creaks open doors trying to get your attention. You’re playing Tric-Trac on the bearskin rug, the fire dying down, when your husband reels drunkenly into your bedchamber.

“Aegon?” you say, startled. Aemond immediately moves away from you, at first just withdrawing to the other end of the rug and then rising to his feet as his brother continues to approach. You aren’t sure what he could want; it is recommended that pregnant women not lie with their husbands, and you’ll gladly take any excuse available to you. He must have forgotten at some point during his fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth cup of wine. “While I’m with child, I can’t—”

“I know, I know. I remember.” Aegon falls down onto the bearskin rug and slings his arms around your waist, burrowing into you. He rests his head on your chest, white-blond hair unruly and tangled. After a moment—long enough to recover from the shock of it—you hold him, tolerantly and sympathetically, like a wife should. Aemond leaves the room, river-blue eye downcast. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice. He sighs contently as you run your fingers through his hair, as your palms trace his back over his plain white shirt. There are red splotches on it, some of them wine, some blood; there are tacky streaks of it around his nose. He’s never done this before. He’s never sought you out for contact that was pure like this, without directives, without prizes to be won.

“Aegon?” you ask after a while.

“Yes, wife?”

“What exactly happened to Aemond’s eye?”

“My fault,” he murmurs drowsily. “He and I were supposed to be practicing our sword fighting with Sir Criston. Aemond was in the courtyard, exactly where he was supposed to be, and I was hiding in a stairwell somewhere guzzling wine, trying to forget who I was. Sir Criston went looking for me and while he was gone, they found Aemond. Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena. Four against one. I don’t know much about math, but that doesn’t sound even to me. Aemond was a lot smaller then. He hadn’t gotten tough and mean yet. I’ve never been clear on who said what first, but eventually he was calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards and they were calling him a worthless spare, unnecessary and unloved, at least in the king’s eyes. Neither of them were wrong, by the way. Aemond grabbed a rock. Luke had a knife. By the time Sir Criston returned with me in tow, it was over. I remember watching the physicians stitch up Aemond’s face, using tweezers and spoons to clean out the pieces of gelatinous flesh from his eye socket. Father did nothing about it. He cared more about Aemond calling Jace and Luke bastards than the fact that he was half-blinded for life. Aemond started wearing a sapphire in the socket once it finally healed. He still does, as far as I know, though I haven’t seen him without his eyepatch in years. It’s a reference to some folktale about a warrior with two sapphire eyes. Some metaphor I couldn’t appreciate. I think my tutors once tried to make me read that story and I never did.”

You are sickened by grief, revulsion, fury. He was just a boy. A boy who had been neglected and ignored and brutalized, and his own father couldn’t care less. A boy who learned to idolize fictional heroes in the absence of real ones. “Yes,” you reply weakly. “That sounds like something Aemond would do.”

“All my fault,” Aegon says again, clutching you tighter.

“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean him any harm.”

“He’s disgusted by me. They all are. Because I’m not suited to be king and never will be.” His voice is clotted with wine, shame, self-loathing. “I never asked to be built of disappointments. I didn’t choose to be this way.”

“You’ll make a fine king, Aegon,” you tell him, because you’re supposed to.

“Do you think I’m the cause of our losses?” he asks suddenly, and you think: Our losses, not mine. He called them ours. “You conceive easily. I can have children with others. Neither of us seem to be defective in body. But perhaps I have inflicted great stress upon you with my indiscretions. My drinking, my sloth, my affairs. I did not think I was hurting you. I did not think of much beyond myself at all, to be perfectly honest. But it was horrible to see you that way. At Christmas. So bereft, so wounded. You’ve suffered so much here. You deserve the consolation that children would bring you.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, shorter than any other grown Targaryen’s; he doesn’t want their name, their legacy, their looming war. “I don’t think you had anything to do with the miscarriages. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I want to be better this time,” he says, peering hazily up at you and placing one hand protectively over your belly. “A better husband, a better man. For both of you.”

You wish you could feel relief, feel joy, even a whisper of it. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond: his face, his voice, his hands. If I have to watch him touch another woman, I’ll never be able to get it out of my mind. If I have to watch him fall in love with her, it will kill me.

“Maybe it would have been different if we had met somewhere else,” Aegon says dreamily.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere very far away.”

His eyes dip shut and you stare into the dying embers of the fireplace: red like lust, like blood, like the flag of Navarre.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the next morning, and you’ve escaped as far as Nico’s rooms. She has what seems like hundreds of swatches of fabric strewn across a table, silk and velvet and linen.

“What do you think of this one?” she asks nervously, holding a scrap of butter-yellow silk to the bare skin of her upper chest. “It’s not really my best color. But the Duke of Hightower suggested I wear a yellow wedding dress. The flag of Milan has a great deal of yellow, you know. I don’t think he wants anyone to forget where I’m from. Or all the wealth and soldiers I’m bringing to his side.”

“How romantic,” you tease, smiling. “Doesn’t your flag also have a giant, murderous blue snake on it? Perhaps you could dress as one of those. We’ll sew you a nice long tail.”

Nico bursts out laughing, far too boisterously, as usual. “That would certainly get Daeron’s blood running hot, wouldn’t it?” Now she frowns down at the table fretfully. “I so want him to be pleased with me. I want him to remember how I looked that day for the rest of his life.”

How did you look on the day you married Aegon? Miserable, probably. Lonely. Empty. Nico will never have to feel that way. You’re happy for her; but it makes your own predicament louder somehow. “It’s your wedding day,” you tell her. “Wear what you like. What you feel most beautiful in. You can dress in yellow for Aemond’s wedding. The Emperor’s flag is yellow. I’m sure Kunigunde would appreciate that. You’ll make a marvelous first impression.”

“Brilliant!” Nico grins, assuaged. Then her eyes flick to the doorway. “Oh, hello there, Prince Aemond. Have you come to help with the wedding planning? We’re choosing flowers next.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much acumen in that realm. But do let me know when you begin discussing cakes.” He stares at you expectedly, arms crossed, lurking like a shadow. There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Go on,” Nico prompts you, tittering anxiously. “We can continue this later. I’m supposed to be meeting Daeron for lunch soon anyway.”

You bid some goodbye to Nico that you’re barely aware of. Then you meet Aemond in the doorway, feeling very much like someone caught in a mistake, a lie, a trap. He turns away without a word and you follow him through the winding halls, colored by aisles of midday light and the tolling of distant bells. “Aemond…?”

“I’m thrilled to hear how well you’re getting along with your husband. He stayed all night, from what I gather. The servants are buzzing with it. The Montfords are licking their wounds.”

“Are you delusional enough to believe that I have any say at all in where he spends his time—?”

“I saw you,” Aemond snaps viciously. “You weren’t just being civil. You comforted him, you had your hands all over him—”

You grab Aemond by the front of his tunic and yank him in close so you can hiss: “And where are your hands going to be once you marry the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter? I have a few ideas. Would you like to confirm them? And things besides your hands as well, I imagine.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he flings, ripping away from you. You dash after him through empty hallways; he’s headed to your rooms, to a place where you will have relative privacy.

“What do you want from me?!” you whisper fiercely, burying it in him like a knife. “You expect me to sabotage my entire life, to reject my husband and neglect my responsibilities so that you never have to be inconvenienced, so that you never have to experience any pain—!”

“Pain?! That’s a kind word for it, it’s agony, it’s fucking impossible—”

Aemond throws open the door to your rooms. Inside, a servant is fixing you a cup of apple cider…and sprinkling the contents of a tiny silk pouch into it. When he sees you and Aemond, he shoves the pouch into his shirt and scurries away.

“Wait!” Aemond commands. The servant starts sprinting. “Don’t drink that,” Aemond tells you, pointing at the cup, then takes off after the servant. He catches him in your bedchamber, hurls him against a wall, and snatches the pouch from inside his shirt. “What the hell is this?”

“Nothing, Your Royal Highness. Just spices from the kitchen.” But his words spill out in a stammer and sweat pours from his reddening face.

Keeping the servant pinned to the wall with one hand, Aemond pitches the silk pouch to you. A servant shouldn’t have anything silk at all; it’s too expensive, too rare. “Do you recognize that?” he asks you.

Inside is a fine, powdery dust of a dried herb, dotted with shriveled purple blossoms. It smells vaguely of mint. “I don’t.”

Aemond drags the servant out of your rooms and into the hallways. The man is openly struggling now, mewing and slapping at his jailer’s face and hands. Aemond takes no notice of this. He is calling for guards, for physicians. A pack of inquiring spectators materialize around him: Nico, Daeron, Alicent, Sir Criston Cole, many other supporters of the Greens. Aemond does not stop until he reaches the Great Hall, where King Viserys is holding an audience with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children, bouncing little Visenya on his knee as she giggles. The violins screech to a halt when you and Aemond enter the room. He throws the servant violently to the floor.

“Good afternoon, Aemond,” the king says with moderate interest, still looking at Visenya.

The Duke of Hightower storms into the Great Hall. “What is going on in here?!” His steely eyes flit from Aemond to the servant sprawled on the floor to the king, back to Aemond. “What’s happened?”

“This man was putting something in the princess’s cider. An herb of some sort. I want it identified.”

“An herb?” King Viserys says blandly. “Have you asked the servant himself? Surely there is a logical explanation—”

“I want it identified,” Aemond repeats. “Now.”

There is chatter from the observers, which is exactly what Aemond needs. They serve as witnesses, as assurance that his accusations will be heard. You wonder where Aegon is; drunk and oblivious somewhere, probably.

“Very well,” the king relents, and waves to a guard. “Fetch a physician.” Then he barks at the crowd: “Out, vultures! All of you! Everyone except family!” The Green-affiliated courtiers reluctantly disperse; Nico goes to leave with them, but Daeron grasps her hand. Alicent clings to Sir Criston. Rhaenyra has Visenya, Viserys II, Aegon III, and Joffrey taken back to the nursery.

The Duke of Hightower glowers at the silk pouch. “Let me see.” You give it to him, and he opens it and sniffs. His forehead crinkles. “I can’t discern this.”

Daemon drifts close to you, clipping by like a comet. “Do you think wearing Green all the time now will miraculously make you one of them? Not until you’ve paid your debts, I think. And women have been known to die in childbirth. Just ask our dear Alicent over there. She owes all her…” His mouth twists cruelly around the word. “Fortune to the late Queen Aemma.”

“It is so wise of you to always dress for a funeral, Prince Daemon,” you say. “You’ll be prepared for your own when it imminently arrives.”

Daemon’s grin doesn’t disappear, but it turns harder, more jagged.

“This is terribly overblown, I’m sure,” the king says, then pauses to cough into his sleeve. He’s been nursing the same chill since January, one that ebbs and flows but never dies. “It’s all just a misunderstanding…”

Queen Alicent gestures to the pouch. “Might I see that, Father?” The Duke passes it to her. She opens the pouch and shakes some of its contents into her cupped palm.

“This is utter paranoia,” Rhaenyra complains, keeping Jace and Luke close to her; but she steals an uneasy glimpse of Daemon.

“They’re always so eager to cast themselves as victims, aren’t they, Mother?” Jace says.

Daeron shouts back: “And you’re always eager to cast yourselves as people who would happily stab someone’s eye out!”

“He slandered us!” Jace cries. “It was self-defense!”

“It was inches away from being murder!”

“And isn’t that the proper punishment for treason?” Baela says smugly. “To lose one’s life?”

“You’re about to lose your fucking life!” Daeron dives for her. Baela howls and scratches at him as Sir Criston leaps in to try to untangle them. Daemon grabs Daeron by the throat and lifts him off the ground; Daeron’s feet kick wildly, his face turning blue. Sir Criston draws his sword. Nico races into the melee, slamming both palms into Daemon’s chest with such force that she stuns him enough to drop Daeron, who falls gasping to the floor. Sir Criston drags him to safety. People are yelling, launching accusations and swears. The king is doubled over hacking.

“You bitch,” Daemon growls at Nico, and rips his sword from its scabbard as he towers over her.

Without thinking, you rush to defend Nico. Aemond’s arms close around you and pull you back. He murmurs through your hair as you battle him: “No, no, no, no.” And then you remember. The baby. I can’t do anything to hurt the baby. And you feel a sudden, overwhelming longing to protect this life, to meet this child, an attachment you didn’t think you were capable of experiencing again.

“I know what this is,” Alicent says softly, and everyone quiets and turns to her. Her face is dazed, appalled. Her hand holding the crumble of dried herbs is trembling. “It’s pennyroyal.”

No one moves, no one speaks. The silence is deafening. And it’s no wonder why none of the men could identify it in its medicinal state, why you couldn’t. You’ve never had need of a plant known to encourage a woman’s monthly blood. Since you’ve arrived in England, you’ve bled far too much. All those months of longing, hope, loss. All those taunts and whispers and rebukes and pieces of fruitless advice.

When the words finally tumble from your lips, they are faint and very small, almost childlike. “It wasn’t my fault?”

Aemond releases you and tears his sword free, holding it to the petrified servant’s throat. “I want him dead,” Aemond seethes, wrath like wildfire, like Plague. “I want him drawn and quartered, I want him awake when they disembowel him, I want him to feel everything. But first I want him racked until he reveals who paid him to commit this barbarism. I want to listen as his bones rip from their sockets.” He turns to Daemon, his blue eye blazing, manic. “And I suspect I know whose name he’ll scream at the end.”

“This is a baseless accusation!” Daemon snarls derisively.

“Dear God,” the Duke of Hightower says, gazing at you in guilt-laden horror. His hands come up to cover his gaping mouth.

“Do you have any proof that Daemon is responsible?” the king asks Aemond.

“Viserys,” the Duke says incredulously. “Prince Daemon has threatened her more times than I could ever count, he has incessantly abused and provoked her, he is her most notorious enemy—”

“There’s no proof,” Rhaenyra says, looking to the king. “You hear them, don’t you, Father? They have insults but no proof. They mean to use this treachery as an opportunity to destroy us.”

“He’s been paid by someone!” Aemond explodes, jabbing the tip of his blade against the whimpering man’s throat until he bleeds. “He’s been recruited! Why would a servant take it upon himself to poison a princess, to risk his livelihood, his life? Why would he have a pouch made of silk to carry his lethal herbs around in? He’s been roped into a conspiracy, and who else would have cause to murder her children in the womb, who else would dare?!”

“There’s no proof,” Daemon says again, and they all join him in a chorus, Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke, Baela, Rhaena: no proof, no proof, no proof.

The king shakes his head at Aemond. “Your lifelong hatred for Rhaenyra’s branch of the family has blinded you—”

“They could have killed her!” Aemond thunders, and there are tears of raw fury gleaming in his eyes. “Don’t you understand?! It wasn’t just the pregnancies, she could have hemorrhaged, she could have died, they risked her life to try to keep Aegon from the throne—”

“The throne will never be Aegon’s.”

“God Almighty, Viserys, that’s not the point,” the Duke says. “If this is true…it would be a most unforgiveable sin. It would be treason. It must be investigated.”

“I simply cannot see any proof being offered here.” The king dissolves into another coughing fit.

“You had no wrath when my eye was taken from me, Father,” Aemond says. “You felt no obligation to protect your son or your wife from the bloody consequences of Rhaenyra’s pride. All those years ago you let her believe she was invincible and now we are all forced to reap the aftermath. Surely you must feel outrage for the grandchildren this has cost you, for the inhuman crimes committed against the princess. She is your family, Father. Aegon is your family. I am your family. Don’t you recognize us at all?”

Daemon stalks towards him like a wolf, each step slow and calculated. “She’s your brother’s wife, Aemond. Not yours.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, haven’t you?” A hellish grin lights up Daemon’s face like the red flush of fever. “Tell me, how did it feel lying awake all those nights, staring up at the ceiling in your cold, lonely bed, knowing that your worthless brother was sinking himself into her again, and again, and again, and all that time he didn’t…even…appreciate it?”

Something breaks in Aemond, something cracks his atmosphere in two like lightning. He lunges at Daemon with his sword, roaring, swinging, stabbing. Their blades clang over and over again, shrieks of metal that echo through the Great Hall. The Duke of Hightower is bellowing, and Rhaenyra is screaming, and Alicent and Nico and all the children are too, everyone understanding that this could just as easily kill one as the other; Sir Criston is trying to help Aemond beat back Daemon, but the blows are so ferocious and swift that he has trouble keeping up with them. The Duke shouts for the guards and they flood in, a dozen men in full armor at last separating the two warriors like continents splitting apart. The king is rasping as he struggles to catch his breath. You are the only one who doesn’t make a sound. In your skull circles the same refrain like the ring of a full moon, like the cyclic chiming of bells: They did this to me. They did this to me. They did this to me.

In the midst of the chaos, the king lurches off his throne and collapses to the floor. Blacks and Greens alike descend upon him. Daemon cradles him in his arms, Alicent is sobbing, the Duke of Hightower is feeling the temperature of the king’s face and neck, Daeron is franticly trying to rouse him.

And even as he plummets into unconsciousness from which he will never recover, the king reaches only for Rhaenyra.

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader

[queenmarytudor]

Anyway, related to that ask, I hate how Mary being mistaken in her pregnancies is looked on as just part of her evil, dour persona. Like of course she was infertile, barren, when she was a teeth gnashing monster. When the reality is it must have been heartbreaking and humiliating.

Her mother had a false pregnancy with her first child, it’s speculated Anne Boleyn did, Marguerite of Navarre sister to the King of France had one… yet Mary’s is the most well known and instead of gaining sympathy for it people laugh and use it as another stick to beat her reputation with.

And it’s even more interesting when you compare it to her sister the successful “Virgin” queen who willingly chose not to have children.

[palecleverdoll]

Ages of English Queens at First Marriage

I have only included women whose birth dates and dates of marriage are known within at least 1-2 years, therefore, this is not a comprehensive list. For this reason, women such as Philippa of Hainault and Anne Boleyn have been omitted.

This list is composed of Queens of England when it was a sovereign state, prior to the Acts of Union in 1707. Using the youngest possible age for each woman, the average age at first marriage was 17.

Eadgifu (Edgiva/Ediva) of Kent, third and final wife of Edward the Elder: age 17 when she married in 919 CE

Ælfthryth (Alfrida/Elfrida), second wife of Edgar the Peaceful: age 19/20 when she married in 964/965 CE

Emma of Normandy, second wife of Æthelred the Unready: age 18 when she married in 1002 CE

Ælfgifu of Northampton, first wife of Cnut the Great: age 23/24 when she married in 1013/1014 CE

Edith of Wessex, wife of Edward the Confessor: age 20 when she married in 1045 CE

Matilda of Flanders, wife of William the Conqueror: age 20/21 when she married in 1031/1032 CE

Matilda of Scotland, first wife of Henry I: age 20 when she married in 1100 CE

Adeliza of Louvain, second wife of Henry I: age 18 when she married in 1121 CE

Matilda of Boulogne, wife of Stephen: age 20 when she married in 1125 CE

Empress Matilda, wife of Henry V, HRE, and later Geoffrey V of Anjou: age 12 when she married Henry in 1114 CE

Eleanor of Aquitaine, first wife of Louis VII of France and later Henry II of England: age 15 when she married Louis in 1137 CE

Isabella of Gloucester, first wife of John Lackland: age 15/16 when she married John in 1189 CE

Isabella of Angoulême, second wife of John Lackland: between the ages of 12-14 when she married John in 1200 CE

Eleanor of Provence, wife of Henry III: age 13 when she married Henry in 1236 CE

Eleanor of Castile, first wife of Edward I: age 13 when she married Edward in 1254 CE

Margaret of France, second wife of Edward I: age 20 when she married Edward in 1299 CE

Isabella of France, wife of Edward II: age 13 when she married Edward in 1308 CE

Anne of Bohemia, first wife of Richard II: age 16 when she married Richard in 1382 CE

Isabella of Valois, second wife of Richard II: age 6 when she married Richard in 1396 CE

Joanna of Navarre, wife of John IV of Brittany, second wife of Henry IV: age 18 when she married John in 1386 CE

Catherine of Valois, wife of Henry V: age 19 when she married Henry in 1420 CE

Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI: age 15 when she married Henry in 1445 CE

Elizabeth Woodville, wife of Sir John Grey and later Edward IV: age 15 when she married John in 1452 CE

Anne Neville, wife of Edward of Lancaster and later Richard III: age 14 when she married Edward in 1470 CE

Elizabeth of York, wife of Henry VII: age 20 when she married Henry in 1486 CE

Catherine of Aragon, wife of Arthur Tudor and later Henry VIII: age 15 when she married Arthur in 1501 CE

Jane Seymour, third wife of Henry VIII: age 24 when she married Henry in 1536 CE

Anne of Cleves, fourth wife of Henry VIII: age 25 when she married Henry in 1540 CE

Catherine Howard, fifth wife of Henry VIII: age 17 when she married Henry in 1540 CE

Jane Grey, wife of Guildford Dudley: age 16/17 when she married Guildford in 1553 CE

Mary I, wife of Philip II of Spain: age 38 when she married Philip in 1554 CE

Anne of Denmark, wife of James VI & I: age 15 when she married James in 1589 CE

Henrietta Maria of France, wife of Charles I: age 16 when she married Charles in 1625 CE

Catherine of Braganza, wife of Charles II: age 24 when she married Charles in 1662 CE

Anne Hyde, first wife of James II & VII: age 23 when she married James in 1660 CE

Mary of Modena, second wife of James II & VII: age 15 when she married James in 1673 CE

Mary II of England, wife of William III: age 15 when she married William in 1677 CE

#history #english #tudor #medieval #stuart #plantagenet

[garadinervi]

Jennifer Morla, Jim Campbell and Marie Navarre: Unforeseeable Memories, (offset lithograph on white wove paper), 1995 [Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, New York, NY]

#graphic design #typography #art #visual writing #pattern #exhibition #poster #jennifer morla #jim campbell #marie navarre #cooper hewitt #smithsonian design museum #1990s

[mihrsuri]

JOAN.

Dauphine of France. Princess of Scotland. Princess of Albion. Queen Regnant of Scotland. Queen of England. The Half Breed Heathens Whore Of A Wife. My Darling Wise Thistle. Little Wise Eyed. Jeanne.

Though Joan’s father died not six months after her birth his love for her was remarked upon - indeed it was said that he could hardly bear to be apart from her. His death was something her mother Mary never recovered from despite two subsequent marriages and the reminder of him in her black haired and grey eyed daughter seems to have been a mixture of grief and solace to her. Joan proved to be a serious child - interested in books, archery and riding but with a keen talent for music she was included in and educated in rulership from a young age, particularly by her paternal grandmother who remarked that she saw ‘very much of Marguerite of Navarre in her’ she was excellent at politics, at rulership and in her concern and interest in the lives of all her people but she was not warm and nor did she have the charisma and ability to draw the eye of her mother, something that drew unfavourable comparisons. Her marriage was made out of pragmatism on her part and no one was more surprised than Joan when it turned into love.

(inspired in part by this edit by @emilykaldwen (ABBY MY BELOVED))

#lil and her ridiculous aus #ot3: political power trio #au: golden world #pending graphic tag #lils edits #this is who thomas and mihrimahs oldest son marries #it really is arranged marriage to lovers #turhan has a really difficult time because Living Up To His Parents #(not that his parents aren’t great parents they are) #(it’s just living up to them is…FUCK) #Joan has to wrestle with the fact that people look to her more than her mother but also absolutely compare her to her mother negatively #tudorsedit #herawell #also joans mothers life choices #(mqos does have way less terrible men in her life i think) #(but also she and joan do really struggle to connect and understand each other) #turhan struggles with being the heir of rulers who live up to their legends (positive for both) as rulers and people and then some #and also turhan really follows his mothers faith and takes after his maternal grandfathers family in appearance #and while England by the time of his reign is Different And Better #people are going to people even in this kindest possible world #and in some ways without thomas and mihrimah he has to be like #what is a legacy dot gif #tudors ot3 verse reference

[whencyclopedia]

Ten Women of the Protestant Reformation

Women played a vital role in the Protestant Reformation (1517-1648) not only by supporting the major reformers as wives but also through their own literary and political influence. Their contributions were largely marginalized in the past, but modern-day scholarship has highlighted women's roles and established their importance in spreading the reformed vision of Christianity.

Prior to the Reformation, the lives of women were ordered by the Catholic Church, the patriarchal nobility, and their husbands or sons. Women in the Middle Ages held jobs and some even assumed control of the family business after their husbands' death, but their opportunities were still limited, with rare exceptions, to becoming a wife and mother or a nun. After the Reformation began, women found new freedoms – as well as uncertain futures – as monasteries and nunneries were closed, eliminating the option of monastic life, while also allowing women who had been forced to become nuns to now choose their own path.

The Reformation affected women's lives throughout Europe and beyond and, as it was not a cohesive movement, different Protestant sects regarded women in different ways. The followers of Martin Luther (l. 1483-1546) believed that a woman's place was in the home, caring for the children, and those who supported the views of Huldrych Zwingli (l. 1484-1531) felt likewise, while the Anabaptists, who had emerged as their own sect from Zwingli's reforms, elevated women's status to positions of authority as ministers and prophets.

Even within more restrictive Protestant sects, however, women still found they had more of a voice and greater opportunities than before. Luther's wife, Katharina von Bora, was a former nun who married, raised children, brewed her own beer, and ran a farm, while Katharina Schutz, wife of reformer Michael Zell (d. 1548), became far more famous than her husband for her written works. The Protestant Reformation encouraged literacy because, no matter the sect, the new teaching emphasized the importance of reading the Bible for oneself, and so girls were now allowed an education whereas, previously, educating women was considered a waste of time.

Ten Women of the Reformation

The ten women on this list are only a very small sampling of the many who contributed to the Reformation and are mainly drawn from the Lutheran and Reformed sects as their lives are among the best documented:

Katharina von Bora (l. 1499-1552)

Argula von Grumbach (l. 1490 to c. 1564)

Anna Reinhart (l. c. 1484-1538)

Katharina Schutz (l. 1497-1562)

Marguerite de Navarre (l. 1492-1549)

Marie Dentiere (l. c. 1495-1561)

Katharina von Zimmern (l. 1478-1547)

Jeanne d'Albret (Joan III of Navarre, l. 1528-1572)

Anna Adischwyler (l. c. 1504-1564)

Olympia Fulvia Morata (l. 1526-1555)

These women did not suffer as greatly as many others who took a stand for their religious convictions but often endured hardships for their faith, refusing to compromise, even when doing so would have made their lives easier.

Continue reading...

#History #ArgulavonGrumbach #HuldrychZwingli #KatharinavonBora #WHE #[ #]

[inky-duchess]

Besides Portugal and the Spanish Netherlands, exactly which other parts of Europe did the Spanish Empire control? The websites I've looked at so far either aren't specific or they aren't specific enough (ex: saying that Spain controlled Milan at one point and then saying it controlled parts of Germany, but not saying which parts).

Portugal, Belgium, Luxembourg, Holland, Naples, Spain, parts of France for a time (Through Mary I), England (Through Mary I), Jerusalem, both Sicilies, Austria, Burgundy, Milan, Brabant, Habsburg, Flanders, Tyrol, Athens, Neopatria, Roussillon, Cerdanya, Oristano, Goceano, Hungary, Dalmatia, Croatia, Navarre, Mallorca, Sardinia, Córdoba, Corsica, Murcia, Jaén, the Algarves, Algeciras, the Canary Islands, Bohemia, Silesia, Wuttemberg, Hesse-Kassel, Anhalt, Brandenburg, Savoy, Genoa

#ask answered

[une-sanz-pluis]

Henry VI once disguised himself as a servant to meet Margaret of Anjou? This is his family tradition? Oh, it feels very cute ...

That is a story reported by Raffaelo de Negra to Bianca Maria Visconti, Duchess of Milan in a letter written in 1458:

When the queen landed in England the king dressed himself as a squire, the Duke of Suffolk doing the same, and took her a letter which he said the King of England had written.While the queen read the letter the king took stock of her, saying that a woman may be seen very well when she reads a letter, and the queen never found out it was the king because she was so engrossed in reading the letter, and she never looked at the king in his squire’s dress, who remained on his knees all the time. After the king had gone the Duke of Suffolk said: ‘Most serene queen, what do you think of the squire who brought the letter?’ The queen replied: 'I did not notice him, as I was occupied in reading the letter he brought.’ The duke remarked: 'Most serene queen, the person dressed as a squire was the most serene King of England,’ and the queen was vexed at not having known it, because she had kept him on his knees.

There is no other source for this story. Many would say this feels out-of-character for Henry VI, though we have no idea what he was really like to know whether this was "in character" or not. Some historians noted that the story is very much in the vein of a chivalric romance and it might not have actually happened. Katherine J. Lewis suggested that the story represents a Lancastrian response to Yorkist narratives depicting Margaret of Anjou as a disobedient wife and adulteress and given we know Margaret was big fan of chivalric romances, there might be something in that.

There is no evidence of this being a family tradition. There were no stories of disguises about the first meeting of Henry VI's parents, Henry V and Catherine de Valois, on 2 June 1419 during peace negotiations. Nor was Henry IV said to have disguised to have met either of his two wives. The only surviving narrative of his first marriage, to Mary de Bohun, was Froissart's account of John of Gaunt (Henry IV's father) masterminding her abduction, while Henry IV almost certainly had already met Joan of Navarre long before they married. There are no narratives of Gaunt disguising himself for any of his three marriages. Edward III is known to have disguised himself to participate in jousts but not to meet with his future wife.

#henry vi #margaret of anjou #ask #anon

[dailyhistoryposts]

Elizabeth Mary of House Windsor

HER LIFE

Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom, Antigua and Barbuda, Australia, The Bahamas, Belize, Canada, Grenada, Jamaica, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Solomon Islands, and Tuvalu (all totalling about 151 million people) was perhaps the most known women in the world.

Elizabeth (1926-2022) was the first child of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. She and her sister, Margaret, were raised in the castle and privately educated, and were kept out of public eye for much of their childhood.

During World War II she began undertaking public duties, starting with making radio addresses and public appearances. She was appointed colonel of the Grenadier Guards in 1943 and honorary second subaltern of the Auxiliary Territorial Service in 1945. She was trained to work on car engines, though I cannot find any evidence that she performed any services beneficial to the war effort.

Elizabeth married Prince Philip of Greece and Denmark (self-styled Philip Mountbatten to emphasize his British heritage, he would renounce his Greek and Danish titles and convert to Anglicanism) in 1947, when she was 21 and he was 26, though they had met thirteen years previously. Philip was her second cousin once removed.

As her father's health declined in 1951, Elizabeth increasingly took center stage at public events. In 1952, following her father's death, she was proclaimed queen. From the end of WWII and around 1960, the globe saw the widespread decolonization from imperial powers such as Great Britain, most of which Elizabeth oversaw. Throughout her extensive rule, public favor on the Royal Family, and monarchy in general, decreased. Her family had a number of scandals, mostly with regards to love and marriages. Increased knowledge of the financial impacts of the Royal Family also caused increased Republican attitude, and a storm of sudden emergencies such as the climate crisis, the COVID-19 pandemic, and Brexit increased public distrust of governmental authority.

Reigning for over 70 years, Elizabeth II was the longest reigning British monarch in history and the second-longest reign of any monarch in history (following Louis XIV of France and Navarre, who reigned just over 72 years in the 17th and 18th centuries). She reigned alongside 15 prime ministers.

THE ROLE OF THE CROWN

The United Kingdom monarchy is a constitutional monarchy now headed by Charles III, her son. Their role in government is severely limited, and their duties are largely ceremonial, representational, and diplomatic. The elected Parliament is the functional head of UK government.

In reality, British royalty and nobility have an undue influence of domestic and international politics. The bicameral Parliament has two houses, the House Lords containing members of the Church of England and hereditary peers (dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts, barons. There are 808 hereditary peers in the United Kingdom).

The monarch, such as Elizabeth II or Charles III, has the role of Crown-in-Parliament (Queen-in-Parliament or King-in-Parliament) which acts with the advice and consent of the Parliament. The monarch does have the power to veto or refuse to sign laws passed by Parliament (withholding royal assent), remove the elected Prime Minister from power, or dissolve Parliament entirely.

In the judicial government, the monarch appoints the Justices of the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom, as well as the power to change the number of judges. The monarch also appoints most high offices of the state, is commander-in-chief of all military branches, ratifies treaties, and declares war.

Religiously, the monarch is the Head of the Church of England and appoints all bishops and archbishops,

The monarch also has significant political power in Commonwealth Nations. In Canada, for example, the appointed Governor General (currently Mary Simon, Inuit) has the power to veto any bill, call and dissolve Parliament, can offer judicial immunity and pardon, and can refuse the appointment of the Canadian Prime Minister. Much of foreign affairs, everything from wars, alliances, ambassadors, and even issuing passports, are powers of the Crown.

Much of political stability of the United Kingdom and the 14 Commonwealth Nations rests under the assumption that the monarch will never actually use any of the powers they have. Doing so would cause a Constitutional crisis and likely end with the immediate arrest of said monarch (most consider it a fair assumption the guard would side with Parliament over the Crown despite the Crown being in the legal right).

FACTS ABOUT THE ROYAL FAMILY

The Royal Family now includes 9 people (immediate family of King Charles III who carry out royal duties full time). The heir apparent to the throne in Prince William, Duke of Cornwall and Cambridge (b. 1982).

The monarch is not required to pay income tax, capital gains tax, or inheritance tax.

Either the Crown itself of members of the Royal Family own 24 royal residences.

In 2021, the Royal Family cost the British taxpayers 102.4million pounds.

The Royal Wedding of 2018 between Prince Harry and Meghan Markle cost about 34million pounds, of which 94% was paid from taxes.

In addition to using government money for personal use, the Royal Family has several streams of income, including the 86-million pound Sovereign Grant, millions of pounds from the Duchies of Cornwall and Lancaster, and other assets

The Crown holds hundreds of thousands of works of art, much of which is in private residencies or not on display.

The monarch is the only person in all of Scotland not required to use renewable energy in the construction of pipelines to heat buildings, after intense lobbying from the Crown's lawyers.

#history #queen elizabeth #king charles #elizabeth ii #charles iii