#felipaed

Where most of the courtiers were nothing but sons of Dukes, or if you were lucky, some distant relation of the King himself, none stood out more than the son of Spain. He glimmered as if caught by the sun, causing every single person who lingered to turn their necks in order to catch just a glimpse. Héléne, who was no more special than any other, saw him as soon as he entered — for he radiated something magnificent; not that there was any question or riddle why he did. He was the son of Mary Tudor, the usurped true Queen of England, and the King of Spain. Both as Holy and zealous as a good Catholic came. And so in that order, Héléne respected him in the same way she had been when first presented before the rulers of France in her first years at court. 

Though most of the maid of honour’s life was kept behind warped rumours and tattle-tales, most of the rumours that surrounded her were indeed one of truths. She had laid with the King of France as soon as she was able, henceforth sent to a convent where she had one of the many illegitimate children to be educated and taken by someone in the country. By that, she had proved herself a loyal French servant, thereafter installed as part of the de Medici court where she used her womanly vices to twist the knives of her Queen deep into unsuspecting backs. She had been married, that was known to almost anyone, and had been blessed with a son. But, both had died quickly, and so the slate was once again wiped clean to instead present Héléne as a piece upon the chess board. 

The badges of the Habsburgs and Tudors welded together, the copper-tressed English King to one side, hands clasped, eyes swirling with gilded intensity; the Spanish prince on the other, a hawk at the wrist, dripping in Iberian jewels; above, a band of heavenly angels singing in choir, rising into a background blue-as-blue – the colour of the carpets stretched along Westminster Abbey.  William feasted his gaze upon the double-portrait, depicting himself and his young nephew, Prince Philip, as the very picture of Renaissance glory, and gave a triumphant nod.  The painting commemorated not only their individual strengths – two rulers at the height of physical vigour – but the successful summit convened at blustery Dover, this blessed November 1559. 

In centuries to come, would their descendants gaze upon such a work of brilliance and wonder if it were possible for two such princes to have walked the Earth in unison?  Was their world not indeed a splendid Camelot, now united in filial harmony?

William grinned to himself, his leer conspiratorial.  The wounds his father had sliced across the continent were beginning to seam and sure and cauterize; all of it thanks to him.  Who would have suspected only five years’ past that Spain was rapidly becoming more ally than adversary?  Tho’ it was war and immortality he desired, peace and prosperity had begun to trickle across the length and breadth of England to the sound of overwhelming popularity – and this he would but seldom object, for though he embraced it now, the time for battle remained ever near, a devil lurking in the shadows. Turning to his nephew, the King lauded: ‘aye, your mother’s Leevina Teerlinc is indeed a maestro, young Philip.’ Bading the Prince with affection, the Spaniard’s eyes like fiery pits, Wills released a low chuckle. ‘But do you not think our noses are a little… grand?’ 

As he clasped the boy on his shoulders, his cheeks bloomed pink – for all his venery, the King of England was a pious man, after all. ‘Or is that merely the continent’s way of symbolizing a large… ah… apéndice? Flattering, I should think.’