#bd.open

the air felt thick as if edmund could choke on it and there was a vivid flush to his cheeks from having just finished regaling a few grand tales of hunting along side william. various stories embellished to indulge his friend's desire for pageantry and hopefully endear a lady or two to the king, as they had so often done for one another as younger men. his eyes watched the poet that took to the stage after him, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve to gently pat away the sweat on his brow. edmund had taken a few steps away from most of the crowd, enough in the shadows to compose himself once more yet remain seen so as to not garner any intrigue. it was a strange feeling, to feel almost as if he was beginning to gather back the status that was ripped unjustly from his family. yet, edmund hardly felt secure in his position. with a quiet sigh, he helped himself to the wine in his chalice, preparing himself to have to place the heavy jacket on once more. 

All was quiet when she arrived, and Bridget wordlessly made her way through the stalls, stopping before one horse who whinnied quietly as she approached. She carefully reached out and gently ran her hand over its long neck, meeting the horse's large, dark eyes with her comparatively small, blue ones. The horse's attention shifted in an instant, drawing Bridget's gaze to the presence of another. "Careful, we mustn't startle them."

The pageantry and splendor of the evening was not something that entirely suited the Earl of Ormond. Though he came from a family of wealth and was no stranger to the fanfare of nobility, he found himself more suited to a battlefield or an evening spent in privacy. Nonetheless, he was present as the ladies' performances gave way to less scripted frivolity, and he took his moment to survey the room around him, slowly sipping from the cup of sweet wine. "The ladies have outdone themselves this evening," he mused. "The noble men of this court might do well to apprise themselves of the knowledge and skill more often, I should think. My wife certainly says the same in the midst of every quarrel."

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. 

        The tip of his long pipe leaked a curl of damp, pungent fog, and with it, the distinctive stench of tobacco clouded the air.  Sweet-smelling, earthy, a touch piquant.  Smoke coiled around Dudley’s long, black beard, unbound with a deep sigh heaved from within the Earl’s broad chest.  Although not yet couth to smoke at court, Dudley had taken the opportunity to escape, without drawing suspicion, as the rest of the assembly fawned over the troupe’s performance – sneaking toward the river’s edge to avail himself of a puff.  Dudley was, and always had been, greatly fond of courtly theatrics – it was, rather, the simpering delegation of foreigners on English soil he disdained, each velvet-robbed threat to the Tudors’ sovereignty and security. 

What good could come of them, those peacocking French?  The French who craved much more than Calais, but to rule England itself?  And what of those devout, unwavering Spaniards, sombre in both body and blood?  With an arrogance unmatched at court, Dudley openly exhibited his distrust and derision.  It was, after all, these very guests – kings, princes, and emperors – that would expect to get an heir off His Majesty’s sister, the only woman in England powerful enough to command the earl's exultant affection.

It had been many years since Maria had foot on English soil, and now, back in London –– a place she thought only to return with a warrant for arrest looming over her raven head –– the duquesa had grown to relish retracting the steps of her beloved mistress, familiarising herself with the realm Mary Tudor had once called home. The country, this misty prison, to which Catalina de Aragón had surrendered her fealty, had enriched its barren lands with a bevy of stillborn babes and one miraculous daughter to survive infancy –– Mary, la reina, consort of the richest and most powerful dynasty in Europe.

But with la concubina and her bastards imperiously lodged at Hampton Court, Maria had refused to dance attendance unto the Boleyns with her presence; through Spain's ambassador to England, the duchess feigned illness, a fear of unclean airs, and instead accepted an invitation to sojourn at the Grey's riverside manor, Chelsea House, at the generosity of the Suffolk Dowager –– a kinswoman and, perhaps ever more saliently, a devout ( and recusant ) Catholic. With its red-brick terraces, made a pale pink by the late-summer sun, abundant orchards, and lavish knot gardens, Chelsea Place suited the duchess soundly; reminding her, a mere trifle, of the limestone fortresses and bountiful courtyards of Alcalá de Henares, shaded by ancient trees dappled with ripe apricots.

Taking her morning stroll by the river, Maria nodded determinedly, serenely, when her lady's maid –– Donna Beatriz –– informed her that she had received a visitor. She waited by the entrance of the glass-paned greenhouse for her summons, twisting her crimson mouth into a smile. 'I hope you did not find the journey from Court too strenuous.' Raising her hand in greeting, glittering in the light with precious jewels, Maria swept into a curtsy. 'You are kind to visit me here in Chelsea; I admit to finding my lodgings here much more comfortable than by the bustle of court.'

'Come, we shall take clean airs and walk as we speak. Then, you shall join us for dinner, no? Or must you go so soon?'

        sitting  at  its  colossus  height  upon  the  thames,  the  white  tower  looked  down  upon  the  people  of  london  as  though  it  observed  its  own  kingdom  and  today  it  witnessed  the  deaths  of  three  of  its  disloyal  subjects.  the  tower  was  once  a  place  of  safety  and  warmth  for  the  king  and  his  court  and  yet,  as  jane  boleyn  turned  her  dark  gaze  skyward,  it  felt  as  though  the  walls  might  imprison  them  all  one  day.  herself  included,  she  feared.  the  onion  domes  atop  the  turrets of the white  tower  -  a  coronation  gift  from  the  late  king  to  her  own  dear  sister  -  dominated  the  view  and  casted  a  heavy  shadow  upon  all  below  in  the  morning  light,  making  it  clear  for  her  to  see  as  she  stood  with  her  back  towards  the  scaffold  which  had  earlier  staged  thrice  the  theft  of  life.

With a gracious tilt of her head Jocasta silently thanked her companion for the offered goblet. Glancing down at the libation, she swirled the dark crimson ichor about its silver confines, contented upon seeing the body hold – there was nothing worse than watered down wine, especially in such circumstances. The courts return to Surrey had filled the Duchess with a longing to be elsewhere, alas such luxuries were not even awarded to a woman of her position without permission. She had hoped that an earlier visit to her brother might have quelled the melancholic overtures consuming her thoughts, but they were perhaps more profound than she had originally believed. It would pass with haste, Jocasta quietly reminded herself, there were always countless distractions at court, whether they be political or personal.