Sebastian de Lorges

SEBASTIAN DE LORGES, COUNT OF MONTGOMERY, 38, SANTIAGO CABRERA  ⸻  taken.

Princess Margaret was virtuous Beauty itself, donning white satin for King William’s Château Vert. Ironic, she thought, for a suspicious select few in France may argue that white ‘twas not the appropriate color for their blessed princess. Still, none could argue that she did indeed have a most beautiful spirit. While now determined to make the best of English court, Margot had spent so long fighting her father’s decision to send her abroad that she became convinced she’d be hard pressed to find allies and friends of any kind. Of course, once upon a time in her wild youth, before Blanche turned her soft-hearted and after Madeleine left her to drown in hedonism, she had known an Englishman. In retrospect she’d been rather a nuisance, determined to distract the then-ambassador from his duties and convince him of the goodness of her beloved France. Why it never occurred to her that he might still be in the king’s favor was beyond her but as she glanced up, there he was, catching her off guard with a familiar smile, ten years older and ten years more handsome. In that moment her heart buoyed so and she scolded herself to show restraint, to mirror the noble Princess Elizabeth instead of falling into old, excitable ways. 

“Sir Thomas, in the flesh,” She curtsied in greeting, her expression uninhibited in its exuberance, “The Channel seems to have bent to my will, this time, and thus I have few complaints. I suspect France’s loss shall be England’s gain as any somber veil was cast away the moment my ladies strapped me into this frilly little frock.” She laughed, smoothing the skirts of her elegant costume, “Tell me, old friend, have I done the Lady Venus justice?” 

Favoring her with a conspiratorial glance and dancing eyes, a gleam suffused Tom’s features.  “I am glad to hear that, at long last, the Channel comported itself as it ought.  It has an obnoxious habit of casting both well-bred and scabberous ladies, alike, off course, which generally makes for a rather harrowing introduction to this otherwise quite copasetic isle.  But, then,” he began, stepping forward with a teasing smirk.  “If there were ever a princess so lovely as to calm the ragings of Poseidon, himself, I do look upon her, now.  So tell me, what whiles did you employ to bring the turbulent waters to heel? Any magics or potions we mortals may mimic, or was it entirely due to your own personal charms that the Lord of the Seas ceased in his heavings to gaze upon you?”

Tom’s opinion of the princess was, indeed, high, but his playful nature was such that he could not resist a spot of teasing, particularly as it cast her in a role that was, to his own opinion, not so very far from the truth.  He’d been struck, ten years ago, with the dynamism of her character, which he found no less evident now than it had been, then.

x

     Thomas Walsingham had the gift of eloquence in exquisite perfection; charm, being an equally well endowed faculty. Even under duress his neves had never betrayed the most acute anxieties; unguarded and weak faculties were not prominent in him. He called to her now in his cheerful tone, with the equanimity and composure, she expected of his shining figure. The Hampton sun was ripening, cherishing the frames of her ladies in a genial glow; for Anne’s part, only her eyes, bespoke its warming influence. “It pleases me deeply good sir, to pronounce my journey adequate; both pride and joy, out-strip and quiet unease and suspicion. The honour of your company, would please me greatly; we shall let my ladies flock to whatever suits them, and set upon an agenda of our own devising.” Anne believed there to be a sweeping potency in open confession; a power to be gripped in the disclosed. She wished to hold communion with this man; not a woman of repulsive good nature, but of sharp-intellect, she quickly seized upon those in whom she recognized the most desirable traits. 

    His looks were embellished by the good natured smile with which he always listened to the Anne’s fluid phrases. “It gladdens me greatly to hear of their pleasure in their arrival; I will be victorious if their good humour continues. And how do you like it all, Sir? Many a courtier has tittered greatly, on the topic of the grand party to be had - but I know you to be a man, consumed with duty beyond frivolities.” The personal secretary’s mind was best when it was irritated by imagination; the disruption of his mental peace made for the very best advocate to dear William. “Many a person has caught my attention, all of whom I will implore you to investigate, in the time which my son does not occupy your attentions; it is the ladies of the court, who chiefly consume my thoughts - who amongst these maidens, has the stock and vigour, to be graced with the mantle of the King’s wife?” 

Tom’s ready smile leapt into focus and, bowing, he agreed readily.  “I can think of no plan more pleasing, Your Grace.”  Inclining his head to her ladies, he returned his attention to the Queen.  

Tom had never seen her in the bloom of youth, to be sure, but he did not think he needed to: she was a stately woman, her carriage of moment and her look of import.  Even to garner her attention for a moment, little less to hold it, was a kind of threshold to golden futures, and the power of her eye was a sword to pierce through fleshy prison to the soul caged within.  No blush of youth was needed to understand how this would be a woman worth upturning an entire kingdom -- doubtless, even a king as unforgettable as the eighth Henry felt that he’d met a mast greater and sturider than a crown upon which to lash his heart.

Chuckling softly, he smiled at her.  “Then, Your Majesty, I am proud to profess myself the messenger of your continued triumph.  All is, at the present, quiet.  One hears only squabbles of a domestic kind: whether or not one’s apartments are large enough or close enough to His Majesty the King,” he assured.

Tom inclined his head.  “I confess, though I have little doubt the spectacle of the pageant will delight the senses, it is not that to which I most look forward.  I am eager, rather, to see the unfolding of international matters.  Christendom has known much struggle over the past decades and, I believe, approaches a tipping point.  I am hopeful that we may help turn that flood in a direction which best suits the interests of England.”

Wrapping his hands behind his back, Tom shook his head.  “This is a momentous question, indeed, and one which -- I know without having to inquire -- occupies the minds of all at court, but one which, I fear, holds no easy answer.  It is, doubtless, His Majesty’s wish to find a partner who suits him as well as Queen who suits the nation, but as Your Majesty knows, the puzzle is in finding a lady who is able to harness both sides of the equation.”  Catalina of Aragon had found that much out to her sorrow.  

“As to the matter of the King’s heart I have no doubt Your Majesty has superior insight than I may offer, but as to the diplomatic side of things, if I may raise my own opinion on the subject, I believe that Princess Marguerite of France may best suit.  It is my strong belief that a foreign bride will bring an abundance of opportunity and it is my further contention that the Habsburg Empire is on the rise with its chief rival as France.  My hope is that, if we lend Frankish support, we may further fuel the Italian conflicts which pit the two nations against one another and, thus, while they break their backs against each other’s walls, England may, herself, rise and, if we prosper, rise beyond her rivals.”  

His smile was small, savoring almost of mischief.  “But these are ambitions, indeed, and who is to say that any of this may be achieved?  The Spanish and Austrian alliance being what it is, however, my mind bends in that direction.  Yet, as the late King’s French expeditions remind us all, England has her own claim upon that crown, so perhaps such an alliance savors already of futility.”

        Cecily Heydon was not often overcome.  With jealousies and rage, occasionally; but never with shock and a remarkable hold of gladness.  She felt a smile smart at the corners of her lips as she drank in Thomas’ countenance, the rugged charm he donned, the amber warmth of his eyes, the nick perched at the tail end of his brow – the result of a scuffle in the Duchess’ dwellings – and stole herself into a moment of reflection.  ‘To- Sir Walsingham.’  The countess bit down upon her words.  Thomas may not have been the boy she knew at fifteen, but he possessed all of his allure, and ogled at her with an utter lack of guile that conveyed her thoughts, unbidden, to years past.  

‘I believe you are also the subject of praise. You are as we always suspected you to be, at the heart of England and the right hand of his majesty.  Royal favor…’  Cecily quirked her brow and her mouth in thought, as if gingerly rooting her mind for an apt word, ‘suits you, old friend.’  

Old friend.  Her heart tightened at the appellation, as superficial as it might have sounded in the impassive tone of her voice.  ‘I have some time before the Dowager will be needing me.  Will you take a walk?’  She rang her bejeweled hands together – the precious jewels that graced her fingers a staple of her new position, a mark of her husband’s unusual closeness with Queen Anne – and gave a cock of her dark head, expectant.

‘I understand the progress was a successful one, yes? Had you traveled back to Alnwick before this retreat, Walsingham? I have to admit I have yet to return in all these manifold years.’

Her voice was both balm and bane, but her smile still more so.  He was not blind to the quiet ache that rested just behind the gentle upsweep of her mouth, nor the familiar glint in her dark eyes that seemed to brand him -- half mischief, half reverie.  She was not memory: she was all flesh and blood, yet she was all that he recalled, unspooling before him like the pages of a book -- memorized, beloved, each swelling letters a stroke his finger had traced, and each word a sound his lips had formed.  Yet, she was more than that, too, leaping from the tried truths of memory into the uncertainty of a future that swirled with confused momentum before them.  

She spoke his name -- first the true one that belonged to himself, cut off and snuffed out: then, the one that would belong in formal settings; in, perhaps, the pages of history: doubtless as a footnote appended to the reign of the glorious King William III, but still -- present.  By accident within those lauded volumes, somewhere perhaps his name and hers might appear upon the same page, but never again together, never again within the same breath.  

He almost laughed, a bitter sound: this was the future he had wrought when he had wed for advancement, and not for something far more precious which, now, he did not dare to name.  But even if that was lost to them -- the gestures of courtly love remained, and he meant to seize every opportunity which showed itself.  Yet his teeth set against this new title, ivory on ivory, a pearly wall through which no voice could sound.  He’d been greedy of titles, he could admit, but this was one which did not sit easy upon his shoulders and he glanced quickly away as if to dash it from his mind.

Chuckling, he arched a brow.  “I am glad to hear it, my lady.  What gentleman could not help but savor such kind words upon the lips of so fair and gracious a lady?  But it is a compliment which must meet its like, for you, too, look well, my lady, and I daresay Wyatt is the most fortunate of the king’s men, for what fool,” he began, stepping a touch closer.  “Having once held so precious a pearl in his hand, could ever truly esteem another?”

His lips quirked as his heart gave a little jab, and he laughed softly, stepping back again.  Her invitation warmed him and his smile lost some of its irony, brimming into something sweeter.  “I should like nothing more,” he said, offering his arm as, together, they began to stroll towards the beatific gardens which surrounded the palace.

“Oh I’m sure the food is wonderful, I would love to try the different foods the world has to offer one day.” Isabel said with a smile.

“Indeed, one must first go through places nearest to them to get to a further place.” She mused.

“Yes certainly, how does one even get an elephant’s foot?” Isabel asked teasingly.

“Aye, that is if the weak men of Scotland even allow me to become their Queen.” She said with a smirk. Though she said it in jest, she meant it. The men of the Scottish court would forever remain weak in her eyes, she grew up watching them… observing them and their weak and childish ways as her mother who was leagues ahead of them in wisdom, wit and maturity had to constantly fight them to remain in power.

“If I become Queen of Scots, I wish for a stronger court, and even I do not think you can give me that. Though ruling is not without it’s trials and tribulations, I am sure that not having Scotsmen or any men question and attempt to go against my every move would make my possible future rule of Scotland any easier, though such a feat is impossible because there will always be men in any court who question women in power. Oh Walsingham, if only you had seen the horrible trouble they put my dear mother through. My father is no exception either, he put her through the worst of it. Did the tale about my mother shooting canons at my father in Edinburgh Castle make it to the English court? Did they believe it or did they pass it off as a false story? Or did they think my mother a mad woman?” She asked as she spoke in a low voice so the prying ears of the court wouldn’t hear. Isabel’s gaze soon turned intense.

She had been there in that castle with her mother when it happened. Her mother had had enough of her father, and she had every right to be fed up and every right to be at her breaking point. Their marriage had been crumbling for months especially due to her father’s then rumored infidelity and the final straw was when her father told her mother that he wanted Isabel with him so he could attempt to send her to France in order to eventually marry her off when she got older to whichever future betrothal was the most promising and he also wanted Edinburgh Castle back from his wife so he could put his mistress in it and kick his wife out with nowhere to go, so he attempted to seize it… but attempting to do so had been a grave mistake on his part. Isabel had watched as her mother and some of her loyal subjects that were soldiers, had set off cannons and attacked her father and his men, her mother laughing all the while as she set off some cannons herself. Needless to say, her father lost a lot of his men to his wife’s attack and he surrendered Edinburgh Castle to her and allowed her to keep Isabel… after all, he would end up making a few more kids of his own with his mistress after the attack at Edinburgh Castle anyways.

When Isabel was a bit older, she was on her way to England since her mother had decided it was best to send her away from Scotland, on her journey she had seen her father for the last time. She had been on horseback and saw his face in a town right outside of Edinburgh, she stopped momentarily, getting down from her horse and he silently approached her and said nothing during their brief meeting, he hugged her and kissed her forehead before he immediately turned, got on his white horse and left, a woman following behind him on a brown horse, a woman with curly black hair and skin as white as milk… his mistress… the woman her mother called “The Whore from Traquair”. That had been the last time Isabel had seen her father, and that had also been the first time she had ever seen his mistress… the woman who her mother also blamed for ripping their family apart.

Isabel soon smiled after she took a breath, the memory of it all making a temporary crack in her armor, her eyes briefly full of hurt before she swallowed it down again, replacing the hurt with smiling eyes full of amusement.

“Yes indeed I’ve heard of chocolate. I’ve only ever eaten it a few times though.” She said.

Considering her question, he grimaced, slightly, before a small laugh escaped him.  “Carefully, I daresay.  Nor can I offer up any knowledge of what Her Grace might have done with it, afterwards.  Perhaps she sent it to the Tower to collect dust with the other curiosities. For all I know,” he added.  “It is still there.”

Tom studied her with interest.  “You do not, then, think much of the Scots?  Your childhood must, then, have been something of a cross, if you could not respect those around you.”  He paused as she spoke of her wishes for the Scottish court.  “You may wish that, now,” he replied.  “But I daresay as Queen, you would be happy enough for a weak court.  I believe that one of the most troublesome issues for a ruler is, indeed, headstrong nobles, and perhaps pliability might, therefore, better suit.”  He chuckled.  “But that is only my conjecture, and what do I know of such things?  I am not of royal blood.”

His brows shot up as she spoke of her parents’ internal war growing...external.  “I cannot say as I have ever heard the story,” he began, slowly.  “But that does not mean that it did not reach court -- my arrival here at court, I am sad to say, took place after the late Queen’s death.  It seems that your parents must have had an...intense relationship,” he said, as delicately as he could -- this could not entirely surprise him: the House of Tudor was notorious for it.  Yet, watching her eyes, he saw that it had certainly left its brand upon her.  When he spoke, it was softly.  “I know how the ways of our parents can leave scars upon us.  I hope...I hope that the weight has become effortless with time.”