GROUPIE / 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬.

        The wind was weighted with the dampness of an impending rain, swirling atop Richmond Park’s sweeping hills, gathering up autumn leaves and debris in its humid swirls.  With the back of his hand, William wiped the slick lather from his forehead, swept aside the forelock bonded to his skin, and squinted as he glared ahead, the lush verdure of the greenwood meeting sharply with the leaden skies, a wroth arrangement of clouds skimming the top of the thicket of cedars.  He does not need to lift his head and sniff the air like a grizzled hound to know a storm beckons.  It was heralded across the heavens in shades of gray.  ‘I declare a truce, my lords.’  His strident whistle induces the attention of the small hunting party.  ‘You have all shown yourself worthy.  Let us all engorge on the spoils of the hunt.’   The merry cabal returned with: ‘a feast!’

William looked back at the palace, the wind clouting his cheek.  The great, white-marbled Richmond Palace, rambling along the banks of the Thames, stood mostly empty when the king’s court was lodged at Hampton, save for the attendants who sweetened the air and ensured the stained-glass sparkled in his absence.  Often the young king would set off to Richmond under the cloak of darkness, taking with him a select cabal of courtiers to regale him with the merry pastimes their betters looked down upon, forming a rich, skillful, lively little court of the king’s trusted few.

Wills’ eyes scanned the party, smirking impishly to himself as a Mistress Tilney – or was she another Stafford, full-figured, and lavishly kitted out? – met his eyes, her skin deepening to the richness of a pomegranate.  He choked down on a laugh as his lungs swelled with hearty cheer.  There was not a single, gray-bearded, insipid noble among them; but rather, beauty and wit all ‘round.  Rather like Arthur’s Roundtable, only cleverer, and more handsome – and far less virtuous. 

Mounted atop a jet-black Spanish jennet, the king himself cut an avid figure, veins sprung to his skin, muscles rippling beneath.  Like both his mother and father before him, he proved himself an exceptional hunter, making sport out of corralling the red stags that teemed in the Old Deer Park.  Yet as the rest of the court beat a retreat to the palace, their bloody takings strapped onto the back of their steeds, Lord Howard’s dark, honey-coloured eyes tempted Wills into yet another competition, and with a whistle, they made off to the track that looped around the perimeter of Richmond.  Neck and neck like kinsmen, and not merely king and subject, they galloped at such speed as not to be deterred by the wind, but flung into its current, as they blustered toward the waterhole bubbling up at the center of the greensward. 

The rains trickled upon them, boring through the canopy of the wilderness like arrows from the sky, sloping from the tree’s waxy leaves into the mop of Wills’ hair, blazing the hue of rust - so dark as to be considered more of a burnt auburn, than his natural copper - clouding his vision, collecting in his mouth.  Yet, when Lord Howard howls and grips his reins harshly enough that his horse should convulse to a violent halt, panting laboredly, Wills follows in suit.  Up ahead, she looms, the reason for their incredible crescendo: the umber-haired water nymph and her snow-white paltry perched on the banks of the pond.  

He recognizes her, as he would virtually anywhere, as Henry Percy’s sister.  Proud, pretty Elle brought so low?  How she had come to such a state, the king cannot fathom a guess – he knows only that she her teeth must clatter with the frigid cold, and by the wince distorting her countenance, he wagers she’s wrought injury upon herself.   Hotfooted, Wills dismounts, barking out a stern command.  ‘Go, Howard, go and find Doctor Billinglesy.   Have him come at once.  On my orders.’  A puddle of mud splashing beneath his horse, Lord Howard disappears into the mist without another word.  He would not have Henry Percy rain hell upon him for his sister catching her death in Wills’ care. 

Kneeling, the king places a comforting hand to Eleanor’s shoulder, looking at the lady silently - as if taking measure of her anguish.  He follows her gaze to the empurpled skin stretched taught about her ankle, twisted into an unnatural angle.  He is heartened by this: it was nothing that a tightly-wrapped linen and loafing could not fix.  A quiet chuckle escapes him as he gives a shake of his head, lips lowering into a sulky grin.  ‘When I said I wanted you to come hunting with us, I did not intend that you should be the wounded prey, ‘Perc.’ 

Though the Percy parents had hoped that Henry would grow into what they needed, Henry had not chased the friendship of William Tudor. The relationship, in fact, had come naturally. As boys they had played tennis, rode their horses and sparred in the training field with silly wooden swords. Indeed, Henry did not approach William as his King but more like his friend; perhaps even mirroring the famed friendship that had grown between Henry Tudor and Charles Brandon. 

The thing was, Henry didn’t recognise the power that came with such a companionship. Instead, he threw all of his might into the next swing of his arm, hitting the ball with the racket as the leather item flew towards and past the young King. “Ah!” Henry cried, laughing from the bottom of his belly like a boy who had witnessed his first win. “You must be quicker, Wills! Perhaps we should resort to badminton? I hear your sister is quite talented at it! It might be a family thing. .Badminton for the Tudor’s. Tennis for the Percy’s!”  @boleynrex​

        His hand is slick with sweat as it grips onto the racket.  Although he lunges to lob Henry Percy’s serve with one of his own, the ball springs past the net and soars over Wills’ shoulder, only narrowly out of reach.  Tossing the racket to the wayside, the king cries: ‘a rest! A rest, my lord Percy.’  Greedily drinking from the chalice of wine that is offered to him by a roving servant, scarlet liquid drips messily down the cleft of his chin, collecting in the white linen of his shirt.  ‘Count on it, I will not go as easy on you in the next round.  I suggest you catch your breath.’ With an impish wag of his brows, Wills wraps his arms around the sweaty, broad-shouldered Lord Percy, and gulps down another swig of wine.

Another flighty, young, mischievous lord pipes up: Perhaps His Majesty is distracted?  At that, Wills’ eyes motion to the gallery, scanning the young ladies perched thereabout: their virginal grins, cottoned with bashfulness, belied by the bosoms that nearly reach their chins, shoved up by whale bones stiffening their bodices.  ‘Perhaps I am distracted.  Maybe by your sister, Percy – since you seem to take such interest in mine?’

        A hiss lodges itself in William’s throat as his eyes rove over the lewd illustration, sketched onto the back of a dampened Penitence Paper: Queen Anne, his own mother, splayed on all fours, worshiping a serpent as her pregnant belly suspends beneath her.  He crumbles the paper and tosses it into the roaring hearth, the heady flames licking at his eyes, at his flesh, at the deep furrow stamped between his brows, the glower gamboling about his mouth.  ‘To hell with it,’ he commands, turning on the heel of his sable boot to face the Dowager.  ‘It is gone.  Uncle has dealt with it.  No doubt there will be a round of executions as soon as the culprits are apprehended.’  His conviction does not mask prevarication; no such arrests had yet been made.  ‘It will not be long now before the traitor’s blood is spilled.’

Conditions at court were frosty, tense, but the morning was hot.  Windy.  A gust of September air flutters through the uncurtained windows, attempting to snuff the fire.  William crosses the chamber to place a conciliatory hand at his mother’s arm, a compassionate tilt to his copper head.  In weather like this, if the papers had not fouled the atmosphere of court, the young king would be hunting; in the wealds beyond Richmond Palace, or traveling downland with his court to the charming countryside of Sussex, riding high on the late-summer airs, strumming virginals beneath a twinkling canopy of stars.  Surrounded by the Boleyns, the richest, most powerful family of England.  Even at her age, the Dowager would besot them all with her exaggeratedly French graces, her tales of excitement and peril.  ‘I beseech you to forget it, mother.’    

“yes, you are the future king of england. do as you please, your highness,” a mischievous grin played on her lips, her gaze never leaving his. “do as you please with me.” her words soft, almost a whisper like a secret that only they knew about, afraid to befall on the wrong ears. after all, who was she to disobey? she stood before her future sovereign who, although has yet to grasp at power, already has full control over her. hatfield house was a haven away from court and the intrigues with it. margery knew that as soon as they stepped out of this oasis, she will be nothing but a servant in his court. would it be wrong for her to enjoy moments like this even for a little bit? 

her hair shone like copper under the bright rays of the english sun, wisps dancing in the gentle breeze. she could hear him behind her, sometimes she would look over her shoulder and chuckle. “i am deeply offended by your accusations, your grace,” she feigned offense as turned around to face wills. “is there a reason why i am so convinced that you are willing to blame me for everything? if the sky were to fall, am i to take the blame too?” her brow perked up at her inquiry, walking backward as she spoke. “the only plausible solution i find to this issue is that i put a veil over my face to avoid being such a distraction to his grace.” shoulders lifted to shrug and another chuckle escaping the maiden’s lips. “—and i am sure lady ashely would be enthralled with that proposition.” margery could sense that the prince’s governess wasn’t very fond of her taking note of what wills said. she doesn’t blame her though. the future king of england should be inside completing his studies but he was here with her basking under the blazing sun because margery refused to lose in this little game of theirs. she will admit, there was some sort of satisfaction she got from his frustrations. inching closer only to be gone merely seconds after. 

“a husband?” the sides of margery’s lips twitched upwards, a ghost of a smile reflecting on it however she pursed her lips a little too quickly at the prince’s words, scoffing. “and why would lady ashley be interested in whom i marry or if i ever do marry?”

        There is certainly no secret as to where they are, now.  The barges that every so often flow down the river, brandishing English flags and the magnificent coat-of-arms of King Henry, remind him of the time as the hours rolled at full tilt toward midday.  Certainly, Elizabeth and her ladies would now be arranging themselves about the oak tables in the long halls of Hatfield, pouring wine and nibbling at dried plums, as Kat Ashley overlorded all, a scathing narrowness to her eyes as she accounted for two missing faces.  Yet, as Mistress Raleigh’s lips quirked into a menacing leer, and her lips parted with enchanting secrecy – it was all he could do to remind himself of her honour.  Bess would have his hide for looking at her this way, with conquest in his eyes.

‘You think a veil should fix our problems?’  He laughs at that, the sound a full-bodied, grandiose rumble.  ‘Not even a hideous wimple would do the trick.  It is not I you have to worry about, Mistress Raleigh, but the servants.  They would stop at nothing to unmask you.  I merely enjoy watching them strive and fail.’  The prince shakes his head at her, ‘no, a veil would not work – you have already shown me too much.  What good ever comes of forbidden fruit?’

Wills’ eyes rolled toward the heaven, stitched up with billows of ivory clouds.  ‘Don’t be daft, Maggie.’  The prince takes another step closer toward her, waiting for her to dash like a deer from his advances.  ‘Yes, a husband.  It would see you gone from Hatfield if you were wed, and she could easily claim the credit if you were wed handsomely.  That is, if Bess would ever give you leave from her service.’

Margery’s skirts rippled like water as she again glided away from him, all but floating in the swirls of the midsummer breeze.  Drifting to the sound of her own laughter, chiming over the lush parkland like a church bell, Wills wiped the leer off his face and sobered, a look of close attention affixed to his countenance.  In two equally agile strides, the prince was standing behind her, towering over his sister’s lady.  His hand moving to the sapphire pendant resting in the hollow at the base of her throat, it then swept past the square of her elegantly trimmed neckline, and then to her bodice, where his fingers splayed across her stomacher to steady her against him.  His fingertips graced the sides of her midriff, all but dwarfing her. 

anna moved but only when the king offered his hand to her. she looked up when her gentle hands touched his soft ones. they were so different from the men hand’s back home. they were always rough and callous. then again, the king had never been in battle, or none that she knew of. she wondered if that was why. she looked up to the king, her brown eyes meeting his own. and it was his scent she took in next, she was sure it had to do with the fresh air, but he smelt as though he was birthed from the earth, all earthy and sturdy.

she wondered next if this was the test, had her father sent her here not only to see how the court was but also in hopes of a match? she surely hoped not. she was catholic and a very devoted catholic. a rosary was in the pocket of her dress. and besides was he not to marry an english woman as his father did before him with anne? it took everything in anna’s power not to scrunch her nose at this new thought. she kept a smile on her face, one she had practiced over the years. she remembered spending moments smiling in the mirror, and putting wood between her teeth, in preparation for this moment or other’s where she needed to smile for hours. she looked to his arm, and nodded.  ❛ thank you, majesty, ❜ she reached out, placing her hand in the bench of his arm.  

her eyes wondered for a moment, taking in the court. there was just … something off she could not place. was it because people had not seen the dowager queen as … queen? the english court felt cold, and she shivered at the realization.  ❛ you are far too kind, everyone here at court has been nothing but respectful and welcoming since we landed. i do apologize for not introducing myself sooner, it was the first time i had been at sea. my legs had to once again get used to the steadiness of land once more.  ❜

         A passable smile came to plant upon Wills’ lips as the princess took the arm he offered and began to walk beside him, keeping a steady pace.  Though her gaze was averted from him, the king relaxed a touch, finding Anna’s manner to be both modest and kindly – the very image of the dutiful Catholic princess his council pushed him to flatter with goodwill.  He recognized no threat in her and was confident that by the time she departed England, the Princess could be considered a viable ally - if not an attractive prospect of peace.  ‘The journey from Calais is a short but grisly one,’ he uttered, looking toward the princess for any hint of concord.  Impassively, Wills remarked, ‘it is one of many reasons I avoid visiting France at all costs.’  As a light breeze fluttered the king’s fur-lined collar, he made a nod toward a passing courtier who made a grand display of respect to the pair before bustling past in a trice. 

the gardens reminded margery of coughton court greatly. how long has it been? months? a year? since she left her home to become one of the princess’ ladies. the only difference was that the gardens here were well maintained compared to the ones at home. after all, hatfield house was the current home to the king’s children. she did not find it hard to get along with them either — which she was thankful for. she found a dear friend in elizabeth and…also a friend in william? she did not know what else to describe him. a friend. yes, that. because friends laugh and make merriment and that was what he did to her. made her laugh and made her happy where for even a brief moment she forgot about the rest of the world. he gave her this warm feeling that she did not know or would even dare to describe. friends did that too, right? 

margery’s chest heaved as she avoided his grasp. it was a little game they liked to play. tiny beads of sweat decorated her forehead but she was determined to win, her pride simply would not let her lose. her shrieks and giggles echo throughout the garden, moving swiftly as her feet could take her. the side of her lips tugged up tauntingly, watching him from across the fountain, waiting for his next move. 

“does my presence affect you that much, your grace? am i to retreat back into the cottage now then?” margery couldn’t help but chuckle. the auburn headed female walked around the fountain however her blue hues maintained on the prince. she approached but not too close, not within his reach. “Hadn’t you have better things to do than chasing your sister’s lady in the garden, your grace?” margery took another step closer, obviously teasing william with her sweet smile, before taking off once more. and now the game resumes. 

–

         Margery’s retort chased away the furrow of reproach huddled between Wills’ brows.  It would take only two brisk strides and a yank at her hood for him to close in on her, heave the lady to his chest, and declare himself victor; but he rather liked the thrill of the chase.  He was the son of a king who’d waited six wearisome years to make Anne Boleyn his queen, after all – he could very well bide his time.  Without breaking their fixed stare, Wills’ gaze lowers as she approaches him, her light eyes forming liquid pools of liveliness.  His lips quirk into a gleam.  ‘I am your future king.  I could command you as I see fit, and your mistress too.’

Sir Raleigh’s daughter never looked more pleasing than when springtime was in bloom, when her red mane contrasted sharply against the world’s bursting greenness.  Everywhere about Hatfield, the world was fresh and promising; the eaglets soaring above the cottage’s bricked domes whistled with songs of exploration, whilst the vibrant koi in the ponds leapt into the air with frisk delirium.  The world was on the cusp of rebirth and Wills relished it.  Impetuously, he reached a hand to cup Margery’s cheek, brushing away the auburn strands of hair that had escaped from her headdress, studying intently the warmth that sprung to her cheeks as the pad of his thumb gamboled across her flesh.  ‘Is it true that you find distracting me from my studies amusing?’  He asked.  ‘I could have been a Cambridge scholar if it wasn’t for you.’  

anna was frightened . it was her first official day at the english court . she had arrived just days before but had reserved for her to get her land legs back after a short but turbulent sail across the channel to the small island. it was now her third day , she was bathed, dressed and her hair done. she had eaten a small meal in her chambers , and now ? she was stalling . she kept her eyes on herself , picking at every detail . her hair ? the color of her dress ? should she pinch her cheeks once more ? it was over ten minutes later when her lady had to take her arm and get her out to the gardens , where the king was rumored to be for the day . 

she kept her hands within her lady’s the whole way . she was almost sure her lady’s hand was white because she knew she was squeezing the other’s hand far too tightly . before they crossed over the hedge’s threshold she stopped , closing her eyes for a moment and saying a prayer to the god above . and then her foot crossed over to the lawn . 

her smile was on display , her nerves no longer on her face but in her chest . she bent her leg to those who out ranked her , and nodded at those who bent their knee to her . her first thought it was colder here , she almost wished she had brought a shaw . 

she stopped , hearing the words majesty . she listened , surprised . was the king not right in front of them ? anna had spent hours looking at the portraits of those who were the most important in the king’s court . she felt a second hand embarrassment for the man . and thanked god it was not her ambassador fore she would have unpleasant words for them .

❛ your majesty , ❜ anna said , bending her knee until it touched the grass .  ❛ you are most gracious and kind to allow me and some of my court to come to your court and stay .  ❜ and then she wondered why she was here and not her brother , the crowned prince . or was it too … risky ? but anna casted those thoughts out of her head , her eyes trained on the king’s feet , waiting for him to allow her to stand once more . 

–

        Wills was jubilant.  As the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor made a grand and marvelous bow to him, a beam bursted upon his reddened lips and self-satisfaction struck his core.  He raised a hand to Anna, drawing her upward with a slant still stuck to his lips that faded into regal solemnity.  ‘Rise, Princess Anna,’ he commanded, ‘you are most welcome here in England.’  He looked to the covey of courtiers behind her, soberly clad gentlemen of the Emperor’s choosing integrated with dazzlingly adorned ladies of honour.  A nerve at Wills’ jaw fluttered as his gaze returned to Anna.  

He was pleased by her deference, extraordinarily so.  Decades prior the Lady Mary need only utter the word and Emperor Charles’ great militia might have mustered a battle against England over the King’s Great Matter.  Wills stared fiercely ahead, mulling over the importance of having Anna recognize him as king.  The concubine, as Chapuys had regarded Anne Boleyn, had done well for herself - hadn’t she?  Establishing a prince of her own blood upon the throne?  Magnanimously, after foisting such thoughts to the wayside, he entreated, ‘come, walk with me.  I regret we did not speak when you arrived at court, but I trust your travels were tolerable, and your lodgings here at Hampton to your liking?’

It was a startling thing to hear.  All eyes rounded upon the fellow, before slowly tracing their way back to William.  It was not easy to guess what the king would say, but what he might fell was plain enough and it could hardly go unnoticed.  A collective breath was held, waiting to see the result.

Standing behind the ambassador, Col slid his gaze back towards his cousin, eyes narrowing.  Meeting William’s eye, he arched his brows, half-invitingly, before shaking his head and looking back to the unfortunate ambassador as he did his best to suppress a chuckle.  

Hearing William’s retort, he laughed aloud and clapped the clueless ambassador on the back.  “How does it feel to have endangered Spain?” he jested to the befuddled fellow as he passed, falling into step with his king, at last.

“I believe it agreed with one or two of the Roman Emperors,” laughed Col.  “But I daresay you’ll be needed here to listen to that man’s excuses just as soon as he realizes who you are.  Though, I do hear the stage is a starving profession,” quipped Col.  “Should you decide on a fall back path, no doubt they’d be grateful of any contribution.”

There was an ironic twang to his sense of humor, but his eyes danced.  It would be wrong to think that Col did not love his cousin, for he did.  William was his oldest and dearest friend.  But he had loved his father as well and it was proving a difficult thing to know that one was responsible for the loss of the other.  But, then, if it had not gone that way, Col reminded himself, his father might have – even if inadvertently – become responsible for the loss of William.  There was no easy path here: that much was certain.

Pushing these thoughts aside, he clapped his hands behind his back and quirked a brow at William.  “Well, now that we stand upon the brink of humiliating an unwitting ambassador, I would say all noble duties are fully seen to,” he laughed.  “Which means that I think we may attend to the evening’s entertainments as such.  What news of the north?  Walsingham is reporting fireworks, hm?  But I must know, for all these protestations, who managed to garner real favor…and,” he added with a touch of wicked humor.  “Who lost it?”

       It was good to have Nicholas Courtenay, the king’s cousin by blood, amongst those gathered at Hampton - where the Boleyns trusted him only so far as they could throw him.  Wills, relishing to be gracious and enjoying even more to be seen as gracious, clasped his straw-haired cousin by the shoulder and brought him squarely to his side.  ‘Now, now, Col,’ the king guffawed, disregarding the numerous sets of eyes scrutinizing the pairs’ roughhousing as they tripped down the park.  ‘It was my father who the poets called the English Nero, not I.  Certainly I am more of a Charlemagne, only taller and more attractive?’

Despite the gray weather, Wills was glad of the fresh air - and affable company - as his courtiers lined up in pairs of two and followed the young king’s fattening entourage.  He’d grown accustomed to the constant stream of petitioners on his heel, though never less unnerved.  Mercifully, the great and sprawling Hampton, the palace his father’s once treasured Wolsey had gifted him in an extravagant deed of loyalty, gave them something else - something other than his person - to gawk and marvel at.

Wills cocked his head, and in a lower voice uttered: ‘the news of the north can wait, dear cousin, until this evening.  My reenactment of those barbaric villages is improved by the drink.’  As he glanced sidelong at the Earl, Wills swallowed.  He’d doubted whether or not the relationship between them could be as it were ere, for the knelling of Hugh Courtenay’s beheading had rippled across England a forbidding presage for the Tudor’s male relatives.  Yet their conflict, in the eyes of the king, had appeared to be long forgotten.  Uncle George would never believe him, having always regarded Col with an uneasy contempt, but he would have to bear it.  Wills was even of a mind to advance him to his council - it needed strumming up by way of young blood, and who better than a friend?  

Hatfield, c. 1552

         The eighteen year-old Prince of Wales cut an impressive figure - tall, limber, and coltish - as he darted, covert, into the sunlit garden.  He was not so stealthy that the imperious Kat Ashley, observing from the oriel windows, did not observe him skirting around the lush Hatfield arbour, but then, Kat had eyes and ears everywhere.  He’d already made the decision to reward her silence when he was king.  Panting, and with the august sun baking on his skin, Wills halted.  Looking about the maze of hedges, speckled with Tudor roses, he crept inward like a fox after a hare - with eyes slanted, and blood surging. 

As swiftly as quicksilver, a scarlet head rose above the bushes and, just as quickly as it appeared, it descended beneath the foliage, skirts rustling in the tall grass.  I would have her, he vowed, and make her beg my forgiveness for taunting me.  As she watched on from the splendid Hatfield House, Kat pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving grimace and swept away into the manor’s red-brick depths.  Wills balled his hands into fist and marched onward, blissfully unaware of the rivulets of reproachful prayers - prayers for patience, for fortitude - that Kat Ashley was now uttering as she waltzed past the royal nursery. 

Snatching at the hem of Margery’s bodice, he heaved her toward his chest, and roared with a preemptive victory.  Alas.  The fabric had instantly given way, shredding from her fine gown, and like water betwixt his fingers, she slipped past him.  Nymph-like, she tripped toward the ornate fountain sprouting from the crux of the garden.  Wills regarded her with a hard glare.  ‘Hadn’t you better be with Bess right now?’ He teased, ‘or did she command you to antagonize me?’

“Your Grace, could you please kindly ask the King of Hearts for me if he’s still upset that I sacrificed him so brutally? Warn him of such wicked collectors as I, so he’ll be wiser next time. Console him, and in return I’m positive he’ll comfort your loss after this game.” Damnit- she swallowed down a curse she as the king placed his card upon the table. This eve rolled on near lazily slow until darkness cloaked the court in a low-hum comfort; though a select echelon of courtiers drawled about the princess’ quarters in fading buzz. And yet, all the countless tasks bequeathed unto the crimson princess’ more spritely - albeit at times delinquent- lady-in-waiting, Eleanor Percy was fated to roll up her sleeves, prop her elbows against her very own battlefield card table as though she envisioned herself a general, and try her very best not to rally too competitive, too vengeful, against her very own king.  This task was proving difficult to maintain coy decorum- for the lady had a penchant for envisioning even the mundane as thrilling as a true adventure. Thus, their game commenced, a scene was set, and - though her mother would surely bemoan as shrill as a cathedral-bell over her daughter’s lack of grace,  Eleanor preferred preferred to provoke her worthy opponent for the evening Where gold-dripped Tudor dynasty didn’t feel in such proximity when his slanted grin matched her own, hidden behind thin and malleable cards.  A far cry from the throngs of courtiers who would surely rise and fall at his feet like a riptide wave come morning.  No, tonight, he was going to lose, she would wager her hand painted  Book of Hours on the challenge. 

Thus, she tuned out any eyes that lingered on the pair. She set the scene for their battle fair enough- Eleanor’s dark-jetted brows faintly curved in mischief, her sharpened dark  gaze  occasionally flashing over her hand of cards, dancing to meet her competitor’s. Attempting to anticipate his hidden weaponry, how she should arm herself. Her hand - the very same hand that stole her father’s ring  and wore it proudly across her thumb’s knuckle- swayed, traversed across the table as though it were dodging slow-roaming cannon fire, towards the card the king had played, crossing enemy lines. “’A king’s heart in this deck are curled, too sought out  by many hands… far from the most desired card. “ she nods to the deck upturned between them, “No, you see, the spade is far more enticing card to possess.” She sighed, leaning in as though she were divulging a secret between a friend. “True, subtle weaponry, spades. Sharp-edged, if you wield it, you reap your own benefit. A worthy collection to use and thrive, where hearts of all kinds- jacks, queens, kings… are conquered by a rogue Ace of Spades.” 

Pausing, she leaned back in her seat, the ghost of a smile still bouncing gently as she muttered, “It would only be fair to warn you now… the games I play with a worthy opponent involve a bit of real risk. When you sit at my table-for only the bold do on a night as this- you’re required to make a bet. So, are you brave enough to up the ante? Winner decides the loser’s favour?“

           With Elizabeth retired to her chambers, an entirely different atmosphere to the one she fastidiously maintained took root.  His sisters’ gaggle of attendants were the creme de la creme of court, high-born women whose families were in lofty esteem with the crown, rivaled only by those employed by Queen Anne.  Tonight their positions of prominence were belabored with the lavishing of the gentlemen’s attentions - gentlemen of the king’s choosing, those capricious, often low-born men who proved either useful or utterly bemusing.  Looking about the room, William’s favourites were palpably delighted by the ladies’ company, forbidden fruit as they were.  Elizabeth would have his hide if they comported themselves untowardly, but then she would come to expect it of Wills’ countrymen, full of vim and vigour as they were.  He might dissuade them, if it were not so droll.

The vinous smell of the room did nothing to dampen their flattery, as the burning hearth coaxed vibrant flushes in the women’s cheeks - stretching down the column of their throats into the pasty mounds of their chests - as they leaned forth with coquettishness.  Wills bit down upon a grin as noticed his own cousin, a Courtenay, paw at a woman he recognized from Hatfield.  Certainly he would merit the lady’s father’s wrath upon the morrow for attempting - albeit failing - to compromise her widely renowned virtue. Even Wills flouted the opportunity to try. 

To some, the late King Henry had been a tyrant - to others, he was an assiduous and goodly prince, leaving to his son a vast and prostrated kingdom crowded with the finest peers and most virtuous ladies in Europe, such as those seated about him.  It was birthright that brought the Howards and Dudleys to favour, yet, ironically, William seldom felt more at ease than with the common raffle, or those brave enough to regard him as he was - a mere man.  He found such company in few, but amply in Eleanor Percy.  Her noble breeding belied her grounded character, for she spoke with a naïveté that evoked Wills’ acclaim and surprised even he into vocal submission.  His eyes blazed black with amusement, the king was quite easily lured into a playfulness that George Boleyn had done his utmost to clout out of him.

Wills’ reddish brows crumpled as she foisted an Ace of Spades at him.  He had miscalculated - but not to the extent she believed - and glanced back to Eleanor with feigned devastation.  A hand wafted over the king’s beating heart in mock reproach.  ‘Don’t you love your king, Mistress Eleanor?  You wound me, and forget that if I win or lose, I am your king.  I may command you as I see fit.  But air your terms, if you wish.’

He then considered his deck of cards in earnest, apparently disgruntled.  ‘You should know that I never wish to be fooled.’  Selecting a few from the stack, he pushed a velvet purse to the middle of the table.  ‘I do not wish to win because I am king...’  Wills trailed off, revealing a trio of cards.  A royal flush indeed.  ‘But because I have the best hand in the country.’  At that, his face cleaved into a rather kingly gleam, self-satisfied and punchy.  

𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗 for @boleynrex

“Well, Your Majesty,” began Tom, glancing thoughtfully out the window.  “It’s all quite underway, now.”

Below, a continuous stream of people marched like ants across Hampton’s broad courtyard.  Horses tossed their heads, dragging heavy carts, and liveried servants skipped in and out of the line, bearing packages and stabling steeds in a flurry of activity.  They’ll sleep well tonight, he mused absently, arms crossed over his chest.

“What do you suppose your guests will make of it all?”  He meant, of course, the foreign royalty moreso than anyone else in particular, though in theory everyone there was a guest of the King’s.  “Of course, they all have courts of their own, I suppose, but I think it a most impressive array.  I’ve little doubt favorable messages will be scattering across Christendom in no time.”

This is one of the most beautiful palaces in the world, he thought with a beam of pride.  How could they be otherwise than impressed?

After all, no expense had been spared and the gorgeous palace was done up to the greatest degree it had perhaps ever been – a thing impressive, in and of itself – but, for all his learning, Tom was a country boy.  What did he know of impressing foreign dignitaries?  His brief efforts in France had proved effective enough, but he had also found himself glad to be home again.  Working behind the scenes, he found, suited him much better.

“But, then,” he added with a quirk of his lips.  “We’ll know for sure, soon enough.”  There was scarcely a letter that passed through the premesis that did not fall under Tom’s attentive eye.  He would pay special attention to all foreign correspondance.  “Would you like to see those missives, yourself, Your Majesty?”

         It’s all quite underway now, remarked Tom.  And yet, with each day, assurance that his rule was secure was being pared away, slithering through his fingers like silk.  The Lady Mary - nay, Queen Mary - had once again refuted his gracious invitations to attend him at court.  The French despised him.  The Pope branded him the son of a bloodstained lecher.  God forbid his own people should recognize the Dowager’s august place by his side, but instead they reviled her, and by extend their powerful king, with antagonism from an earlier age - one William no longer had the patience to make amends for.  Katherine was dead and had been for decades.  There was no other Queen of England but Anne, and no other church but the one William defended.  ‘It is, Walsingham,’  the king echoed, momentarily solemn: ‘it is.’ 

It had only been some months since his uncle George vacated his position as Lord Protector, albeit his absence was felt like a void in the belly.  William now ruled alone, and would be blamed for every opposition in the court, each famine in the country.  Yet he had always felt an entitlement to speak plainly to Walsingham - with or without Uncle George’s hearty recommendations - who was more than an advisor, but a friend.  William titled his head upward, scrutinizing the modesty of Thomas’ dress.  In a way, the king did not begrudge him this, though he preferred members of his council to attire themselves splendidly, befitting of their rank.  Thomas was open-hearted in all manner, and Wills had allowed it.  ‘If Hampton does not impress them, then only heaven will.  My palaces are the greatest in all Christendom, are they not, Tom?  I will have no one utter to the contrary, or I am certain they can find more comfortable lodgings down east, at the Tower.’  Wills smirked, a flash of boyhood trekking across his countenance.  ‘Jests, dear Tom. Worry not - we have already intercepted French correspondence lauding our dear Surrey.  Soon the world over will choke on their enmity.’

        ‘His Majesty is either a great coward, or a terrible shot. Why else would he neglect to attend a tournament held in his honour?’ 

With a crossbow still looped between his fingers, William’s brows arched into his hairline, shamelessly sniggering at the Spanish ambassador.  Don de la Quadra, whose sea-sickness had prevented him from being presented to the King of England, had plainly no conception of who he was presently grousing at.  Wills often dressed in an unaffected manor when partaking in fond activities, such as archery, and exhibited, except for in his restraint, little kingly majesty - not even his beloved jewels adorned his fingers.  He wore, on the other hand, his bemusement as clear as day. 

The king made a show of doffing his hat to the ambassador, and sweeping grandly - nay, obsequiously - before him.  He covertly winked to the guest looming just behind the Spaniard, who appeared privy to his faux-pas, and stifled a chuckle at the ambassador’s expense.  ‘You may count upon it, excellency, that I will inform the king’s council of his incorrigible behaviour.’  Wills gleamed ruefully, grinning from ear to ear.  ‘Good day to you, sir.’ 

         In his plainest tunic and trousers, Wills had crept into the kitchens whilst the servants attended mass, not wanting to be feted or petitioned as he heaped mince pies down his gullet.  Only, it proved futile to make perfect sense of the elaborate labyrinthine of furnaces and ovens, and so he settled on a hunk of rye bread and cheese found in the cupboard.  Occasionally, Hampton’s head cook would march in and swat the king away, insisting on preparing whichever dish the King had a hankering for on the double - but today, while the court was otherwise occupied with prayers, Wills was glad of the quiet.  Monsieur Allard was a devout man, but the stream of oaths he uttered when he found His Majesty rifling through his kitchens would greatly belie his piety.

The king’s brow-bone furrowed as he caught a flash of red-gold hair, paired with a swish of voluminous skirts that could be heard from miles away.  The intruder was unmistakably a Tudor.  But who?  Isabel would not be caught dead breaking her own bread.  Kat was now a married woman with a culinary household of her own.  That left Elizabeth, the last of the reddish royals.  ‘Show yourself,’ William ordered gruffly, his dark eyes askance.

The king pulled a grimace when Elizabeth swept before him, wearing the slightest slant to her lips, eyes enameled with shrewd satisfaction.  Nostalgia struck him deep in his belly, for he realized it had now been years since the siblings first began to slink into the royal kitchens while sermons were being conducted.  That had been at Hatfield, where there was no higher power to answer to but Lady Mary herself, though the tradition had evidently trickled into adulthood.  

         William made a crafty habit of visiting Princess Elizabeth’s apartments when the court was lodged at Hampton.  There, at least, he could always find some thread of amusement to follow - playwrights, musicians, dances, virtuous women, and those choicest ladies who amused Elizabeth but who could not scrape up enough virtue to serve a Parisian bawd.  Her court received the king warmly - often with cheeks that rose in colour the moment he entered, or with performances and merriment - but tonight the atmosphere was modulated, for Bess was in one of her dour moods.  Sometime in the day, snarked William, she must have been outfoxed, out-dressed, or outdone by someone else.  The princess did sorely hate to be made a fool of. 

 A handful of her attendants had accompanied her to her chambers, though the others were strewn across her apartments - embroidering, penning letters, or chattering with the few court gentlemen the princess permitted into her vicinity (William, surprisingly, among them.)  Elizabeth kept a tight ship and Wills could imagine that her ladies were glad of the respite from translating texts or studying the Tyndale Bibles the Dowager kept in abundance throughout Hampton.

Eleanor Percy, seated across from him at their private gambling table, flashed him both a card and a wily smile.  The duke’s daughter represented a hierarchy the Tudors had dismantled;  William and his father before him did not merely reward prestige,  but royal usefulness and magnetism.  Fortunately, Eleanor could boast of both.  ‘A king of hearts.’  Wills’ lips rose into a grin.  Was it his imagination that she was simpering at him?  ‘Pray, Lady Northumberland, do you play often with king’s hearts?’