The night was given to falsities; as the hour began to wear late, so heightened became a state of mystery and revelry, spreading across the chateau. Torches set upon the room aided the pale moon in its struggling glow - King William’s party, augmented in fine numbers, was merry indeed. Ladies devoured desultory, familiar gossip, as gentlemen fetched refreshments - grasping for attention of the copper headed sovereign. Nicholas, once known for setting upon any scene as a fierce conquerer, determined to acquire the mantle of the party’s very life, no longer cared for such a time - for now he was determined only to be chief in mirth, in the eyes of his dear Ursula.Â
  Their love was made of a stock, he believed consolidated by affections pure; a love which laughed at passion, foolish in its frenzied state, racing towards extinction. The late King had often suffered such an emotion, which lacked wit; only a love, submitted by intellect, wrought by intellect’s greatest tests, was worth entertaining. The beauty of moonlight, once forgotten beneath sweltering torches, flowed upon her visage now - a pity for the moon, as Ursula out did, out sone her, her beauty a silent triumph. Nicholas pulled his bride to his chest, so that their turns about the room, lacked not an inch of space, for Ursula’s treasured holy spirit; she seemed to him now, proof of all things regnant. “My lady justice - how does your reign under such a mantle, treat you? I would bestow a bevy of alternative virtues onto your head….though the titles I would offer you, would tread into territory, most unbecoming for public consumption.” Nicholas moved in firm, stately movements; so different from the graceful, languid steps of Ursula, who he treated to the full weight of his gaze, filled with adoration.Â
One day their love would be inscribed in poetry books. Their first moments to be performed by thespians across the ages. One day, they’d become immortal. But till that moment Ursula devoured him, her hands already prepped and ready to take him beneath her touch - to hold him with a tightness often seen between romanced young couples. She drew her nails beneath the sewn hem of his jerkin, scratching at skin through the thin chemise before drawing herself closer with a wicked grin. By all means they were not a match made in heaven; he was a firm reformist, she was a stubborn catholic. Their children would be hybrids of what was easy and what was right - but that didn’t make them sour. Draped as Justice, Ursula threw her head back for her husband to whisper poetic sonnets in her ear, allowing them to be anything but them. They were neither Earl or Countess were back at court - where anything could happen; where the axe could swing at any moment. Their souls instead were trapped within their true home with each child at their ankles. So they danced, Justice and her Partner, swaying to and fro as if they were the only people in the room.Â
“Dearest stranger, are you to be an advocate for sin? Lady Justice is tied to another, woven into them by duty and what was lawfully right. But I wonder, perhaps it is my role to listen to your sordid words - to weigh them in the palm of my hand to sense what is wrong and what is right, then I would inflict upon you a punishment. Perhaps confine you to your chambers, to reflect on what you did with such intended malice,” Ursula answered, playing with him as her chin rose towards the ceiling, her lips forming a pout that waited for his divine kiss. No, perhaps they were not soul mates. But they were indeed partners, a union made beneath God and every ancestor that had been long gone. When not dancing properly, Ursula pushed her husband to the side of the room, leaving him isolated with Justice as she held onto the front of his cotton shirt. “And tell me thus, have you indulged yourself in the splendour? Have you thought of your Lady Wife?”
