#robsartd

She remained by Amy’s side then as they entertained the masses with the presence of the Dudley household, ritually checking on her cousins with tender touches or sweetened whispers, straying often to Amy Robsart side when Kismet was not in need of her attention. Passing a cup towards the Countess, Jane sat by her side, arranging her veil over her head to expose the smile towards her cousin-in-law. “How do you feel? Is there anything I may do? Perhaps another cushion, or something sweetened?” She asked, doting on Amy as if she herself felt the kicks of a new life inside of her — the rest of the room then fleeting, for even if the King himself approached, Jane would not overlook her duty. @robsartd

The family’s attendants were fast asleep when Lord Leicester crept back into the Dudley’s apartments, bundled beneath the heavy quilts strewn across a cot at the foot of his sister’s bed, their round faces shadowed by the flickering yellow light of torches. Their chambers were not as lavish as those allocated to higher-ranking families, such as the Boleyns, though they commanded a fine view over the courtyard in which the Princess Elizabeth was said to take her morning walks, and the palatial hearth which heated the space was carved with the emblem of the late Tudor King, a heady reminder of where their loyalties, and their fortune, lied. Leicester treads lightly across the space, the deafening silence absorbing the striking of his boots across the floor.

Dudley’s knuckles graze the door leading into the bedchamber he shared with his wife, a sliver of light leaking through the hinges; a moment of hesitation, of doubt, as his forehead brushes the deep, ancient grooves of the oak, Bess’ lingering perfume and the familiar gnawing of guilt coating his skin. He is unsurprised to find Amy still awake, a river of hair forming an amber curtain around her Book of Hours, gently haloed by the bronze-gilded glow of candlelight. Dudley’s jaw shifts, his clear-eyed expression sliding from the manuscript in her hand to his side of the bed – untouched from his early rising, blankets neatly aligned with the pillows – back to the white linen shift tied in a knot underneath Amy’s chin. ‘Good evening, wife.’ He clears his throat, shrugging out of his velvet overcoat. He cannot yet sense if she is cross with him, for Amy never allows her feelings to pour out; she does not possess Bess’ fierce jealousy, nor her animalistic rage. ‘The gambling tables ran late. You know how the King is. He’d have us paying court to him ‘till morning if he could.’

As he undresses, plucking jewels and brooches from his doublet, he casts a sideways glance in Amy’s direction. His wife’s kindly spirit and vivacious disposition ensured there was no absence of conjugal bliss in their marriage, and his attraction to her – blinding from the start – had not been warped, or tarnished, by time. What, then, was missing? Was it simply that she was not, could not be, Elizabeth? What honourable man fault her a shortcoming that was itself divined by God? Leicester runs a hand through his beard, woven with threads of red-gold – growing thicker and more impressive as the years toil on – before sliding each ring off his long, deft fingers. He saves Elizabeth’s sapphires for last, placing them gingerly beside a miniature of his stepchildren. It clinks noisily as it meets the wooden surface of his desk, ringing like Anne’s trickling laughter, or Robin’s infectious hurrahs.