#immaclte

         In his plainest tunic and trousers, Wills had crept into the kitchens whilst the servants attended mass, not wanting to be feted or petitioned as he heaped mince pies down his gullet.  Only, it proved futile to make perfect sense of the elaborate labyrinthine of furnaces and ovens, and so he settled on a hunk of rye bread and cheese found in the cupboard.  Occasionally, Hampton’s head cook would march in and swat the king away, insisting on preparing whichever dish the King had a hankering for on the double - but today, while the court was otherwise occupied with prayers, Wills was glad of the quiet.  Monsieur Allard was a devout man, but the stream of oaths he uttered when he found His Majesty rifling through his kitchens would greatly belie his piety.

The king’s brow-bone furrowed as he caught a flash of red-gold hair, paired with a swish of voluminous skirts that could be heard from miles away.  The intruder was unmistakably a Tudor.  But who?  Isabel would not be caught dead breaking her own bread.  Kat was now a married woman with a culinary household of her own.  That left Elizabeth, the last of the reddish royals.  ‘Show yourself,’ William ordered gruffly, his dark eyes askance.

The king pulled a grimace when Elizabeth swept before him, wearing the slightest slant to her lips, eyes enameled with shrewd satisfaction.  Nostalgia struck him deep in his belly, for he realized it had now been years since the siblings first began to slink into the royal kitchens while sermons were being conducted.  That had been at Hatfield, where there was no higher power to answer to but Lady Mary herself, though the tradition had evidently trickled into adulthood.