immaculate.

He noticed her eyes, first. Curious and bewitching, enough to latch onto and flash his own wolfish gleam– and were he clever enough to know the laws of attraction transcending time and space, perhaps his fascination with her eyes was hereditary. His father, the king, was drawn to Lady Anne Boleyn’s eyes - dark, mysterious, full of wiles and intellect that he could’ve easily been lost in. Yes, hereditary. But currently, this concealed damsel before him was no daughter of two titanic figures who impacted a multitude of clustered countries within Europe. She was intriguing enough with the lilt of her voice, a sharp wit accented with the soft bat of lashes. And Charles, a slave to his very own Virtue he played so expertly- amorous- couldn’t help but succumb to his near hedonistic flirtations around her. 

Thus, he tilted his chin up toward the fine-scaffolded Hampton Court ceiling, fingers brushed back golden de Valois locks, and he let out a slight laugh at her words. “We need each other, then, my lady in order to survive against all vices. I suggest you keep up with me, and I’ll ensure your bounty is full of as much love you could ever hope to think of in one evening.” He winked, offering her his arm as he motioned toward the flurry of dancers.

But then, she asked of who caught his eye. He peered around the room as much as a lion spoiled, surveying the territory. Stifling a full-chested laugh at the notion he would fall fo Beauty - his sister, of all people, that he was sure for he knew her better than the words to prayer. “Only the superficial virtues would flock to Beauty for a first dance, though I am positive her heart is as beautiful as is the Virtue’s appearance. But as per my favourite Virtue I’ve seen this evening,  I don’t want to bloat the ego… Nor tell her the tinge of her hair is what drew me in first, nor her eyes second. I’m rather troublesome, you see, but I do believe I’m in fa more trouble than I’ve realised just coming across her, because I want to know all about her.” Peering down at her, smile grows as the music begins. “Particularly as we begin our first dance.. And you? Which virtue do you wish to bless with your attention this evening?.” 

She was not the kind of girl to fall over her feet like a child, nor would she bend and pose for the man before her in the hope for attention or perhaps even to hear a compliment. She would stand strong, her mask heavy upon her face. In fact, the hem itched at her skin, coaxing her to take it off for just a second - but she had sworn to herself to remain steadfast against the besiegers, to only loosen herself before her closest circle that resembled mostly close cousins. So as he looked at her, soaking her up as if she had allowed him, Elizabeth looked away - her nose pointed up towards the ceiling, as if she were looking for a detail anyone else would’ve looked over. 

With a small grunt barely audible, she turned back to the Frenchman. She watched as he parted his hair with his fingers, separating golden locks that were all too rare upon the English isles. But his comment, laced with everything hedonistic she could think off, left her to flush a violent pink - the colour all the more obvious against her pale skin, that seemed to enhance every emotion that ever crossed her face. But they were just words, pretty little things wrapped up in bows for her to hear. She was sure that he had announced such feeling and admiration to every virtue that evening, so she didn’t dwell on it, and instead shook her head with the lightest laugh as he led her off for a first dance. 

with each exchange the two princesses further unraveled their stories, hypotheticals becoming reality as their long awaited first meeting carried on. she hadn’t known what to expect and thought it best never to fret in advance but now with the moment upon them it all seemed rather uncanny. “i think you’ll find that i can be quite the optimist when i mean to be, your highness” margot smiled, one of her unabashed giggles permeating the conversation, picking up where elizabeth’s dejected expression left off. how she hated to see a flower threaten to wilt. “regardless, we mustn’t ever let them ruin our fun.” nodding resolutely, she took the other woman’s hand in hers, squeezing it tight for one moment of reassurance. it wasn’t as if margot was entirely immune to the unfortunate nature of men but long ago she’d realized her detractors were more ruffled by her general lack of concern than anything else. “all men treasure their mothers for they see them only as such and not as women. god save me if there is a son in my future.” margot, well on her way to spinsterhood, could not yet picture herself married much less with children though as elizabeth mentioned the pageant, blue eyes stirred with mischief. at least the french princess had always shined when it came to performance.

“while i may very well catch the eye of englishmen he will have to suffer by his lonesome for i cannot foresee that he will catch mine. if only they were as impressive as we.” she lamented with a playful sigh, their previous conversation cementing her opinion that men, while not entirely useless, were certainly the lesser sex. “but i admit, i do so love a pageant. i only hope my lovely gown will appear properly fitted. i’d hate to look anything less than my best for my most gracious hosts.” sleek gaze flickered fleetingly over the english princess’s bodice, her expression otherwise unchanged as if her interest lay solely with fine tailoring. 

Elizabeth, like Margot, had not felt the need or desire to produce a son of her own. Though now five and twenty years had passed, having grown amongst the constant talk of sons and heirs, Elizabeth thought that to be worked on like a common farm animal was beneath her - that her blood that flowed beneath her pale skin was too good to be used just for birthing heirs. She had talked of that idea before, that she would be better than that. But her governess had simply blamed the outburst on her mother’s bloodline; the ambitious, ever-soaring Boleyns. But even if it was their fault, Elizabeth was proud of it - even if her tongue had been forced to stop shifting in rhythm to keep the rumours of her treasonous thoughts at bay. 

So the French Princess’ thoughts were not entirely new or spellbinding, but it was in fact a thrill to hear them out loud on another royal’s lips - even if for entirely different reasons. Margot, a French beauty, would choose to turn away suitors in the hope to avoid motherhood or perhaps even the lack of attraction between arranged marriages. Elizabeth, the English rose, would deter the men who came to shore for the need to outdo her brother and to soar above everyone’s opinion of her. Perhaps she had found a friend, perhaps not. But either way, their union that Winter would surely be kept in the history books, describing their individual journeys starting in this conversation and at that time. 

the bad blood between the french and english was no secret, the two countries’ ties as murky as the water that flowed on the thames. their arrival at court came as a surprise to margery. she could not imagine the french prancing around the halls as if no hostility existed between them and the english. how bold of them, she thought upon hearing the news of some of their court’s members’ arrivals. still, she was in no place to say anything. margery was merely a servant at the court, her thoughts, and opinions irrelevant to state affairs.

“well liz, to see is to believe,” margery could only shrug and chuckle. “however—” she paused on the foot of the princess’ bed with an intriguing expression etched on her face, “what if he is not like what you think?— what if?” margery raised her brow teasingly. “his sister has already arrived at court,” the maiden hummed as she pulled her dear friend off the bed and assisted her towards the panels to change. “and what do you think of her?” a bold inquiry, one she would never dare to voice outside the four walls of elizbeth’s chambers however at this point, margery was no longer her servant but a friend. a person she could openly express her deepest thoughts. to “do you really think your brother would wed you off to him, liz?” margery only thought to ask because out of elizabeth’s many suitors, she may be biased to one. although she wouldn’t be surprised if the king ever did want his sister to marry the dauphin. it was well known that a woman’s job was to marry and sire heirs to which margery thought was absurd. last she remembered she was a woman, a living breathing person, and not someone else’s possession but with how society saw her, she might as well be. a sad fact she must accept.

speaking of marriages, margery did not even think of her own yet though she was sure her grandfather already had someone in mind; she wouldn’t put it beneath him to do so. “could you imagine? me as a duchess?” she chuckled at the thought. it was a little too far off her status. one could only imagine. “i could already hear the court ladies calling me ambitious behind my back. jealous little things, are they not?” the auburn-headed maiden could not help but smile at her mistress’ statement. liz was a fierce and strong woman, characteristics that margery admired. how lucky was she to witness such softness that only a few have seen. “oh liz, even if i were wed, i would still be forever in your service. you need not worry about that.” that, she promised. “i’ll inform the servants right away. are you excited? i hear they have prepared extensively for this pageant.”

“And what? Do you think that the bad blood that flows between England and France will come to a halt with me? My union with that man-child? I don’t think so, Margarey. You are such a hopeless romantic, always dreaming. You will know someday that I’ve always been prepared for bigger feats,” dressed in her nightgown and slippers, Elizabeth rose to sit on the edge of the seat, taking Margarey’s hand from her work to hold it against her lap. “In truth, I think his sister the Princess is a marvel of her people… But boys are so different to girls. Look at myself and William. We share the same blood and hair colour but…” She paused, contemplating her answer. 

As much as she loved Margery, the distrust that had been installed in her from a young age was as deep as it could go. There was not one person she could truly confide in, after all, she barely confessed to a priest or even her reflection in the dead of night. Releasing her lady’s hand, Elizabeth slipped from the bed to stand before the roar of her bedroom fire, hands outstretched as she embraced the warmth. She knew that the coming days would bring a change previously unheard off to the Tudor court - visitors, charm, prestige and festivities. She would have to present herself as something other than a Tudor Princess, or a Boleyn offspring. She had to be regal, no - more than that. She would have to be divine. 

That Princess Elizabeth was destined to challenge the world, Jane had never doubted: she was the daughter of the couple who had laid siege to Rome and all the values it had held…and won.  What other destiny could lay in store for such a one as she?  Yet, watching her now, a brilliant smile upon her pretty face and ready laughter upon her lips, Jane saw something else, too: for all her proud  and prodigious legacies, she was also a girl: pretty and bright and blooming and – at least for the moment – happy.  Jane did not care to speculate whether such joy could last: she was a Tudor.  Was such a thing possible?

Jane had not seen the original Chateau Vert.  She’d been just of an age, then, to be sent away to the Continent for schooling and thither she had gone mere months before the event. No, she had not seen it, but she had heard of it.  Every letter from home seemed to bear new word of the mysterious lady whose dark eyes bewitched all who gazed upon them.  This one, she heard from every corner, was no ordinary woman.  She did not learn until later of the lady’s name – and, by that time, Anne Boleyn was already nearly a legend even in her own home.  Who, then, would her daughter be?

Smiling as the princess danced over to her, Jane’s smile, almost by instinct, was a motherly one, as if this were her own daughter, beaming merrily beneath a mask with fetching enthusiasm.  Though she pretended not to know her, the flash of those eyes, the turn of those lips, the red of that hair gave her away to one who had once known both of her parents.

“What I desire,” she replied.  “Is the good cheer of my kin and those of the king as we begin our new season.  Tell me, gentle Bounty, may I be hopeful in my wish?”

May I be hopeful, she wished to ask, that someday I may count those two families as one?  But who could ever say that?

“But I think it time to turn the tables,” she added.  “What does Bounty desire?”

She had hoped that the Duchess of Northumberland would’ve found herself clueless to who played Mercy - but that was just a dream. She found that fooling the people of her age was easy, that her red hair was a hue often seen around at the Tudor court. But Jane Percy who had been born as a Talbot, was wise - with sharp eyes and an all-knowing tongue - was an entirely different matter. Even if Elizabeth knew this, she was pleased to pretend, to act as if she was just a girl who so happened to be born a royal Princess. 

“Indeed you may be, as Bounty I would ensure that all my luck would fall on our King’s head as well as your kin’s good fortune. Never fear, Your Grace,” Elizabeth answered with the wave of her hand, laughing with a joy found in the youth of innocent girls rather than the daughter of a legendary king. In any case, she joyfully put aside the reputation of the Percy family and their overarching ambition, entertaining the Duchess from beneath her mask of Bounty. 

With arms outstretched Helena did not hesitate to cross the floor, not running or rushing but gliding effortlessly across the space that divided them into Elizabeth’s embrace. Truth be told Helena knew her cousins well enough that things were not so easily forgiven but they could be mended with time. It wouldn’t hurt that they were friends, good and true friends - Helena hoped so at the least remembering the days at court would’ve never been as wonderous as they had when they were children had they not been friends. Helena would carefully insinuate herself into the velvet chair as soon as the two embraced. “It is a pleasure, an honor always to be your friend and at your side. Yes, it is a pleasant surprise but not unwanted but I bolster him well and we would not miss this or the chance to spend it beside our cousins. How does Elizabeth fair or should we address each other as our virtues?”

She would not forgive Nicholas Courtenay, that had been decided as the axe swung before her brother’s very face. As the head was separated from the neck with one easy swipe by a trained executor to the benefit of the living Courtenay family, all childhood trust that had noose resided in her heart for dear Nicholas, left. It had been as easy as that, and it’d continue to be just as simple for the Princess who had been trained to force emotion and logic to different sides, to understand and put in action all that had to be done to secure the Tudor throne. 

This distrust had even shadowed the relationship that lay between Elizabeth and Helena - but she looked so very much like her Aunt to her, and by extension looked like her father’s sibling, then like her father himself. So she couldn't push him aside, not when he was so alive in her memory. At times it felt as if Henry Tudor walked by her side, as if he held her hand when he did when she had been but an infant. No, she couldn’t turn her back on Tudor blood, so she kissed Helena’s cheek and exhaled slow. 

She must learn to separate the husband from the wife.

In the year which had passed since his father’s execution, Col had strictly avoided court, yet now that he was here, again, it was not the bitter pain of loss that caused the painful knot in his stomach – it was the darling boyhood memories, once beacons of cheer – that soured his heart.  Now, it was with a pang that he remembered the mischievous boyhood days with Wills, the raucous adolence they’d shared, and the daring youth.  Now – it smacked of betrayal.  

Of course, he knew the truth, too: there hadn’t truly been a choice.  What his father had truly known of the conspiracy before the trial, Col could not guess, but the fact that Hugh was such an active part of a community which was actively attempting to replace the Tudor regime with a Catholic one and had gone so far as to begin feeling out the Spanish ambassador, had left Wills without much choice.  Col understood the irony, too: if the reverse situation had borne out, if Hugh had deprived Col of Wills rather than the other way around, he could not easily have forgotten that, either…but it did not matter that that might have happened, because it had not.

It did not surprise him that his cousin Elizabeth was wary of him.  Col’s time in the Tower of London and his trial – both for treason – were hardly endearing experiences, even if he had been ultimately acquitted.  He wondered if a loss of trust that profound could ever be prepared.  Was there any way to know?

Sweeping the habitual bow, Col smiled and touched her hand gently to his lips – a spiritual, if not literal, kissing of the ring in obeisance.  Col knew his place, and he knew that now, more than ever, he must tread carefully.  Still, he wished to regain his cousins’ favor – was that not why he had returned?

“Your Highness, it is well to be back.  Pray, how faired the Progress?  I’m sure there was much to see – did any exhibit better please Your Grace than the rest?”  Hearing her question, he inclined his head.  “She does, indeed.  I believe, even now, she is occupying our apartments – arranging all as she sees fit.”  He grinned.  “A circumstance which has quite exiled me from thence, for the time being: I should only get in the way.  Perhaps I might tarry with Your Highness?” he inquired.  “It is, I think, a day fit for mingling and it has been some time since last we saw each other.”

He did not think that he had seen Elizabeth since before his arrest – he had been but a carefree boy, then, he knew, now.  But who was he, now?  Glancing away as if to dispell these thoughts, his drew his eyes to hers.

“Or perhaps I might help you settle into your apartments?”  He paused and his smile, when it arrived, was grave; sincere.  “I am, as always, yours to command.”

She always had found it difficult to trust a lone soul, even the most innocent of new ladies at court were tainted by her scornful gaze. And to think that Nicholas had broken such a feeble treaty lay Elizabeth’ relationship with her cousin in tatters. In truth, she could not imagine a way that she’d allow him back into her life, that she’d allow him back beside her brother who - as much as she wanted the crown for herself - she loved with a fierceness that resembled the type her own mother found hard to control. So when faced with him she could not help but let her brows furrow, to let her shoulders tense to a rigid angle. If he wanted softness in the form of his Princess, he would not get it - she wouldn’t let it happen. So she bared her teeth and asked for honesty. 

“I’m glad to hear that she is settling in, I do adore Helena as my father adored her grandparents. Familial bonds are hard to set aside, aren’t they?” Elizabeth questioned, held high above her distant cousin as the clatter of the court remained around them in a flurry. The next eve le Chateau vert would be staged in that very room - though she had thought to take the mask of Beauty, it had been her advisors who swayed her to the mask of Bounty for her reputation’s sake. Better to seem benevolent than to be smug over one's own natural resources. 

A chill ran through Margaret as the two women drifted from the heated crowd of onlookers and sycophants. Pale gaze turned this English princess over in mind and while she’d not show it, part of her felt pity, the same as she felt pity for her father and Charles and anyone else so burdened by dynastic matters. Margaret sometimes thought that in another life she would have made a good country girl or perhaps a happy merchant’s wife. She was born with only the smallest flicker of ambition and had taken care to keep it that way. Then again, there’d never been a fraught situation to stoke the flames. “They are creatures of habit, that is certain,” Margot ventured, the corner of her delicate mouth pulling into a smirk as she momentarily saw all history before her, a great schism between four siblings, an internal war to end them all. Some things seemed inevitable and perhaps, France only had to sit back and watch as the wolves tore each other apart. The thought passed by like a night breeze as she returned to the present moment, happy enough to talk of her own beloved sibling. 

“Charles is lovely, indeed. One day he shall be all I have in this world and I am content in knowing he shall make a most excellent ruler and carry on my father’s virtuous legacy.” As a child, she had resented Charles a little, not understanding why he was the favorite. Not just her father’s favorite but all of Europe’s. At the time she resolved that it did not matter because their younger sister was her favorite and vice versa. As and adult, she couldn’t be more grateful for her elder brother though looking out upon an English garden she thought she saw a glimpse of a ghost dancing through the flora for the first time in ages. England, it seemed, had allowed her to become preoccupied with death as she mingled with generations half-razed to the ground by the old king. “I actually think you and he would get along rather well but of course, only time will tell. On the other hand, I don’t believe, His Majesty, your dear brother, will find me all that suitable but perhaps, I underestimate him.” Margot laughed lightly as if the fate of nations weren’t at stake. She was unfailingly French and she couldn’t discount the likelihood that certain aspects of her reputation had made its way across the Channel with Sir Thomas Walsingham all those years ago, even if she had tempered with age. 

Her ears remained sharp as the Princess of France spoke of her brother, listening with care to take note on the relation between two noble heirs of their Kingdom, to understand how one viewed the other and if, indeed, there were cracks that could wedge the country apart into a flurry of civil war well known to England’s own marred history. But it seemed they were close, and so Elizabeth muffled a devastated sigh, letting her shoulders fall instead as her smile waned on her face. “You think so? Oh my, that is positive of you. In my time at court I have come to the realisation that men do not know their place as well as women do, most of the time they think it is quite fitting to talk about my way of dress or how I wear my hair - when, lo’ and behold your grace, how and what I do is none of their concern,” Elizabeth mused, waving her hand in the air for dramatics before holding herself against her bodice, looking to Margot with a warmth that had been absent from before. 

“I fear my brother is just that. A man. A boy. The only woman he seems to treasure is our Lady Mother, and certainly not any other. So do not be too upset about it, for time will tell what lurks beneath his russet curls,” she continued, laughing quietly - an echo surrounding her by her ladies who always remained around her like shadows, as if they were just ghosts of every other female ancestor who’s blood now swarmed in her veins. Perhaps England was stained by death. It was true after all that around every corner there lay a memorial of times gone by - from the brickwork to the ornate dedications to certain individuals. Yes, England was haunted… she only hoped that dear William would cleanse the land sooner rather than later. 

        a most tangled web of conflict held robert dudley firmly in its grasp; such a trap had originally been of his own making and yet now, as it quite publicly tightened its hold around his heart and mind, he was powerless to free himself from such tangles. on one hand there was a woman who allowed him to be his true self, with whom he shared memories which branched back as far as childhood, and managed to somehow best him in all manner of things whilst also being the thing which held him together most days. on the other hand … his wife. it was true that robert had married amy in a love match, it was quite clear that the two held each other with much adoration, but it was not her with whom his heart had been impossibly and unapologetically in love with; that was and still remained to be the princess elizabeth.

great fortune fell upon robert that he was able to explain his joy despite being in mourning for his late wife as simply delight that the court had formed once more - that he was simply so patriotic that his love for his country managed to mend his broken heart - yet how swiftly his feet carried him from the presence of one royal to another would tell another story. feet took multiple steps at once and it was fortunate that he was swift in avoiding collisions with passing servants for he knew that he was late and that she would not approve. once he came fact to face with the wooden doors he knew well dudley was finally able to take a breath and compose himself, straightening his doublet quickly to ensure she need not wait any longer. 

it was once she - in all of her beauteous glory - came into view that his chest heaved for an entirely different reason. “ you have my deepest of apologies, your highness, for i was with the king. he wished that i remain longer but i was certain to inform him that i could not for the only wrath i fear more than his own is that of his most beloved sister, ” he spoke with jest, naturally for he dared not to speak anything of their meeting to the kind, whilst sweeping into a bow worthy of a most dedicated servant. “ how might i beseech your forgiveness? ”

The very image of Robert made her mad. The fact that he was late left her somehow even more furious, as if he had chosen to draw out his time with the young King, Elizabeth’s older brother. Draped in red and gold, the Princess crossed her ankles and tapped furiously at the arm of her chair - one hand throwing aside her needlework, a piece made for her lady Mother’s birthday; a regal white falcon surrounded by the famed red and white roses (the delicate work that’d one day be found amongst a number of the Boleyn’s belongings, a gift from daughter to mother). But why did Robert Dudley cause such madness? It was because of her love for him, her adoration and devotion that seemed at a loss. He was a widower, his wife only recently having passed - he was beyond her reach, and seemingly could only torture her for what could’ve been or what should’ve been if their timelines had met in unison.

Louise sipped her wine before gazing ahead at the men in black, a shy smile making its way across her face along with her blushing cheeks.

“I do not yet know. For there are so many to choose from and I would not want to choose a man another virtue also had her eyes upon. I suppose patience or attendance they both seem to be handsome. I will not choose amorous… for I fear every virtue here tonight will fall into his arms, but I am not that kind of virtue. There are also a few of them who’s sashes I have not yet seen. So I suppose that I cannot make much of a definite decision.”

Louise sipped a bit more of her wine, she wondered if her dear Lord Devereux was one of the men dressed in black… moreover, she wondered if one of the men dressed in black was the king himself.

She had briefly made eye contact with one of them and she smiled before turning her head back to Bounty, casting her eyes downwards at her own chalice of wine.

“Masquerades are quite enjoyable, no? There’s something fun about the mystery of it all. Tell me, bounty has amorous charmed you yet?” Louise asked with a giggle.

“Why would someone fall for Amorous? But I guess, such a name would inspire a virtue’s desire,” Elizabeth mused, looking away from Mercy as she scanned the various heads that roamed wooden floors. “I also suppose that his role in our act of shadows is to gather as much want as Amour would need,” she continued, her tongue lulling to what she had said the last time they had performed le Chateau Vert - after all, this wasn’t her first time. Holding her chalice by her bodice, Elizabeth looked back to the disguised Mercy, searching her eyes for a slither of resemblance that she could place. With not an inch of luck, the Princess turned back, looking into her chalice to see herself reflected in the sheen of the wine - a reflection made of white and gold, her tight red curls forming around her like a private halo. 

Tapping clean fingernails against the belly that held the drink, Elizabeth looked back - somewhat perplexed to find herself in a stranger’s presence rather than one of her closer ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps they were having fun, perhaps they were busy flirting with the idea of courtship. Indeed, Elizabeth felt a jealous twinge from within, shaking beneath her skin with fury. After all, she was a stubborn and selfish girl, despite her act of Bounty that evening. 

“A fantastic le château vert it was indeed.” Louise replied with a grin.

“As Mercy… I desire compassion… I believe that everyone should have it.” She said.

“As for the desire of something material… I desire more wine.” Louise said teasingly with a giggle before she held her goblet out to a servant who refilled it.

“You who withholds the title of bounty on this beautiful night, have any men of the court who laid siege on the castle caught your eye?” She asked with a small smile.

Louise had assimilated into the English court, beautifully. Her French accent was still heavy but her words were understandable to most English ears. Though she still held onto her natural French charm.

the performance was like something of a fairytale to anna. she had never before attended or participated in something so grand. she could see now why those on the stage did what they did. 

she had been so nervous beforehand but now curtseying she wished it would go on forever. a blush came to her cheeks after her mask was taken from her face as the other’s eyes widened. was it so difficult to imagine a princess partaking in such an affair? the king had asked her to partake after all … 

she felt the hands before she saw who they belonged to. but anna smiled at the other. the princess too had partook in the occasion and had looked nothing less than the princess she was. she gave a shallow curtsey.  ❛ hm, how about a vice? ❜ anna asked.  ❛ as a small reward for always obeying those who tell us orders?  ❜

The two virtues stood amongst the other masked guests like ceremonial artefacts, the people parted around them as if they were untouchable, the most valuable compared to the ones not chosen to take part as a virtue or vice. Slowly, Bounty unwounded herself from Perseverance - standing by her side but alone, independent of her support. Not knowing who she was, only deciphering that she had come most possibly with the Princess of the Holy Roman Empire’s court by her accent, Elizabeth allowed her eyes to float around the room - inspecting the various men and women who played pretend at the celebration where anyone could be, within reason, anything. 

A spectacle, indeed - for though Charles hid behind a satin’d mask of Amorous, he too was playing the prestigious part of skeptical spectator as he weaved through foreign soil’s spoils, lips red, rosy with enough wine to keep apace with his sharp, tart tongue. He lowered the mask over his fair features - including that nearly boyish rogue, father’s arrogant tilt he’d inherited, a mouth that to many would seem dripping with sweet-syrup’d arrogance. Infiltrating le Chateau Vert peeled back layers of time and place. Discreet infiltration - the Greeks piling into the Trojan Horse, offering good tidings to Troy, until they reached the epicentre of folly, jubilance, celebration. Scattered around his periphery were troupes of his own party: already slurring and laughing, conversing and wooing with enough merriment of young soldiers en route from village to village. Though two countries of tumultuous past assembled in the name of peace, Charles couldn’t help but toy, tease, ruminate on his distaste for the vastly contrasting country. A spectacle, as it always has been in his mind, only separated between a rocky channel sea. 

He would play. Provoke. Test. Thus, he finished his swig within his chalice, gliding only with the lion’s grace along revelers that a king’s only son would exude. But just as he was ready to head to a few of his men in the corner, regail them of a rather petty joke, his arm was looped. Hooked, snagged by Bounty, herself. He couldn’t help but glance over her form, first, unfiltered as usual, hoping to poke and prod, to see how others would react. “But of course you’re Bounty, my dear…. that I can see.” He mutters to the lady, eyes shifting from her chest to her eyes. “A dance would suffice… You’ve collided with Amorous, and I truly believe such a puairing, Amorous and Bounty in an embrace, is what ancient heroes chace. Even, dare I say, such a combination is the foil of many, no matter how pure such Virtues be by themselves. So how does it feel, Bounty.. to turning lethal on my arm, with me?”

Her eyes flitted down from the stranger’s mask, actively searching for his sash that’d announce who and what he was. Though his eyes were unfamiliar, there was something common within him. Some manner of how he stood and spoke mirrored someone she knew. So, before his lips began to move she assumed it was some English lord, a friend of her brothers, who’d come to think that Bounty was just another English Rose. As he watched her and she him, Elizabeth quickly found herself fancying a dream of who he was - her mind racing ahead as if she were stuck for time as the two stood together, amongst the many pairs of feet and hands that launched into a dance made for the celebration. 

So lost in her fantasy, that she almost missed the sudden volume that came from his mouth - teeth and tongue exposed as a thick French accent launched her into a sort of terror; a terror found in shipwrecked souls or troublemakers who were just caught out. If she had known that the French were loitering at le Chateau Vert, perhaps Elizabeth would’ve acted with more care. Running her tongue along the back of her teeth, the Princess stood straighter, her mask hiding her inherited features - perhaps he was a friend of the Prince? Or a partner to some English noblewoman, a pair trying to mend the schism that was the relationship between England and France. 

“Amorous and Bounty are surely a pair made for mischief. If you give amour without limit you are certain to cause heartache. But if you give and give without love, what does that make you? Ah, I fear I chose a complex virtue tonight, monsieur!” Elizabeth answered, a natural flutter from her eyelashes causing her cheeks to redden from beneath her golden mask. Within seconds, she wished for her ladies-in-waiting to save her. 

x

   The greatest triumphs of Anne’s life lay in her daughters chest; her dearest love was a pulse in Elizabeth’s heart. Any deficiencies within her as a mother, were atoned for with honeyed phrases and fierce attachment - the announcement of Elizabeth’s arrival, seeing Anne leap to her feet, advancing towards the opening door with twists of affection flitting in her breast. Her delight in her daughter fed that ravenous sentiment - the shadow of decorum leaving her very person. Elizabeth’s entrance was greeted with the expanse of Anne’s arms, famed sleeves thrown asunder, parted to great her in gentle embrace. “Dear Lizzie - how I have longed for you.” Anne spoke to her second born in a most confidential and coaxing tone, designed to always draw Elizabeth into her embrace, her confidence. How beautiful her daughter looked; so young, so spry, born of a shape altogether Tudor - but conscious of her charms in a manner, that was entirely Boleyn.  

  “I can things of few tasks, which would outrank my daughter in importance - whatever business is relegated to my hands, may be put aside for the treasure of your company. Have you made yourself at home? Found the foreign dignitaries, most enchanting?  The charm has faded in my seasoned eyes; but I readily recall, the times in which I was alighted by their presence.” The face pressed sweetly into her hands, was such a good face; she knew pride amongst the most rancorous and prominent Boleyn traits, but Elizabeth shone - marked for both beauty, and character. Penetrating eyes and an arched mouth; the distinct vision, of a Princess. She allowed herself a moments sweetness, caressing the hot cheek she held within her palm; circled her finger, with a twine of the beautiful red hair which spilled from Elizabeth’s head. “Come sit with me child, and let me study you; we shall have tea, in the same fashion as when you were a child - for I must treasure these last moments with you, yes? Before you are wed; I have a finite, and concise list of goals before I will be satisfied to leave this planet - a fine match for you, being a most pressing point.” 

Her smile remained bold on her face, the corners of her mouth pointed upwards in sweet admiration for her mother, her head resting between her experienced hands, the warmth embracing her as she quickly fell into the known intimacy that had formed between mother and daughter. The arrival at Hampton Court was soon to be trumped by the performance of le Chateau Vert, where Elizabeth was to act as Bounty - to refine her appearance as a royal Princess. Leaning herself against her, she exhaled slow and steady - her heart slowly beating behind her golden threaded corset. “Indeed Mother,” she cooed, pressing a singular kiss to the Dowager Queen’s palm. “I enjoy Hampton as any Tudor does, I only hope our time spent with foreign cousins remains short and easy, I cannot stand it when William makes me spend time with them,” Elizabeth dared to complain, though her grimace soon melted into a laugh.

margery kept her composure until they’ve reached the safety of elizabeth’s chambers. it was she who closed the oak doors, making sure no one but them could hear the juicy conversation that would soon ensue. her demeanor shifted instantly, no longer the quiet lady trailing behind the princess but an enthusiastic friend. “she was trying to impress you, liz. get into your good graces,” the maid-of-honour reasoned. margery giggled as she let the princess pull her. elizabeth was more than someone she served at this point. to margery, she was a friend and a sister. when she started, she loathed the idea of being at court. she expected to hate her life as a lady but it took a surprising turn. now, margery found solace and comfort in the friendship she built with elizabeth; she wouldn’t trade it at all.

still, despite their closeness, margery never forgot her duties as one of elizabeth’s ladies. she remained as attentive as ever to the princess’ needs. “Of course, liz.” she looked up at her friend as she takes off her slippers. margery carefully tucks them away in a truck in one corner of the room. “she is your cousin after all and im sure her presence here would help you both greatly.” the older red head added, disappearing briefly to fish out elizabeth’s night gown from her wardrobe. a few moments later she returned with the piece of clothing in her arms. margery could not help but burst into laughter, shaking at the princess’ words. “liz, have you ever laid eyes on the dauphin? how can you be sure he is a pig?” she inquired, turning her head over her shoulder to peep at her friend. “it is only you who i know is plagued with these problems about men who fall at your feet. aphrodite herself would be jealous,” her pink lips tug to form a teasing smile before turning around to hang the night chemise on the changing panel. “me?” her head tilted to the side. “i am too busy keeping your suitors at bay to think of my own— if there were any to begin with. my marriage prospects are at the mercy of my grandfather or the king. well, whoever comes to decide first at least so for now, that is the least of my concerns. alright—” margery offered her hand. “let’s get you out of that dress. shall I ask for the servants to bring a sponge bath for you tonight?”

With a roll of her eyes Elizabeth parted rose-coloured lips, busying herself with the wiggle of her toes as her most dearest friend attended to the fall of her slippers. “Perhaps she is, but she’s not going about it in a good way. I’m a girl, she’s old enough to be my mother’s mother! Old enough indeed, but she could never be, of course,” Elizabeth explained, quickly losing her train of thought as Margarey carefully slid a slipper from her royal foot. As soon as it was removed, she lay onto her back - eyes peering up towards the ceiling carved by an English artisan. Whilst aware of her own bubble, her own stubbornness kept her from realising how rare it was to be given time alone with a true friend, that the gift of both Margarey and Katherine was a luxury few could afford - even her mother, the most famed Anne Boleyn, had not been afforded a close female companionship. 

It was this, that Elizabeth was weak enough to overlook as Margarey went back and forth, carrying on with her duties before they could both retire to bed; her pallet close to the Princess’ bed for security and the well-being of the King’s sister. As she worked on preparing the nightdress, Elizabeth went to clean her hair with her fingers - unknotting strands, picking dried lavender and stems of what once were blossoming petals. With a soft exhale from her nostrils, Elizabeth raised her head and peered at her friend as she mentioned the Dauphin. It was no secret that Henry Tudor had installed a distrust and hatred towards his French brethren; a relationship and opinion that bled into his offspring without a second thought. “Perhaps I have not, but in time I’m sure I will have to - then, my friend, you will see that I am always right,” Elizabeth berated, though her stern turn ended with a flourish of gentle laughter. 

As the siege of the castle and its following performance drew to a close, Elizabeth shifted around the room in a timely fashion.. Draped in white, with a golden trimmed mask balanced upon her features, Elizabeth became someone she normally kept hidden deep within her. A girl made to dance, a girl made to sing! To think that she, the Tudor Princess, was allowed to swan about like any other made her heart reveal itself as it hadn’t done since her days spent at Hatfield House. Though, it would have been naïve of her to believe that no one could at least assume that she was a Tudor; what with her tight red curls.