thomas walsingham / open starter
How was it, then, that Thomas had found himself in the midst of an ever-turning wheel of fortune? After the late King Henry, he had made himself some lost promise on taking a step back, to retreat to the country before he, too, lost his head on the chopping block. But ambition had been a part of him since his very birth, the need to become something grander than one could ever imagine, to reach beyond the clouds and into the dark abyss that surely lurked behind the pale. With an arm outstretched, Thomas had remained at court if only to guide Henry’s son and heir, King William, but before he could take stock of where he was, he had managed to anchor himself amongst the council yet again — situated between like minded narcissists, wine stained lips and murmurs of rebellion that Thomas, as per his job, was forced to push down.
As the Secretary of State, a Spymaster and ex-Cromwell affiliate, his work was constant and hardened by various jobs meant for lesser-beings. Watching, taking stock, forever scribbling notes to be re-wrote in formal documents passed onto William Tudor in turn. With a pawn in every hall, every part of the city and even within the current of the towns beyond London’s centre, Thomas was (despite popular appearances) always one step away from concluding something important, something previously unseen by the world that would have otherwise been nothing but coincidence.
Beneath Hampton Court, Thomas lay in wait, akin to a snake practising patience beneath a nest of eggs, his eyes lidded and as dark as onyxes. Whoever it was who approached him, however, had caught him off guard. “Ah” he almost gasped, lifting his head toward whomever it was with the semblance of a smile — because, no matter what the truth was, Thomas had always managed to build a reputation of friendliness, empathy and gilded promises. “And what can I do for you?”
It was a strange palace, this. A shrine to hubris clad all in brick: a cardinal's palace, seized by the king who would take the cardinal's head and, in that respect, the first of its kind: King Henry had gone on to make himself famous with his seizure of church land, but it had all started with this edifice, hadn't it? This one, which once had belonged to the king's dear friend. That much, at least, Sebastian could understand. He, too, knew the wretchedness of betraying a friend: someone upon whom you once had relied; someone who had also looked to you.
Sebastian sighed softly, letting his fingers tap a tattoo against the roughened brick as he moved. It was an impressive place, certainly, and one crawling with vipers, but he did not fear that sting. If it came, now, it would arrive well deserved.
Lost in thought, he wandered the celebrated grounds, eyes scanning the serene gardens with remote appreciation. English gardens, he had found, were not much like their French counterparts, but this was not something he must minded. Indeed, at the moment, he cared little for this shrub or that flower, a profusion of vivid color offering no delight to an imagine held captive of its own past. He walked only to outrun it.
When he turned the corner he gave surprise; he received it, also. Another man stood nearby, his own reverie evidently disrupted just as Sebastian's was. For the best, perhaps, he thought, dark eyes sparkling. That way lies only madness. No man could ever undo his past.
"Pray, forgive me. I had no wish to intrude." Sebastian did not recognize the man immediately; knew him only as one he'd spotted at the English King's side, and his gaze narrowed with some unspoken interest. "Yet, I've a boon to ask, I find. Will you tell me your name, sir? I have seen your face but not yet had the pleasure of pairing it with a title of any kind." He chuckled. "I supose I must appear uncouth to approach you this way, but here we are. Strange meetings, these, but I do not think it can now be avoided."

























