GROUPIE / 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬.

Marguerite Welles was in full bloom.

The gaiety and splendor of the evening seemed to have opened her shell completely, launching the usually quite reserved and proper young lady into the depths of spontaneity, and numerous courtiers would remark that such joy suited her. Her costume, more revealing than she had ever dared (though still not able to hold a candle to those of more scandalous ladies at Hampton, English or French), transformed her from a lady in service to the princess to one in her own right, for Cyrene was beloved by her people for her tenacity and loyalty. Meg found every aspect of the evening enchanting, from the eyes focused solely on her as she performed to the sweets rotating through the crowd, from the laughter echoing off of the Great Hall's high ceilings to the sight of lovers embracing tenderly out in the open - for the Greeks did value lust and love as much as the French, did they not?

The king seemed equally enthralled by it all, interacting with members of his court with a grin that seemed to transform his entire countenance - and why should he not? Did this night not declare him the most enviable prince in Christendom, to have a palace filled to the brim with charm, elegance, and prosperity? Emboldened by a bit too much wine and excitement, Meg approached the king as he sat upon a throne decorated to befit a Greek god; she curtsied low, then rose and extended her hand, eyes dancing with merriment. "Will you do me the honor of a dance, Lord Apollo? I should think you must."

From William’s vantage upon the throne, draped in a velvet canopy and seated on high, he could see everything: the goggles of wonder and delight, unfocused figures pirouetting across the floor, the precious jewels shining brightly atop their heads, bathed in sweat as much as gems, a riot of colour and passion – as was the King’s pleasure.  William cast neither a shadow of grimness or wrath over the crowd, as his father had done; but rather filled the air with the eagerness of a young man, replenishing the wine in his veins before joining his subjects in their Grecian festivities.  His lips then quirked as he received Meg, bowing before the dais, affording him the quickest of glances at her chest as she dipped; her paper-thin gown leaving nothing to the imagination.  ‘Damocrateia, is it?’  He asked, then raising to his feet.  ‘I take it back.  You are Cyrene – I see that now.  A princess, and a fierce huntress.'

Extending his hand, he waited for Meg to place her palm over his before enclosing her thin wrist in his grasp, eyes flashing mischievously. ‘Tell me. Does that make me your prey?'

she  took  her  place  amongst  the  wildflowers,  her  back  turned  when  she  felt  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  upon  sight  of  the  tudor  auburn  tresses  she  descended  into  a  curtsy,  percian  blue  eyes  bewildered  that  her  king  desired  his  attention.  had  he  mistaken  her  brunette  tresses  for  that  of  her  sister?  no—  it  couldn't  be,  for  she  too  was  familiar  with  commiting  to  memory  every  part  of  one's  dearest.  if  his  majesty  cared  enough  to  gift  isobel  the  locket  that  hung  between  her  collarbones,  surely  he  would  know  the  back  of  her  head  from  across  the  room.  and  thus  it  was  confirmed  to  sibella  that  it  was  she  that  he  sought.  i'm  well?  was  illlness  the  excuse  concocted  for  my  absence?  very  well.  lithe  fingers  reached  to  her  chest,  where  her  malady  might  have  been.  "i  thank  god  that  he  saw  to  it  that  i  may  see  my  family's  safe  return  to  dover  and  the  welcome  of  the  spanish  to  your  blessed  court."  she  offers  a  solemn  nod  to  his  request,  her  eyes  angled  towards  the  nearby  passageway  to  clandestiny.

As the night erupted with good cheer and the display of many perfected skills by the hands of the beautiful ladies of court, Jane remained hidden behind the cousins of her Dudley kin. In lappings of ivory, her eyelashes flush against the veil that seemed woven into her butter blonde hair, Jane cradled her patience with modesty, the gentle hazel of her gaze flickering from the ground to the passing monument of the King, who presented himself as the grand Sun God of Apollo — his look alone leaving all to stare with gaping mouths, as if history itself was taking place before them beneath the roof of Hampton Court. Jane, who had never seen someone so grand, could not help but steal glances towards the crown in the same way a sinful man could not avoid the temptation of something desired. Piercing the soft skin of her hands with crescent moons from her nails, Jane tried to look away, as if to tear herself from the King in order to look instead to her cousins who all seemed so decadent as Amphitrite, Poseidon and Selene. 

William swilled the rest of his wine in one swift wash, droplets of it staining the cream of his shift, like bubbles of blood, dapples of rubies.  Treading the shadowed perimeters of the Great Hall to make his way – discreetly – to the smorgasbord, he helped himself to another lusty cup: one too many for mortal men, but an ideal amount for a King, keeping him in good cheer, amenable to the flattery of his court.  Turning his gaze to the side, and finding another lingering in the shroud of darkness, he shoots the lady a puzzled glance – followed by a grin – as he assesses the butter-gold of her hair, the doe-eyed gaze stamped into her round-face, the jewel-edged cut of her gown, skimming along her creamy bossom.  At his side, the King’s cup-bearer satisfies his apparent curiosity in hushed, subservient tones.  ‘Jane Dudley, sir.  Her father owns half of Warwickshire; the other by her husband.’  

Will’s copper brows rose, his interest piqued.  ‘Ah.  Will you have some wine, Mistress Jane?’  As he spoke, his tongue swished with the scent, the ease, of the drink.

“Apollo, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the eddying river Peneios; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel, holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last. And so hail to you lord! I seek your favour with my song.”

It was a rare thing that anyone might have time alone - or at least its approximation - with the King of England, without the watchful eye of courtiers. It was a luxury few could afford, and Richard knew well that he must count himself as extraordinarily lucky to have it. Their shared blood was a boon in this regard, a fact which had created a closeness between them since they were just boys, sharing lessons and hobbies. Tennis was among them, a sport in which they both had much skill, shared competitive streaks brought to life.

"Well fought!" He cried with a breathless laugh as their latest game came to its end, William its victor. "Next time, I will best you. I guarantee it." Dabbing some sweat from his forehead, he took a moment to just survey the King. "You seem in a good mood," he chanced, swaggering closer to the net. "Pray tell, is it merely your great diplomatic victory that has pleased you, or have you found some personal form of joy? The former is a glad thing, to be sure, but it would be a joy to see you finding some pleasure as a brother, as well as upon your throne."

A delicate hand flew to her mouth when her latest attempt nearly maimed a fellow courtier, her cheeks flushing pink as they were wont to do when she found herself in an embarrassing situation...which seem to occur more often, these days, and in the presence of a select few whom she would rather not witness such events. She was about to abandon composure and shout an apology across the field to the man when the king approached, saving her from drawing more unwanted attention to her blunder. "I was aiming for the greenhouse," she said by way of an excuse, attempting to add her own small bit of humor to the situation. "Master Kingston was simply in the way."

His brow then furrowed, a disapproving wag of his copper head.  ‘Nonsense.  You’ve got the finest mentor in all of England now. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be warring young Dudley for command of my armies.’  Smirking, the King’s long, lean fingers eagerly sought Meg’s bow, archery being one of his chief pastimes (besides, of course, ogling the lovely women of his court).  ‘Ready?’  He entreated, gesturing for Meg to take her stance.  Then, positioned before the target, and with one hand cusping Meg’s elbow, Wills drew her arm earthbound so that the bow was nearly level with the crook of her lips.  Feeling light resistance on her end, he instructed lowly: ‘use your mouth as an anchor.’

it was hard to find a moment alone with william. the court was eventful, and the responsibilities of the crown were many. the whole court orbited around the king, all it’s many members eager for his attention. nel had spent her whole childhood with william the prince’s affection, and she held william the king’s favour, but all the favour in the world could not buy back the simplicity of their younger years. they were not children anymore, and nel could hardly expect him to give her the kind of time she had once enjoyed.

In any event, Wills was fond of Elinor, his niece more a sister to him than any number of his numerous courtly relatives – it did not hurt her case that the physical similarities between the two proved so unutterably striking.

Swishing a glug of wine in his mouth, his lips and teeth washed in deep claret, William nodded in Elinor’s direction, curt. 

His eyes were distracted by the crowd from which she had freshly emerged, twinkling beneath the whirling candelabras above, bathing the entire court in a tarnished-amber glow that reflected in Wills' dark gaze like flecks of gold. ‘Lady Elinor,’ the King bade lowly, studying the indecipherable expression etched across her countenance.  ‘Cat got your tongue, Nel? Speak, if you have something to say.’