notes; kathryn prescott is precious. so i might be in love with penelope.
and i'm in love with being queen
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Penelope was four— but would never amount to anything. Her mother died in childbirth, her father left her for war. Penelope was four when her father died; she remembers it. Prancing around with the other children in the village— she was the most beautiful, by far. Her fathers sister, a servant at the castle delivered her the news. Took her by the hand and dragged her to the kingdom looming in the distance—
Penelope was four when she was promised a life of being a servant. The Queen had permitted to see them— her aunt was high up and all, took one look at Penelope and sighed. "Alright then, she can stay but she must work." Apparently that was supposed to be considered a victory; it wasn't to Penelope who longed for the village and her friends.
The castle was dark, secrets hiding in it's walls. Royals played with toys Penelope had only ever dreamed of, dressed in gowns Penelope would often cry over— it wasn't fair! They had everything and yet Penelope had nothing. She was put to work as soon as she had come, working for the young Prince's. A bastard and a royal born, Sebastian and Francis; both ignored her, far too busy with their games than with some servant girl as Francis had snickered.
Penelope was four when her life had been ripped out of her grasp and thrown to the King and Queen of France who saw her as nothing more than a child they could exploit for labour. Happily, she played along as the rage and anger settled within her soul— she never grew cold, only waited for the day she could extract her revenge.
.
The bean Queen— she watched servants huddle around a cake, looking for the bean; they were celebrated as a Queen for a day once they found it. Penelope watched on the sidelines, too young to join in. That will be me, one day. Combing her hair with her fingers as she swept the floor; six years old and dreaming of more.
Her Aunt had received it; had dressed in royal attire and had ordered everyone she loved around. Penelope couldn't imagine doing that; treating those she loved with dirt. Her Aunt had come back in tears the next day, wearing servants clothes and cursing the day she had ever been brought to French court— she disappeared after that, into the shadows and the cells.
Penelope watched it happen every year, to each new servant Queen that was celebrated. A mess upon arriving back to the castles servants chambers. Disappearing within a few days— to god knows where. Penelope had watched from the sidelines with interest, dreaming more and more of the day where she could be dolled up in fancy dresses and dance with King. She didn't care for whatever consequences the next few days would offer because she would stay.
Stay and be Queen forever, get rid of the awful Catherine who wandered the halls ordering her around; just a child. Had she no sympathy? She never grew cold— just waited for the day she could extract her revenge.
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Mary arrived; a Queen from Scotland. The same age as Penelope was but she wasn't washing dishes or sweeping floors; she was chasing Francis and letting Queen Catherine do her hair. Mary was beautiful, (and everything Penelope would never be).
Mary overlooked her as she came into her chambers to dust her drawers— too busy hiding in cupboards and underneath beds so that Prince Francis would never be able to find her than to notice Penelope with her lackluster curls and her servants clothes. It was always Mary, Mary, Mary that she heard. The servants were in love with her, her rosy cheeks and her polite manners— oh isn't she adorable? One of the older ladies cooed.
What about Penelope? Penelope who was the same age as Mary but wasn't a Queen— just a servant in the castle who could only dream of being Queen for a day. Yet she watched from afar, as Mary ran up those stairs as Francis chased behind her; calling out her name as she ran, ran, ran. Penelope smiled, maybe one day they could be friends.
Mary ignored her, again and again. Even as the years grew and she began packing her bags to leave for a convent. Bid farewell to the other servants that dressed her and fed her but never Penelope who dusted her clothes and her room— just a child she was, the same age as Mary but rather invisible than a friend. She never grow cold, just waited for the day she could extract her revenge.
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Ladies dressed in gowns came and went, and Penelope grew older and wiser as she worked the castles walls. Secrets lay in ever corner, waiting to be discovered— for a girl like Penelope to trip and fall and land right in one, for Queen Catherine to say off with her head because knowledge was dangerous; but Penelope knew how to play dumb.
A girl like her was smart, had to be, if she wanted to survive. Penelope was just a servant— who cleaned and cooked and dreamed for the day she could be something more. She would be quite content with anything she was offered, one day she even gained the attention from Prince Francis himself. A wicked smile he had given her, had kissed her hand and murmured in her ear. Quite the charmer, the other ladies had whispered as she scrubbed dishes— he had paid attention to her! Penelope, Queen of Nothing— just another servant girl working the halls.
But as quickly as she had been noticed, she had been forgotten. Why aren't I good enough— whispered to sheets of silk and dresses of green. Another girl won the contest, and her cake had been left empty; no beans today. The slice had been rotten, anyway. Thrown against the wall; Penelope didn't deserve such finery. She was a poor girl, a servant girl. Nothing more— at least in the village she would of had a chance to be whatever she wanted to be. In these walls all she had a chance of being was a servant, which she was. A life sentence she had been given at age four.
Plotted and planned, Penelope was cunning too— she had watched Catherine for many years, studied everything she did. Maybe next year she would win, she washed another dress and did another girls hair who was excited for the upcoming ball! Penelope wasn't invited— she wasn't a royal. She never grew cold, just waited for the day she could extract her revenge.
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Mary, Queen of Scots— she had arrived, again. After many years. Penelope watched her from the shadows before retiring to her chambers. The little girl trapped inside of her sobbing; Francis would soon be wed, the boy she had never forgotten about. His kiss still stung her hand. She would once again be ignored by the Queen, Queen watched as Mary ran, and Bash was put up as the next King, as Francis married Mary— as everything happened right under her very watchful eye, and the King became ill and his mistresses stopped coming around and her heart leaped a little in her chest when she caught the King's eye. She had long since forgotten about Francis, much preferring the older men; the man who was King. He had power, position to put her in power. If only— she could always daydream about what she could and couldn't have. The annual Bean Queen came around, and her fingers fiddled around in the cake expecting to come up short with nothing; for her hopes to disappear. Instead she found a bean, a bean! She had won! She, Penelope, had won! She nearly cried as she was lifted up, celebrated! Her, a nobody, a servant girl from the age of four, was now suddenly being dressed in silk and ivory by Queen Catherine herself. The King was demanding her presence and his lips were pressed against hers— she didn't mind at all, she quite enjoyed the feel of them. Someone younger, perhaps, she would of preferred but nobody had kissed her before and he was the King of France— it was her time to take control, to extract the revenge she had always dreamed about as she had never grown cold. It was her time to be Queen. Queen Penelope, she quite liked the sound of it.