𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

She was, of course, still furiously angry with what had passed in the two months that had taken the court by storm — but most of what she had once thought was then nothing but ash collected from the fire grate and passed into thin air. But it was a hard road to climb when everything had once been done with he by her side — her horses, well bred and cared for with the same love she thought her people took to her own noble self, had only ever seen her Eye as a counterpart to their excursions,and so had been left to the green fields beyond Hampton to stretch their own fine legs. Even card games remained a constant torment, and so, Elizabeth had turned to hold a sober household of fine theological debates, dramatic retellings of the Giants that had once called England their home and then to the secret whispers from messengers whom she had sent in some wish of knowing more than one could really offer. 

So, then to be faced with his sour features left the Regent with pursed lips and a narrowed, venomous gaze. Yet was she not a fool for him? One noise was enough to leave Elizabeth to flounder like a fish caught outside of water. How did he have such a grip on her person? Even if he had performed his duty as a husband and Earl, Elizabeth had somewhat thought that he would practice a certain type of restraint, that he would savour her own taste rather than his wife’s, who had more than enough offspring to play pretend as a happy little family. And so, it would never be as easy as that, to break ranks and embrace him as she had done many times before. Instead she held herself upright, her lips stern set into a neutral line, the dark glare of her gaze settled just passed his shoulder in some effort to not look directly into his own wandering eye. 

Foresight, howbeit, did not prevent her words from stinging.

Dudley had the good sense to hang his head low, shielding himself against the Tudor rage that rushed across him, his narrowed gaze trained to the dust scattered across his boots. It was a rage he knew well – only, this time he found himself at its embittered receiving end, felt its piercing blade etch on his skin, painting a thin line of scarlet across his neck. With great reserve, the earl uttered a gruff ‘yes,’ before his gaze lifted to the vaulted plafond, dredged with cobwebs and ancient carvings of warriors. ‘I imagine there was a time when there was a worthy answer to that question.’ Now the uncertainty of his fate gives him pause, an Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat, exposed to her gore-drenched claws. ‘Though I suspect your calumny rhetorical, is it?’ A way to take the knife that had wounded her and plunge it into his own heart? ‘In any event, both Amy and I have been summoned. You’ll be rid of us yet, Princess.’

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡    . . .    robert    dudley    (    @leiccsters    )    𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞    . . .    dover   .

the  road  from  london  to  dover  had  been  made  even  more  difficult  by  the  weather,  evening  downpours  softening  the  ground  beneath  their  feet  in  the  morning  until  not  even  the  relentless  pace  maintained  by  the  front  of  the  entourage  could  compel  the  stragglers  to  move  any  quicker  in  pursuit  ─  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  encampments  around  dover  castle,  the  countess  of  leicester  had  to  be  helped  out  of  the  litter,  fingers  pressed  against  her  mouth  as  a  maid  guided  her  from  the  courtyard  to  the  prepared  rooms  close  to  where  her  mistress  was  positioned.  she  would  have  preferred  to  make  the  journey  on  horseback  as  the  fresh  air  would  have  helped  to  soothe  her  unsettled  belly  but  amy  would  not  risk  the  health  of  the  babe  with  such  a  harsh  pace  and  an  unfamiliar  mount,  confining  herself  to  the  swaying  litter  even  if  it  had  made  her  feel  wretched  beyond  belief.  the  only  other  person  who  seemed  to  be  as  miserable  as  she  felt  was,  coincidentally,  the  earl  of  leicester,  whose  ill - temper  had  seen  their  shared  rooms  emptied  of  servants  that  morning  which  suited  her  well  as  she  unpacked  their  belongings  slowly,  laying  out  one  of  his  doublets  on  the  bed  so  that  she  could  find  a  gown  that  closely  mirrored  the  colors  of  his  velvet.  

holding  a  sleeve  up  to  the  window,  her  head  turned  instinctively  towards  the  sound  of  his  approaching  footsteps,  lumbering  with  a  heaviness  that  foretold  his  prickly  exteriors  ─  the  thought  brought  a  secretive  smile  to  her  face  as  she  pressed  the  rich  fabric  of  his  doublet  to  her  lips,  turning  on  her  heel  to  greet  him  as  he  entered  the  room.  ❝  you  are  still  in  a  mood.  ❞  a  fair  brow  raised  in  teasing  mockery  even  as  her  stomach  sank.  amy  could  play  the  fool  quite  well  but  even  a  fool  could  not  ignore  the  obvious  reasoning  behind  his  change  in  temperament,  his  impatience  with  everyone  but  a  select  few.  the  pleasure  of  possessing  his  undivided  attention  was  still  fresh  but  how  long  could  she  feign  blindness  to  his  unhappiness  ?  as  she  held  one  hand  out  to  beckon  him  closer,  the  countess  of  leicester  decided  that  she  deserved  to  be  selfish  for  a  moment  longer  though  she  would  also  attempt  to  appease  and  distract  him  when  possible,  if  only  to  spare  the  servants  from  rotating  duties  to  avoid  their  corner  of  the  castle.  ❝  i  have  sent  the  servants  away  so  i  fear  you  will  have  to  terrorize  me  instead.  come  here,  my  bear,  and  change  out  of  that.  i've  found  a  gown  that  better  suits  this  doublet  to  let  me  lay  claim  on  my  husband  through  his  clothing,  if  nothing  else.  ❞  the  babe  was  still  a  poorly  kept  secret,  at  least  until  she  could  tell  her  mistress  anne  and  receive  her  blessings  and  permission  to  retire  to  kenilworth  once  the  period  of  laying  in  arrived,  but  already  amy  had  to  take  out  a  few  inches  from  her  waist  to  make  space  for  the  swell  of  her  belly,  the  ribbons  of  her  bodice  loosened  even  now  to  allow  her  more  room  to  breathe  freely.

Potted, cragged, swollen with insistent rain: the ancient Roman roads stretching from London to Dover made intolerable the hard ride from Hampton Court.  The furrowed brows, wan faces, and occasional red-rimmed iris among the King’s entourage suggested it was not just the Dudleys who suffered from the biting, incense-thickened air, the relentless humming of the clergymen limping about, swinging their heady censers and crosses like weapons, warding away sickness, staving off the encroaching fog, the rain like whetted arrows pouring from the skies.  Miserable, Leicester spat, this overwhelmingly frivolous display, as he looked about and found William’s entourage riding by like a guild of pilgrims, rather than a royal court – so habitually famed for its luster, horns blasting, stags bounding majestic, all eyes ablaze with happy furor and cheeks reddened by whipping wind, pomp and circumstance and gold banners brandishing about. 

Now, the troupe trailed limply, colorlessly, all the way to Dover – like unwilling sacrifices – the news of Seymour’s rebirth dampening the spirits of the court. 

Not even the King’s people, usually so eager to line up in the towns which the court passed unblinkingly, straggled to catch a glimpse of him, red-gold hair piercing through the mist, a gaggle of delighted gasps following, blackened fingertips jutted out to grab hold of an inch of his majesty, a vanished mystique. And, of course, not a one stuck their necks out to see if Elizabeth and her decorated ladies trailed behind, for they hadn’t.  She hadn’t.  And, as rain hung like blood to Dudley’s feathered cap, he knew that there would be no more of her entirely: Elizabeth Tudor was dead to him, a red-gold wraith of the past, bobbing at the tail of his eyes.  Why, then, as he flayed open his doublet and tossed it to the window bench, rain-soaked fabrics usurped with fire-warmed furs, did the thought clout him with a sort of murderous rage?  This searing agony?  Was this Divine?

Wordlessly Robert Dudley undressed and re-dressed, for there was nothing left to speak: not to himself, nor anyone else.  As he wrested the gold chain from his neck and the locket from his wrists, he thought of the Irish triad that haunted his early expeditions to that emerald isle, and grimaced, the lines of his face crowded with ghosts. ‘Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die, and to die not; to try to please, and to please not; to wait for someone who comes not.’

Dudley’s gaze snapped to Amy, lingering in the doorway, as she spoke.  She looked herself, today, standing by the sleek, gilded archway: a newcomer to noble ranks.  Out of place.   The woman who for nearly half a decade his kisses had rained like Manna upon – her face, the hair that streamed over her shoulders, neck, breasts, thighs.  He’d felt her tremble against him.  Dug into the blades of his shoulders as he heaped her up against the mattress of their marital bed, driven into her with an intense and intoxicating desire, filled with his seed, for Amy Robsart at once his and something else entirely.  Passive, yet not passive; a yielding presence.  The dutiful wife; the loving mother; Helen before the war.  Why, then, he again asked, did God now see fit to bless them with a child?   His smile toward hers was surprisingly gentle, concealing the conundrum of emotions closing ranks behind his poker face.  ‘Shh.  Say naught.’  The last gilded clasp on his wrist unbroken, Dudley said, ‘the bear does not like to be disturbed.’

The secret was not particularly difficult to keep - there were those who had their suspicions of course, the princess' own brother and the earl's wife included - but none would hear a peep from Meg, not even the earl's sister, who had become her dear friend. Her loyalty to the Boleyns had graced her with continued good fortune that she had not yet found reason to risk; yet deep in her heart, Meg could not ignore the occasional pang of envy. Their affair put them both in a precarious position, with Elizabeth's honor and reputation on the line, but oh, was the princess happy. Stoic and solid, Bess was not one to exhibit any outward signs of girlish infatuation, but try as she might to hide it, Meg could see it in her eyes each time she returned from time spent with her paramour. From the days when she first learned how to read old tales of romance and chivalry, of Arthur and Guinevere and the like, Meg had desired - no, craved - the joy of being truly loved. She wanted a man to see only her, her name on his lips when he awoke in the morning and his name on hers when she fell asleep at night. Why, if the princess could have this happiness, could her ladies not have the same? Or was that the rub - if Elizabeth could not marry the man she loved, none of her crop could?

She took a moment to study the man in question while his eyes were averted; if was not difficult to see why Elizabeth had fallen under Robert's spell, and he hers. Meg did not approve, of course, of a man doing wrong to his lady wife...but she could not question the admiration that passed between her friend and her lover. Robert was kind enough to Meg, she supposed, never stepping too far into her sphere so long as she did not step too far into his. "They are," she agreed, once again turning her attention back to the subjects before them. Mary Rose Tudor had married for love, hadn't she? Perhaps there was hope for them all yet.

Robert conducts a nod, his penetrating gaze sweeping once more over the portraiture clinging to the tapestry-hung walls – each gilded-frame gleaming against sheets of dust and woven thread – before offering Meg his arm. ‘I assure you, nothing is more important than ensuring the Princess’ happiness to me,’ he clipped merrily, ‘if not merely for my sake – then yours. The Tudors and their paroxysms are not to be underestimated.’ Cracking a smile, and with Meg at his sleeve, the Earl steers them back into the jaws of the court – already in full swing, basking in the end of summer heat – strolling in the direction of Elizabeth’s presence chamber (the shadowed corners of which Dudley knew intimately well). For a mere moment dubious, Dudley’s brow rose as he evaluated Meg’s query. ‘Ah, yes. The Princess’s passion for riding will yet outmatch us all. I long for the days when my age can be used as an excuse for my inability to ride abreast with her, but perhaps we both know she’ll never accept it. Your mistress’ bloodthirst for helpless animals would astound you.’

though  amy  robsart  had  come  very  far  from  where  she  had  been  raised  as  the  daughter  of  a  glorified  farmer,  granted  a  begrudging  respect  owing  to  the  vast  stretch  of  lands  that  he  possessed  and  had  passed  into  her  hands,  and  then  as  the  wife  of  a  household  guard,  there  had  been  very  little  attempt  made  to  rise  any  further  than  where  she  was  currently  placed  and  one  might  even  argue  that  she  had  shown  very  little  interest  in  court  life  before  her  husband  had  been  made  master  of  horse  ─  hopelessness  and  no  small  amount  of  guilt - stained  grief  had  driven  her  into  the  arms  of  robert  dudley  all  those  years  ago  but  affection  now  rooted  her  to  his  side  through  the  best  and  worst  of  times.  the  proud  girl  that  she  had  been,  an  unbroken  mare  that  reared  back  at  the  slightest  attempt  to  tame  her,  would  have  spat  upon  the  spectacle  that  she  had  become,  even  if  only  a  few  people  were  aware  of  the  shame  that  she  was  forced  to  constantly,  silently  endure,  cursed  by  her  love  for  him  and  the  determination  of  a  mother  to  spare  her  children  from  the  truth.  it  was  a  truth  that  she  desperately  wished  to  forget  as  well  and  in  the  warmth  of  their  chambers  with  her  husband  before  her,  it  was  seemed  easier  to  pretend  that  they  were  at  home  with  no  god,  king  or  council  to  steal  his  attention  away  from  her.

whether  they  were  in  kenilworth  or  in  london,  it  had  become  one  of  her  duties  (  when  she  was  not  in  attendance  to  her  mistress  anne  )  to  ensure  that  there  was  a  warm  room  and  a  soft  bed  for  him  to  sink  into  after  a  long  day  ─  though  her  vows  had  been  made  in  some  haste  before  the  countryside  priest,  she  had  treated  each  uttered  word  with  a  gravity  that  she  had  not  shown  to  her  first  husband.  amy  would  never  be  clever  enough  to  navigate  the  political  intricacies  of  court  but  she  would  always  try  to  support  him  and  do  her  best  to  ensure  the  future  of  their  children  at  the  risk  of  her  own  morals,  so  she  knew  exactly  what  to  say  when  necessary,  well - versed  in  his  idiosyncrasies  after  nearly  a  decade  of  marriage.  ❝  my  lord  husband  is  most  generous  to  allow  his  majesty  to  hold  the  victory  as  he  does  not  yet  have  a  wife  to  soothe  his  pride  if  he  should  lose  to  you.  ❞  he  was  being  smart,  more  likely  than  not,  especially  if  william  inherited  the  late  king's  appetite  for  flesh  and  a  fight  along  with  his  red  hair.  ❝  what  else  do  you  hide  up  your  sleeves  ?  a  gift  for  your  wife,  perhaps  ?  ❞  

as  light  as  the  legs  of  a  spider,  her  fingers  trailed  up  his  arms  as  though  she  meant  to  unravel  what  other  secrets  he  had  kept  hidden,  calling  him  back  to  her  with  a  considerable  amount  of  success.  the  press  of  his  mouth  was  received  with  a  delighted  hum,  spine  extending  to  push  herself  up  further,  closer  even  as  he  pulled  away  to  leave  her  mouth  parted  and  her  eyes  glazed  with  the  beginnings  of  a  carnal  hunger  that  had  quickly  replaced  exhaustion  at  the  first  touch  of  his  hand  upon  her  skin.  ❝  if  you  mean  for  me  to  persuade  him  as  i  persuade  you,  husband,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  such  methods  are  reserved  for  your  pleasure  alone.  ❞  one  hand  formed  a  fist  in  the  billowing  material  of  her  shift,  squeezing  and  twisting  with  impatience  that  mirrored  the  burning  heat  in  her  abdomen  and  lower  as  he  disrobed  until  a  pale  knee  is  exposed  to  create  a  divot  in  the  mattress  ─  he  captivated  and  manipulated  her  with  an  ease  that  would  embarrass  a  prouder  woman  but  she  obliged  his  inspection,  shifting  her  face  in  his  grasp  only  slightly  so  that  she  might  take  the  tip  of  his  thumb  between  her  teeth  with  a  gentle  bite,  entrapping  his  gaze  beneath  her  lashes.

❝  for  you  ?  impossible.  ❞  his  finger  was  wet  from  her  mouth  as  she  moved  to  speak,  relinquishing  the  grip  on  her  shift.  amy  extended  both  arms  until  they  rested  upon  his  shoulders,  leaning  forward  to  line  up  the  length  of  her  torso  against  his  own  like  a  stretched  feline.  her  back  was  kept  arched,  partially  to  add  to  the  appeal  as  the  swell  of  her  breasts  pressed  against  him  and  also  to  keep  the  small  curve  of  her  stomach  as  hidden  as  possible.  ❝  you  could  never  run  out  of  good  fortune,  robert  dudley  ...  you  have  always  created  your  own  fortune.  you  will  defy  men  and  challenge  god  and  you  will  win.  ❞  he  was  destined  to  rise  to  the  heavens  as  a  star  and  she  would  watch  from  afar,  as  dutiful  as  the  astronomers  that  kept  watch  over  the  night  skies.  ❝  but  perhaps  it  is  time  for  you  to  take  steps  to  ensure  a  stable  future  rather  than  pursue  excitement  ...  we  need  an  army  full  of  dudley  boys  to  conquer  the  fields  of  england,  after  all.  ❞  perhaps  one  grew  within  her  now  ─  her  mouth  parted  to  tell  him,  fingers  pushing  at  the  loosened  shirt  around  his  shoulders.  with  her  nose  this  close  to  him,  amy  could  smell  the  traces  of  liquor  and  tobacco  on  his  breath  as  well  as  something  deeper,  muskier  and  rich  with  a  fragrance  that  nearly  made  her  sneeze.  it  brought  something  to  mind  though  she  could  not  place  her  finger  on  it,  mind  clouded  with  a  haze  that  compelled  her  to  draw  back,  landing  on  the  mattress  and  a  pile  of  pillows  with  a  soft  laugh.

Oh, he kens well that she would rather be there – anywhere but here – where his heart is her domain and where he will gladly abscond to when plague and the summer’s stink runs riot in London and assume the role of a dutiful husband like a prancing actor in a paltry play – but never without mournful parting from she who’d pierced his soul, the Virgin who keened for his touch.  He blinks away the film in his gaze, though a shadow of that regret – of that longing – remained scattered amid the gilt–flecks in his eyes. 

Leicester transfers his hands from her arms to her knees as her fists knot at the linen of his shirt, craving his proximity, clawing at his shoulders.  His fingers roam deftly across the softness of her skin, the winkling dimples embossed into the soft muscles of her thigh, each fleshy divot pressed firm into her leg – those small ripples and stretches of flesh ladies hid from their lovers with coy flashes of their skirts that made his mind drunk with lust.  ‘If my wife will accept my presence as such,’ He murmurs, ‘and forgive me for not having the good sense to arrive at our chambers flush with gifts deserving of her praise, I would be most humbled.’  Pinching the plumy underside of her thigh, he murmurs, ‘I cannot make promises to you, wife, but I vow that if I must fight, I will carry our banners with pride.’ 

He nips, in turn, at her mouth, a mischievous gleam curving at his lips as their chins meet, a bumping of flesh and bone, her spine arching toward his body with movements feline.  ‘Is that so?’  Robert hums. ‘I daresay, Lady Dudley, if you were not so chaste we would have long courted glory and fame. This body of yours would’ve taken you far.’  He tangles his hands in her hair, gripping a thick, silken clump of it and using it to tilt her head up to face him.  ‘But then I would not have the pleasure of knowing your sweet virtues alone, for which I would happily die a poor man.’

Years had passed since Meg Welles had first laid eyes upon the inner walls of Hampton Court, its pillars seemingly reaching to the heavens in the eyes of a young girl who had not yet viewed such splendor. Still new in comparison to the other decorated and historic castles build by the Tudors' ancestors, Henry VIII's cherished home sparkled with opulence and exquisite taste. Portraits of the family lined the halls, some even unknown to Meg, who had taken great care to memorize the most important figures leading up to William's ascension - his father, of course, and his grandfather, the victor of the great Lancaster/York conflict. His grandfather's mother, the formidable and fearless Margaret Beaufort, stoic on canvas as she was said to be in life. The list went on and on, each person an important part of shaping the generation that currently held the throne.

Her steps slowed in front of Queen Elizabeth, wife of Edward IV. Their dear country had been thrown into even deeper strife with their marriage, yet that couple's great-grandson now sat on England's throne. Meg wondered how proud the Woodeville woman might have been to know that her line continued, not only with William but with Bess, who carried on her name and ferocity.

Footsteps drew her gaze away from the painting, the sound of heels meeting the floor echoing across the hall. Her lips drew into a pleasant smile for the man she saw before her gaze turned back to the Yorkist queen. "It is uncanny, is it not, how strong a family resemblance can be, Lord Leicester? Though the princess was blessed with her father's hair and her mother's eyes, it is impossible to deny the connection to relatives of yore."

Although a bosom companion to the Princess (and also, for reasons unclear to the Earl, very dear to Her Highness), Elizabeth had mentioned the lashing she’d given Meg only days prior… a cutting reminder of what it meant to be loyal to a Tudor, no doubt, close enough to the fire to feel its suffocating, sweltering heat but never close enough to burn gloriously with it. The Tudors were, after all, gods on earth, the sun itself, Kings placed on the throne by other men, by bloodshed and lust for power – but as Leicester lights his gaze on a portrait of Henry VII, his once penetrative stare swirled about with a smear of clouded oil paint, something akin to a smile descends over the corners of his mouth.

‘Indeed, impossible,’ Dudley echoes. In her grandfather, Leicester saw Elizabeth’s cool determination. Steely resolve. Narrow, black eyes; her wry mouth; her mind like a Petrarch tome containing shards of brilliance, a glittering cathedral. And for a moment, he debates remaining silent in the hopes that Meg will leave him to his reflections, leave him to simmer in his momentary annoyance with the woman he loved with both soul and body. ‘She was a pretty woman, the King’s aunt Mary.’ He points to a dual portrait of the French queen with her bearded husband, Lord Suffolk, set against an olive-green canvas. ‘All women in love are pretty. Don’t you think, Lady Meg?’

sleep  seemed  to  be  as  elusive  of  a  creature  as  her  husband  had  been  that  evening,  skittering  about  in  dark  corners  and  fleeing  from  the  light  as  though  he  were  a  rodent  in  search  of  the  comforts  that  only  his  bonny  bess  could  provide  ─  there  were  mousers  for  such  a  problem  back  at  stanfield  hall,  wiry -  haired  fat  cats  that  hissed  in  warning  if  her  boots  drew  too  close  to  their  space  but  if  there  had  been  any  claws  in  her  hands,  it  had  long  since  been  clipped  short  when  faced  with  the  magnetic  force  that  was  robert  dudley  and  certainly,  the  princess  had  far  sharper  tools  in  her  arsenal  to  counter  with  should  amy  attempt  to  swipe  at  her  ankles.  it  had  been  easier  to  find  rest  when  he  was  far  from  her,  when  the  tireless  demands  of  her  beloved  mistress  anne  or  her  darling  children  would  invite  exhaustion  to  leaden  her  limbs  until  she  was  weighed  down  into  a  dreamless  sleep  but  without  such  distractions,  amy  could  do  nothing  but  overthink  whilst  at  hampton  court,  gaze  darting  up  at  the  first  muffled  sounds  that  neared  the  door.  silence  had  been  her  companion  for  hours  so  the  slightest  change  in  the  air,  the  weight  shifting  around  the  floorboards  and  the  door  creaking  open  had  given  her  enough  time  to  school  her  features  into  feigned  disinterest,  the  words  in  her  holy  book  blurring  as  he  approached  his  side  of  the  bed,  the  sheets  cool  from  his  missing  warmth.

a  soft  hum  was  extended  in  greeting,  her  determination  to  remain  unmoved  by  his  presence  warring  with  her  desire  to  aid  in  his  undressing  but  her  body  was  rooted  into  spot  by  the  growing  bump  that  she  had  grown  increasingly  aware  of  whenever  he  was  near,  shuffling  back  into  the  pillows  so  that  her  shift  tented  further  around  her  front.  ❝  husband.  ❞  clipped,  the  title  dripped  with  subdued  resentment  ─  the  only  hint  of  emotion  she  can  allow.  motherhood  had  gentled  her  flame,  giving  her  two  impressionable  young  minds  to  mold  that  she  refused  to  traumatize  by  fighting  loudly  and  frequently  with  the  only  father  figure  they  knew  but  that  did  not  mean  that  she  felt  any  less  than  before.  (  perhaps  that  was  what  was  lacking  but  amy  could  not  take  things  so  lightly,  so  impulsively  as  she  did  at  twenty,  though  god  alone  knew  how  much  she  ached  to  hiss  and  scratch  and  slap  at  him  until  his  outsides  matched  her  shredded  heart.  )  ❝  were  you  victorious  in  your  conquest  ?  ❞  flinty - eyed,  she  glanced  at  him  as  the  metal  met  with  wood.  ❝  of  the  gambling  tables.  ❞

watching  his  motions,  her  gaze  caught  on  the  framed  miniature  and  unwillingly,  the  wall  she  had  painstakingly  built  around  her  heart  over  the  past  few  hours  that  she  had  spent  stewing  in  bed  begun  to  crack,  one  hand  extending  across  the  sheets  to  rest  on  his  empty  side  ─  a  silent  invitation  to  hasten,  to  sit  so  that  she  might  unlace  his  boots  and  busy  her  hands  so  that  her  mouth  did  not  overshare.  for  all  his  faults,  robert  was  a  good  husband,  a  better  spouse  than  she  had  been  to  dear  sir  christopher  with  her  roaming  eyes  and  coquettish  nature,  and  a  wonderful  stepfather  to  the  children.  she  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  love  their  own  children,  in  time,  though  she  feared  making  him  choose,  knowing  what  (  who  )  his  first  choice  would  always  be.  setting  the  book  aside,  she  rose  till  her  knees  were  tucked  under  the  weight  of  her  body  before  crawling  the  short  distance  to  his  side,  fingers  at  his  sleeves,  gently  guiding  him  until  he  faced  her.  ❝  i  prayed  for  you.  ❞  for  a  devoted  husband,  though  she  would  not  ruin  the  night  with  her  bitterness.  best  save  that  for  the  morning  when  it  was  not  as  cold  and  she  was  not  as  lonely  with  the  household  awake  around  her.  ❝  i  missed  you  ...  i  have  half  the  mind  to  petition  the  king  to  return  you  to  my  side  earlier.  do  you  think  i  could  convince  him  to  show  clemency  on  your  neglected  wife  ?  ❞

Perhaps it was that Amy was a country girl, and he’d brought her to London to be a great lady, to peacock in her finery and fustian, made her a countess. But at heart she bore a sort of rustic simplicity that he’d grown rather fond of – there was no equal to her at court, and that, too, warranted his affections. Amy's quiet amenability to his indiscretions; her turning of a blind eye. It both contributed to and alleviated his compunction. But whatever the root, Robin's mouth curved into a faint grin at the sweetness of her voice, breathing in the aqueous air of their chamber, infused with the herbs and rosebuds which Lady Leicester strew across her bathwater.

His eyes still ablaze with determined fire, Amy's quick amendment – ‘of the gambling table’ – gives him pause. He casts a sidelong glance in her direction, scanning her face, a burly black brow risen toward his hairline. ‘Never, if the King can help it. But if I did not hide my ace in my sleeves, I would have been surely crowned victor.’

Leicester sloughed toward their marital bed, brought with them from Kenilworth, canopied in rich velvet embroidered with the Dudley’s coat-of-arms, and settled into his well-worn dip in the mattress. His deft hands made quick work at his linen shirt, untying the knot at his chest. He leans his head back at the gentleness of his wife’s touch, her thin fingers prodding at his taut, gnarled muscles. Squeezing his eyes shut, Robin is grateful that she cannot see the flash of guilt that twists at his face – the stabbing, crushing reminder that he deserved her high-esteem and timid affections not. Not for the first time, he wonders if Elizabeth's rich perfume lingers on his skin, his shift.

But still he tilts his head, slanting his full mouth against her unsuspecting lips – an apology, an olive branch, of sorts – his tongue only briefly grazing the seam of her part as his hands slide to hold her by the arm. He’d hardly embraced her in weeks; they’d both been preoccupied in their roles at court and, rather strangely, Amy’s disrelishness to the taste of ale on his tongue had grown ever more profound; even a whiff of it sickened her. ‘His Majesty is something of a romantic,’ Dudley says, their lips only a breath apart, ‘perhaps you could convince him. I do not doubt that your methods of persuasion are still as keen…?’ He flicks his brow at her, teasingly, leaving her bereft as he divests the rest of his regalia.

Kicking off his boots, Robin’s hand reaches up to cradle the side of Amy’s face, the flushed apples of her cheeks aglow in the firelight. ‘But if God has already granted me a wife as sweet and honourable as you, I see no reason why he should look kindly upon me thus.’ He tilts her head – as if testing how much she’ll allow him to take – as he peers, earnestly, into her eyes, his irises tracing each freckle to paint her fair skin. ‘Do you think it possible, Amy? To run out of fortune?’ His mouth forms into a thin hyphen, neither morose nor condemning as he remarks, 'if I was a lesser man, perhaps I would have a bevy of sons. But life would not be nearly as exciting, hm?'

But a Tudor never surrendered, not like that, and a Boleyn knew what she was doing. Temptation was the role played between them, the emotion only cut when either partner fell to their knees — gone were the Holy harmonies sung on high, absent were the guards withstanding their watch. What remained were two souls bound together, two souls that could not just split the boundaries into physical forms, but rather rolled into their breaths like gasps surged from the back of their mouths. And so, she waited — or at least, her tongue paused to relish in his…

Well, one may think that it was rash, harmless or simply tied up in the lust that came with prolonged exposure to a woman whom you could not have. But to Elizabeth’s eyes, it was devotion, an aggression that splintered his bones — a love that left his throat gasping for air. And oh, did she enjoy it, did she savour his need like a cat toying with its dying prey, her hand cast between them as the bow of her palm rubbed over his reckless hardening, her eyes narrowed to the point that she could barely see him through the light hairs of her eyelashes. Perhaps, after all of this, she was teetering on the point of giving in, to fall to the need that had often overcome any other King with their numerous wild oats. 

You know – you know.

Her words pump in his ears like hot blood, circulating with the fervent exhaustion that comes from a long, wild hunt, his thighs trembling with the fierce fury of a stallion. Robert reluctantly, desperately, tears himself from her, untangling their long limbs, detaching his mouth from her throat and her nimble fingers from his waist. ‘I know.’ The Earl stalks off, turning his back to the Princess, biting his knuckles between his teeth. For all his strutting and arrogance and confidant intimacy with a woman of royal blood, Elizabeth’s refusal humbled him, enraged him. More than that, he felt the loss of her coaxing hand shutter through his body, as his cock surged with raw need. ‘God’s blood, I know this, Elizabeth!’ His voice roars louder, sharper, than he intends it to, like a schoolboy deprived of his toy, a king deprived of his crown. Elizabeth will tell him ‘ought you mind your place, Robin,’ but if she had any sympathy for his soul, she would pardon him for it – this one great, unpardonable indiscretion: love. His fingers trace and pinch the long bridge of his nose, his chest heaving out a guttural sigh.

He bit his tongue, on which held many bitter words, and turned to face her. Without words to express his tenderness he pressed his lips to hers, as softly as the lighting of a butterfly, her mouth cold and unyielding. He tipped her head back, looking into the liquid amber of her eyes, and watched her slip away like fine grains of sand in an hourglass. He’d taken too much; she would punish him, keeping her affections more tightly-fisted than the privy purse for it, but he was powerless to express it. ‘I am sorry, Bess. Know that I would give anything to have you. Not your money. Not your titles, or gold. It is you I crave, Elizabeth. This –’ His hands knead her backside, roughly pulling her back against his subdued arousal, a throbbing reminder of his desire. ‘All this but for a moment of your time.’

the grandeur of the evening was certainly not lost on kismet, constantly in quiet awe of the theatrics with an unusually wide grin on her lips. while her mother's voice haunted her throughout the night, scolding her for showing such a childish nature at such a function, kismet reassured herself that it was unlikely that any eyes were truly on her while she so often stood beside far more beautiful ladies. she'd spent most of the evening thus far attached to meg's hip, arm intertwined with the other lady as they whispered to each other about the other attendees. however, they'd since parted ways as meg claimed she had other company to attend to, and kismet's eyes had caught sight of her eldest brother trailing away from the bright lights of the celebrations. 

The Earl’s voice is as clear as his expression, the pipe in his hand snuffed out with a quick blow and tucked squarely into his doublet. Robert lavishes his face with a grin – fleeting, genuine, crackling like the bursts of gunsmoke in the night sky. He was grateful, at least, for what he perceived as neither ignorance or accomplice on Kismet’s part, that she did not call attention to his indiscretions. ‘What would be amiss? We are back at court. All is well.’