A wedding

[Oznerol]

"Omni deos omnipotentis..."

The lethany of latin prayers had long lingered in the air. The cold, chilling wind of November turned the abbey into a desolate place, with attendants wearing furry, thick clothes to cover and shield themselves from the hardships of winter. The golden effigy of Edward III, under the elaborate canopy, witnesses as two youngs are married. Lady Eleanor wears a splendid mantle, heavily embroidered and several meters long. Her gown is made of golden thread, her belt is jewelled and enamelled and the young Holland wears jewels worth several hundred pounds. Her hand, however, feels cold and fragile in Mortimer's hand. Lady Eleanor was rather short, but she had an inner strenght all the Hollands seemed to posses, some kind of recklessness that might have been inherited from their royal progenitors. The shimmering bishop officiated the ceremony with all due pomp. Eleanor didn't look afraid. She didn't even look nervous or agitated, she was there, kneeling before the altar by the side of a man she had known for years, for the better or for the worse. March was her husband, so be it, and she would make the best of it. Her hair, loose, covered her shoulders like a veil of gold. Her neck was exquisite, like chiseled in marble. Her shoulders shapely, the stomach, flat. The rings on her fingers feel cold to the touch of Mortimer, and she is more a statue than a woman in that instant, unwilling to show emotion and showing complete restrain.
The king attended, watching the ceremony from his throne, the chair of Edward the Confessor, wearing full regalia. The short earl of Kent nervously stands by his wife's side, moving in the spot with a slight unease. Alice looked a bit moved and she already held a perfumed linen cloth on her hand, readying herself for crying. The other Hollands, all of them, stand according to their rank, age and size, the first and foremost being Thomas Holland, earl of Surrey, by his wife's arm. Lady Constance of York, recently orphaned daughter of Edmund of Langley, was dashing by her husband's side; red-haired and cold-eyed, she certainly was of royal stock, in dire contrast with the shorter and swarthier Thomas, for hers was the blood of Castile and England. Surrey looked sour and constipated. Eleanor's siblings were in several states of excitement, but the youngest were mere toddlers held in their nurses' arms who were either bored, crying or sleeping.

The court had arranged itself to witness a ceremony everyone wanted and needed to attend, as the king himself was in attendance. The prayers raised and descended, covering everyone in a sort of slumber. Splendid or not, made for impress or not, a mass was still a mass and only the most pious were still following the lethany of the priests. The king himself watched everything with renewed zeal. The magnificent abbey was filled by the choirs, the prayers, the gold, the religious ecstasy, the ambitions fullfilled and the ambitions twarthed. For the best of the worst, Mortimer was now Holland's son-in-law.

[Gandalfus]

The Duke of Lancaster must have resembled an aged Cardinal, thinning grey hair covered by a scarlet chaperon, an equal shade of crimson to the robes that clung about his heels. Stony faced, he watched the ceremony in quiet smugness, surrounded by kin; next to him sat the Duchess, a regal and gracious as any monarch. Hereford and the newly created Somerset lingered somewhere close, as well as another newly wed couple: two of Richard's cousins, Philippa de Coucy and Henry Beaufort. They followed the structure of mass like muscle memory, having done this thousands of times previous. Though likely, none were as momentous an occasion as this. Gaunt regarded this as a statement of intent by Holland; showcasing his trophy as if it were some elephant on a leash. He would not be undone now.

[General Brewster]

His very first public appearance as the new Duke of York. Edward of Norwich wasn't but a month a Duke before he was expected to attend to this wedding. While he had been at some when he was a young lad, he hadn't since he was considered matured. He mimicked his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster in how to behave. He even claimed a seat near the duke, besides him. Not behind him, the display of power needed to be visible, how could the duke of York be considered less?

[Mary The Quene]

Ralph Neville who had been just created Earl of Westmorland arrives with his seventeen year old sister, Lady Elizabeth, to the wedding. It seemed to Ralph he had made an excellent choice in allying the Hollands in a marital alliance that is yet to come, if Mortimer is to be king then a Holland bride will be queen and that would prove beneficial for the Neville family, or so he hoped. Influence that could be used to contain that Percy rascal who undoubtedly disproves of Neville's rise in peerage secretly.

[Lucius Malfoy]

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, joins the celebrations in the union of House Mortimer and Holland. He had come with his own wife and his brother, Sir Thomas.

===================

Present for the wedding, among the Lancastrian party, was Henry Beaufort and his newly-minted bride, Lady Philippa de Coucy.

===================

Another guest arrived, an in-law of Lord Mortimer, the young John Hastings, Earl of Pembroke, who arrived with Roger's sister, Lady Philippa.

[Dirty Chai]

The betrothed two sat and knelt at the front of the congregation for most of the mass, which was long and stuffy.. extraneous, even. Hundreds of attendees sat behind both of them in their naves, each half of the flock apparently placed behind one of the two - Roger Mortimer was on the right side while Eleanor Holland sat on the left. A wide aisle separated them. The groom was younger than his fiancee, but immeasurably taller and darker haired. Those sat just behind him took note, in the unusually lengthy mass which lasted much more than just one hour, of how his locks of hair, though still hanging to his jawline, were very clearly just recently cut before the ceremony.

By the end of it all, Roger was numbed, listless in his seat, moving mindlessly from his knees to his seat and back again all through the hours. His eyes rested on a crest just above the choir's enclosure to the right - three lions, stacked on top of his each other, with red and blue. It was faded, old. The Earl of March wondered how old it really was. Incense wafted back and forth, hither and to, and the young man had apparently mastered the art of losing himself this array of sensations to forget himself and where he was - as a child, he'd stir restlessly, praying only for the liturgy to end quickly. Now, he just withdrew himself from it all, only pretending to be awake.

He felt himself come to a state of attention - a waking fugue - as the crowds began to finish filtering up to the altar to receive communion. Unusually, Roger and Eleanor would go last so that they might simply stay before the altar and continue on to their vows. This impending concept - if nothing else - brought the blinking Earl of March to glance across the aisle somewhat anxiously - though, there was no sight to be seen there of Eleanor, blocked by thick lines of nobles, a couple of whom glanced down at him crude but happy grins. He didn't return them, whoever they were.

There was some space between the end of this mass communion and the couple and, when they slowly and gracefully left their naves, they stood nearly alone in the aisle where they walked forward to kneel before the white altar covered with the purple colors of Advent. Candles colored in imperial colors - how were those made, one had to wonder - numbered along at the sides of the altar, enumerating the time until the annual birth of the Christ.

Roger Mortimer knelt then before the altar and, receiving the blood and wine of the messiah, felt his stomach twist into knots just as he swallowed the sacrament. Four statues sat on the rear flanks of the altar, bordering two doors which headed into the enclosed shrine of the Confessor - where Old King Edward was buried with his dead family members, including the late Duke of York now - and between those and just above the altar was a colorful triptych displaying the Christ supping with his disciples on his flanks. Roger's wide eyes stared straight at that poorly drawn figure and his pupils glanced at each of the statues, at the gilded features of the doors leading into the shrine. His thoughts were confused, anxiously thinking of anything except the coming reality.

So much so that it took the Archbishop three repeats of one particular line of the Roman tongue for Roger to join his betrothed in a standing position, awkwardly coming back to attention. A large cough echoed from the naves in the silence. The choir enclosure to the rear now blocked most of the congregation's view of the couple, but Roger still imagined their piercing eyes upon them.

The Earl of March repeated his vow, almost parroting what had been drilled into him over the last few days, no soul or interesting tone into it. He was still numb, his eyes silently watching the high prelate's hands move about. Again, he had to be given extra hints to turn onto his left side and face..

Golden and white, she was. Small. It struck him how .. petite.. she truly was. He wondered if it had been that long since he had been able to really look upon her at such a close quarters, that he had grown so much taller since she'd begun to ignore him. He became conscious of his heartbeat again and the numbness once again lifted - though only marginally. He almost stuttered as they both uttered their halves of the continued vows, and their hands were suddenly connected by the gloves of the archbishop. Wait, had he even said his vows?

He probably seemed utterly confused to Eleanor, he realized, and he smiled with amusement, for it was true. Only a pagan Lithuanian, of course, would be so crudely clueless here in the house of God. Of course.

There was a long pause as he just smiled at her and when the archbishop one again had to - with a tired look on his face - repeat himself, Roger realized it was time for him to lean forward and lay his lips on the woman.

"Ah," he uttered in almost a whisper, awkwardly, before hesitantly leaning forward. It was a moment that caused him to frown, curving his eyebrows, unsure of how to .. kiss her. She was so short; apparently he was as a giant? He found himself bending his back and his left leg had to bend and scoot his foot a bit backwards - his right hand used the little wall around the altar as a place to hold himself up as he leaned over and placed his lips upon her cheek.

This was all followed by a procession of events that led most of the congregation out into the courtyard, but a small handful (compared to the larger congregation) of individuals were shuffled into the shrine beyond the altar - where Edward the Confessor's great monolith of a tomb sat surrounded by the effigies of more recent kings and their sons, including Roger's grandfather, Lionel of Antwerp. The King, the Duke of Lancaster, and all those with acknowledged blood of the old king were let and led into this enclosure and awkward placement occurred where, after a series of prayers from everyone before the tombs of the confessor and then Richard's grandfather, the Earl of March was kneeling before the King in front of the altar of the saint.

Mortimer glanced up at the king with an unsure expression, still apparently numb to what was happening all around him. It was the first time ever being so close to the sovereign - of all things, he wondered if he was also taller than the king, if he was standing up rather than prostrating. His eyes caught sight of his brother Edmund beside some of the Hollands. Edmund seemed in awe. That struck Mortimer; he did not feel in awe. Why did the pomp and power of these ceremonies impress everyone but him? He had to admit that gold and light and incense inspired respect and reverence, but it was only ever the minimum from him. So he knelt there, unsure of why he had been made to do so, but it was likely it had something to do with.. Maturity? Titles? Probably. Fealty. What else would it be? he thought suddenly, chiding himself.

[Barry Goldwater]

The Duke of Ireland was in attendance with his wife, the Bohemian Agnes of Launcekrona. Both were garbed in appropriately splendid attire for the occasion and their rank, with Ireland's vermilion robes largely but not entirely covering the cloth-of-gold garments and white hose he wore beneath and his wife's blue dress making for a much lighter contrast. However, while Agnes was all gentle smiles, the Duke's lingering dysenteric pains (though far milder than what he had unfortunately grown used to) left his expression perpetually one of mild constipation and his attempts at a smile more accurately resembled a strained grimace. Among the Hedingham Castle staff, it was even rumored that the 'aftershocks' of Robert's battle with dysentery was what had rendered him unable to conceive a child with his doe-eyed wife this year.

[Xion]

Despite his disdain for overly extravagant events such as this, the Earl of Devon attends with his brother, cousin John de Courtenay, and their respective wives. While the rest of the Courtenays wear appropriately ornate and colored attire befitting the occassion, the Earl of Devon wears a black cloak over somberly colored attire, with minimal decoration. The Courtenays sit towards the back of the Cathedral, with the Earl and his brother attempting to keep up with the priest in prayers.

[Oznerol]

Eleanor welcomed his kiss unexpectedly, grabbing Roger's face with both hands and pulling herself forward to meet him midair with her lips. She later whispered into his ear:

"Vagrant, peasant, prince, Earl or whatever. You're a Lithuanian, and you're mine. Only"

Her finger followed his jawline. Softly. They walked towards the enclosure, where Eleanor stood several paces behind her husband, while he knelt. The king arrived, the long sleeves down the floor, lined with soft ermine, the tunic itself was made of golden thread and heavily embroidered, covered in chained and crowned harts. The wispy beard was oiled and finely cropped. The king smells of several perfumes, including some of exotic origin, most likely, made from amber and oriental spices. Roger has to kiss his hand, covered in rings, one of those being a signal ring with the arms of the realm. Richard was then handed the sword of state, in a jewelled scabbard, he unsheathed it.

"Roger de Mortimer, cousin mine, son of our noble cousin Philippa of Clarence and the mighty and noble Edmund de Mortimer, Countess and Earl of March and Ulster. Thou art welcomed into the peerage, thou art now considered a man, who camest of age and is now sound of mind and body. We grant thee all thine estates and earthly honors, thus, raise thyself as Earl of March and Earl of Ulster, Baron Wigmore, Baron Mortimer. Raise, thou who art our royal and noble cousin, raise and embrace us, after swearing to be loyal and faihtful, to remain a vassal of us and follow our lead. Lord Mortimer, swear that thou shalt be loyal, that you shalt offer us counsel and advice and support in times of war and peace, raise thee, Lord Mortimer, and embrace us"

Two servants then buckled the spurs on Mortimer's feet and a third fastened a golden belt around the earl's muscular and narrow wraist.

"And thou shalt be welcomed into the community of knighthood, thou shall wear spurs and swear to follow the codes of chivalry. Swear to be a good son of the Church and to defend the innocent, to be God's wrath and sword, to be pure and faithful. Raise, Lord Mortimer, as a knight. Thee art a Knight of the Bath. Raise, Sir Roger de Mortimer, Earl of March and Ulster, our cousin. Raise and embrace us"

Then, he touched Mortimer's shoulder plated and head with the sword. He did so as expected, as only in the most solemn ocasion, like this one, knights were named of the Bath.

[Dirty Chai]

The confirmed 4th Earl of March kissed the ringed hand and then recited a well-practiced oath in response to the king's words.

"I, Roger Mortimer, do so swear, to be true and faithful to mine liege and sovereign lord in times good and bad, in sickness or in health, to support him always as a true vassal and with just advice. To follow the honors and codes of chivalry, to defend the church and the innocent and the meek, to be thus virtuous.. these, I, Roger Mortimer, do so swear, with God and four kings to hold witness." There was one king, living before them, and three dead all about them: the Confessor, the old king, and the third Henry.

Roger Mortimer then rose to his feet, as bade by the king, and moved to formally embrace his liege. He awkwardly stepped forward with his hands out, unsure of how to embrace a king. He'd much rather be embracing Eleanor at this moment, alone, bereaved of their clothing; she had easily stirred an excitement in him with just a caress of her hands and a few whispered words. But alas.. soon enough.

[Oznerol]

Richard embraced him and kissed him on the mouth, as it was customary. The ceremony over, everyone leaves in orderly fashion, the king at the head of the comitive, alone and widowed, with the courtiers behind regarding precedence: Gaunt and Lady Katherine, that sweet woman, were first, followed by the duke of York, the newlyweds, the earl and countess of Kent, the duke of Exeter and everyone else who had attended the wedding. Everyone was to enjoy Mortimer's generosity at his London's residence, in a feast that Kent had paid for in March's name. The house had been lavishly decorated and furbished, with even the king in attendance to be entertained by Lord Mortimer for the first time in his life. Gifts were exchanged and the king presented March with a jewelled white hart badge to start with, followed by few noble Arabian horses and an illuminated book of hours brought from Paris. Afterwards, the feast could begin and various and expensive meals were brought, watered down by immense quantities of ale, wine and whatever their lordships wanted to pour down their throats. Also, Kent had arranged public banquets to be held in several places of the city, to celebrate the event, and one of the largest fountains in all London had been prepared to pour wine and ale instead of water. The dais was occuped by the king and the greatest peers, with a score of other nobles, great and small, in attendance of the royal persona. Fire raged on the large fireplace and everyone seemed to be enjoying the feast.

[Dirty Chai]

All while Roger sat with a smile, nodding and greeting those who came to congratulate the newlyweds, he wondered how much of his father's and mother's lands had been pilfered for such an affair. He honestly had no idea. With all the fuss over him as a child, especially from the Hollands and their mother, you would think such an affair as this would barely dent his pocket, but the Earl, just an hour ago given his adulthood, was skeptical of what he would find when he sets about seizing his estates from all the lords who had been sucking them dry for the past decade. New stewards for every single one.. He had not a single hint of how to manage this.

Roger glanced over at Eleanor after some young baron from Anglia stopped gibbering niceties, an unconvincing smile on his face. At the very least, he should enjoy this ceremony. He was young, as they say, but now also free, and even if the king sat above him, as if looking over his shoulder, this feast was in his home - though he did not even know for sure where his bed might be or how large the property was - and in he and Eleanor's honor..

Yes, he thought, I'll get drunk, as if it was a perfect solution to some conundrum. He started emptying a new goblet of ale, switching off of the wine and onto the dark drink of barley. He had every intention of subduing his worries and hesitations with drink. It seemed to work.

The king's gifts impressed him, of course; horses from across the sea, most of all. The primer book impressed him least of all, though he made a show of looking over the illuminated pages, colorful as they were - he could respect art, but he knew he'd probably never look at it again. Eleanor seemed to pray often, though, so perhaps it'd still get use. He also did not hesitate to pin the badge the king had given him right onto his tunic's breast, acting as if he'd wear it from then hence with pride. A white stag.. Roger knew it meant something, or thought it did, but he, once again, had no hint of an idea of what it could be.

The night was getting brighter, easier, more flowery. Hmm... had those flowers always been there, hanging from the ceiling in rafters? Laughter filled the room, too. But, he still did not feel at ease.

[Gandalfus]

"Congratulations." Somerset did as expected, mimicking the hundred other guests in paying the newlyweds the same mindless courtesy. It was ironic that this celebration of freedom also marked the application of the shackles of marriage, and he was quick to note that the Earl of March was quick to quaff down a hefty helping of ale. Nerves, maybe? It likely didn't help being the centre of attention; the tried and tested tactic of fading into the background being impossible here, sat in the centre of it all. Richard had turned this marriage into a public spectacle, almost, to convey some kind of message. Somerset had some idea what this all meant, and he suspected his father did too, for he was locked in hushed yet furious conversation with mother and Bolingbroke.

"How does it feel to be free, then?" A wry grin danced across Beaufort's face.

[Lucius Malfoy]

As the ceremony came to a close and the reception began, Lord Pembroke decided to approach his brother-in-law, who he had not had the privilege to meet. From afar, John could see the similarity in features between brother and sister, reflecting for a moment that his own daughter, cursed with clubfood, but blessed with a brilliance, or so the astrologer said, had some of those physical characteristics of the Mortimer blood. Lord Hastings approaches Mortimer, then notices the Earl of Somerset, the Duke of Lancaster's son, John Beaufort, was also making a move and offering his congratulations. John offers a smile to Roger.

Today is a fortunate today, Lord Mortimer. For today, you are married, as any man should be, yet I also am grateful to finally meet the brother of my wife.

Like Beaufort and Mortimer, Lord Hastings was around their age as well. He had yet to become a victim to the ravages of time.

I must say that your sister is most happy at Pembroke and has already given me a daughter, your niece, Anne Hastings.

He then turns to Lord Somerset, bowing his head.

And it is a pleasure to meet you, my Lord Somerset.

[Dirty Chai]

The groom leaned forward slightly as he turned from left to right, resting his left hand on his wife's knee - it had been resting there for a time, while his right hand usually held his cup, resting the forearm on the clothed table. He had a look of confusion first for the Earl of Somerset, at first not recognizing him - the male half of the new couple was obviously no longer sober.

Turning to his left to look upon a new voice altogether, his disorientation deepened and Roger Mortimer's mouth gaped open slightly for a moment, causing a momentary delay in his response.

"You're Pembroke, then," he said while pointing at him with his left hand, removing it from Eleanor's knee. He smiled suddenly, seemingly happy to put a face to the name. "And I have a niece?" Roger then quickly added, suddenly confused again.

Another long pause. Roger looked over at Beaufort with some look of bewilderment, before breaking out another smile, deeply amused.

"Come," he said with a gesture that caught both of them;
"Sit with us, Somerset, Pembroke. Beaufort, you must tell us how it feels to be an earl," the Earl of March said quite loudly, before drinking deep of more ale and resting his left hand back on Eleanor's knee - strange that, how it always found its way back there..

[Gandalfus]

Lancaster's son complied, offering a brief inclination of the head to the Earl of Pembroke before taking a seat alongside Mortimer and his wife, slightly amused at the Earl of March forgetting him in his drunkenness.

"I was hoping you'd be the one to tell me that." Somerset offered a flippant shrug. By virtue of birth, Somerset was important enough to call these men his peers, but in terms of income he figured he was perhaps he poorest Earl in England, a few hides of land when compared to Mortimer's vast estate. "Maybe Pembroke will know? We are both new to this, I suppose." Beaufort took another swig of ale, subscribing to the idea that the best way to deal with a drunk was to yourself become one.

[Dirty Chai]

@Gandalf & LM

Roger didn't know about any of that. There was no insight to pull from his brain on the matter of having estates, manors. He took more than just a mouthful of ale and wiped a drop from his chin. He hadn't seen even one of his estates since he was small child. The first thing he had done since being made a master of his own property was... start drinking.

While looking for a quick change to the conversation, an analogy occurred to him and he gestured about the hall of his manor, his hand finally leaving Eleanor's knee for good. "Look at this house. Does either of you know where the kitchens are here?" he asked, exaggerating his confusion while looking between Pembroke and Somerset.

"It is my own house; by two generations! And I know not even where in it we sleep!" He explained, we being he and Eleanor.
"That is how I feel, about being an earl," not to mention, apparently a prince.

A servant filled his cup with more of the dark ale without even asking him, knowing already.

---

@Oz and Cat

"Yes," Roger said, unconvincingly, turning to actually look at Neville. When did he get there? And how long had Eleanor been talking to him?

"Westmoreland is where?" he asked, visibly unsure. A half-full cup sat in his right hand. How many of these had he gulped down?

[Mary The Quene]

"Yes," Roger said, unconvincingly, turning to actually look at Neville. When did he get there? And how long had Eleanor been talking to him?

"Westmoreland is where?" he asked, visibly unsure. A half-full cup sat in his right hand. How many of these had he gulped down?

In the north, close to the Scottish border. Replied Westmorland while offering more wine for mortimer, as to make the boy even more drunk. Earl today, 'prince' today, marrying today, that is quite alot. Westmorland said. Perhaps one day King? Westmorland joked, his gaze subtly fixed at Eleanor, she did not care about mortimer he concluded.

[Lucius Malfoy]

John Hastings chuckles lightly as the two ask him how it feels to be an earl.

Hard to say really, I have only just begun administrating the lands of my father and grandfather. I would say that, the region that I hold land within His Majesty's Kingdom, can be difficult. A lot of sheep and grumbling Welshmen. They still don't appreciate English rule over their farms and hills. I suspect you two won't have any troubles like me; your families have ruled the lands you hold for many more generations than me.

Pembroke waves down a servant to get some wine, feeling his throat to be a little parched. He offers a smile before taking a sip from his cup.

In your cases, you have the natural talent from your ancestors to administrate lands, surely.

[Mary The Quene]

Congratulations, Lord Mortimer, now earl of Ulster and March, is it not? said Lord Westmorland in his drunkenness, the boy had just become a man and just got married. Lord Westmorland ofcourse had been Mortimer's ward for some while even if it felt more as a cash cow, that now ended unfortunately, the boy better prepare himself to be king, as the nevilles are now tied to the hollands by marriage through his own sister. Your wife is to your liking? he asked, Lord Westmorland bedding plenty of women himself.