#lainfanta

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡    . . .    catherine    of    spain    (    @lainfanta    )    𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞    . . .    on    the    road    to    dover    .

though  prior  negotiations  had  been  led  by  the  spanish  ambassadors  that  had  accompanied  the  prince  of  asturias  to  the  muddy  shores  of  england  on  the  account  of  his  youth,  felipe  had  watched  with  proceedings  with  rapt  attention  that  was  broken  only  by  his  attempts  to  curtail  any  disruptions  from  his  younger  sister.  at  this  point,  he  was  certain  that  their  english  kin  were  more  than  aware  of  her  desires  to  prove  herself  equally  as  capable  in  the  role  of  heir  to  the  throne,  lobbying  for  the  spanish  cause  where  he  kept  silent  in  observance  but  he  had  very  little  to  prove  to  their  distant  relatives,  content  with  allowing  the  political  dialogue  to  take  place  between  those  who  knew  the  wishes  of  his  father  more  intimately  while  he  fostered  good  relationships  through  conversation  and  sport.  as  the  twins  rode  ahead  of  the  retinue  of  people  that  had  followed  them  from  madrid  to  london  and  now  to  dover  to  greet  their  mother,  the  infanta  was  more  akin  to  the  dark  clouds  that  plagued  the  english  skies,  the  weight  of  her  stare  heavy  against  his  back  ─  felipe  was  aware  that  her  displeasures  with  him  numbered  more  than  the  stars  and,  were  there  not  others  around  them,  he  might  not  have  turned  his  back  so  easily  to  his  sister  for  fear  of  finding  a  knife  struck  between  his  shoulders,  but  it  gave  him  no  delight  in  correcting  her  so  publicly.  the  insides  of  his  cheeks  bore  the  abuse  from  his  teeth  as  he  stifled  each  harsh  word  and  irritated  look  until  they  were  in  private  but  with  the  wind  in  his  hair  and  their  servants  at  a  distance,  he  felt  more  comfortable  in  addressing  now.

❝  you  are  doing  a  poor  job  in  disguising  your  hatred  for  me,  little  cat.  ❞  in  spite  of  knowing  better  than  to  proke  a  coiled  serpent,  he  could  not  help  but  dig  into  the  cesspool  that  was  her  disdain  for  his  very  existence.  it  was  his  right  as  her  older  brother  to  torment  her  till  the  end  of  her  days  and  there  was  still  blood  in  his  mouth  from  the  past  week  of  showed  restraint  before  their  english  allies  ─  it  was  only  just  that  he  poked  at  her  a  little  bit.  ❝  can  you  not  be  more  like  our  aunt,  elizabeth  ?  i  am  certain  she,  too,  must  be  vexed  by  our  uncle,  the  king,  as  all  younger  sisters  seem  to  be  but  she  bears  her  frustrations  with  more  grace  than  you  ever  have. ❞  though  only  an  hour  and  a  few  minutes  older  than  the  infanta,  his  tone  had  taken  on  a  natural  grumble  best  associated  with  longsuffering  older  siblings.  it  was  not  his  usual  intonation  but  one  that  was  chiefly  reserved  for  his  sister  if  only  because  he  knew  how  much  it  irritated  her  to  have  him  nag  at  her  as  though  the  gap  between  their  ages  was  so  great  that  he  held  more  experience  than  she  had.  (  in  some  ways,  he  did  but  not  for  a  lack  of  trying  on  her  part.  had  catalina  not  been  sent  away,  felipe  was  certain  she  would  rival  him  in  accomplishments.  he  only  wished  she  could  channel  such  determination  and  passion  for  spain  towards  supporting  him  rather  than  praying  for  his  downfall.  )  

In the feasting hall he kept to himself whilst provoking an audience with the coaxing call of his poetry, there he waxed lyrical upon the history of the castle and the romantic overture of Eleanor of Aquitaine — so, perhaps it was not solitude he was after but rather a quieter, less serious means of attentions. With his words he drew a vision of jealousy piqued with one ruling king and a lover in tow (for the idea of a menage á trois was not something that Thomas had been a stranger to, for had he not watched Anne’s own envy whenever Henry looked at another woman? When the very thought of either Mary Tudor or Jane Seymour came to taunt her?), leaning back in his chair like a slovenly Roman Emperor awaiting a fresh bunch of grapes before he met the eyes of one he knew by all but name. Rising to his feet, the crowd dispersing for the change of tune, the Earl of Allington then lowered himself to a respectful bow — for she was the daughter of Mary Tudor, a daughter of Spain and by blood right even a claimant of the throne itself. She was a beautiful thing, but much too young and too late for Thomas’ wandering eye. 

“Your Grace, I hope you find Dover to your taste. It is a far stretch from Spain, for that I am certain, but it is always a pleasure to diverge from the solemn routine of Hampton’s everyday routine, am I not right?” @lainfanta