#amy : hehe hoho haha my handsome husband ... stinky bear man who i will kiss !!!!

[robsartd]

the  inhabitants  of  dover  castle  bemoaned  the  bad  weather  and  the  more  irrational  of  the  king's  courtiers  marked  the  dampened  beginnings  as  an  ill - omen  for  their  conversations  with  the  entreating  spaniards  ─  while  she  was  inclined  to  voice  her  agreement  to  such  peasant  superstitions,  what  use  did  she  have  for  the  sun  when  robert  dudley  was  near  ?  pinned  into  place  by  the  weight  of  his  gaze,  so  dark  beneath  the  dampened  strands  of  his  hair,  she  was  but  a  rabbit  now  ensnared  in  the  trap  that  he  had  so  expertly  laid  out,  her  throat  bared  for  his  teeth,  her  skin  flushed  with  an  onslaught  of  sudden  warmth  that  coiled  deliciously  in  her  belly  and  around  her  heart  at  the  sight  of  his  smile  and  how  it  softened  the  shadowed  contours  of  his  features.  the  sight  evoked  a  bashfulness  in  the  countess,  her  pleasure  at  his  return  hidden  as  she  tucked  the  expression  (  and  her  chin  )  against  her  neck,  watching  as  his  fingers  made  quick  work  of  his  chains  and  clasps  before  turning  to  her  own  feigned  unfolding  of  their  belongings  if  only  to  conceal  how,  even  after  nearly  a  decade  of  marriage,  the  faintest  hint  of  teeth  behind  his  lips  was  enough  to  widen  her  own  smile  to  points  of  absurdity.  surely  it  was  not  commonplace  for  a  wife  to  feel  such  joy  at  inspiring  gentleness,  happiness  and  comfort  in  her  husband  as  though  they  were  newlyweds  and  the  burdens  of  wifedom  had  not  yet  crushed  the  first  blazes  of  love  ─  what  sorcery  did  he  practice  to  hold  her  captive  in  his  arms  after  all  this  time,  after  such  hurt  ?

discomfort  faded  into  a  dulled  ache  in  his  presence,  as  though  her  affection  for  him  was  too  great  to  allow  anything  else  to  disrupt  the  peace  between  them,  a  soft  laugh  escaping  her  chest  at  his  words.  ❝  my  bear.  ❞  it  lacked  any  sense  of  possessiveness  and  carried  the  weight  of  her  adoration,  her  regard  for  him  as  husband,  father  and  lord,  the  length  of  her  torso  melting  against  his  front  as  she  attempted,  poorly,  to  fold  one  of  his  shirts  away.  like  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  a  puppeteer,  she  moved  in  accordance  to  his  slightest  touch  ─  her  head  tilted  in  the  opposite  direction  of  his  to  allow  him  space  to  rest  his  chin,  her  back  arched  forward  at  the  gentle  press  of  his  thumbs  to  the  center  of  her  shoulders  and  she  sighed  through  her  nose,  the  sound  a  near - purr  of  a  satisfied  feline.

an  indignant  noise  was  hummed  into  the  air,  brows  furrowing  briefly  at  the words  that  followed.  ❝  oh,  my  sweet  husband  ...  beloved  ...  my  poor,  poor  robert  ...  ❞  still,  she  teased  through  her  concern,  unable  to  stifle  the  delight  at  the  opportunity  that  dover  castle  and  their  growing  child  had  offered  her  to  monopolize  his  time  and  his  attention  for  her  own.  amy  had  not  been  told  in  so  many  words  of  the  sacrifice  that  he  had  made  following  the  revelation  of  her  expectant  state,  but  had  come  to  a  sensible  conclusion  after  studying  his  foul  moods  and  reading  through  the  barrage  of  letters  from  his  sister  that  had  followed  them  from  hampton  to  dover,  conveying  her  confusion  at  the  sudden  change  of  heart  in  the  princess.  a  part  of  her,  however  miniscule,  felt  ashamed  for  the  sorry  state  that  she  had  dragged  both  robert  and  kismet  into  with  the  news  of  her  pregnancy  ─  it  would  only  grow  larger  by  the  day  as  they  continued,  threatening  to  consume  her  with  a  guilt  that  she  had  no  reason  to  carry,  but  it  was  the  size  of  a  mustard  seed  now,  wedged  between  her  chest  and  her  womb,  easy  to  ignore  with  more  pressing  concerns  at  hand.  ❝  fortunately  for  you,  i  am  as  easily  pleased  as  i  am  displeased.  now,  it  pleases  me  to  merely  look  at  you  !  i  would  find  myself  content  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  gazing  at  my  ridiculously  fierce  and  handsome  husband,  no  matter  his  faults.  ❞  of  which  there  were  many,  though  she  did  not  speak  the  words  so  much  as  imply  them  with  her  punctured  silence,  amusement  at  his  expense  tapering  off  as  she  turned  to  face  him,  taking  in  the  exhausted  lines  of  his  face,  first  with  her  eyes  and  then  following  the  path  with  her  fingers,  ghosting  her  touch  across  his  cheeks  before  pressing  a  quick,  sweet  kiss  to  one.

❝  there  is  nothing  to  forgive,  darling,  or  did  you  imagine  me  unfamiliar  with  your  moods  and  how  best  to  navigate  them  ?  it  was  a  frightful  journey  and  already  i  am  dreading  the  return  back  to  court  ...  ❞  for  more  reasons  than  just  the  roads  and  the  weather,  though  her  soft  gaze  did  not  betray  such  thoughts.  ❝  the  maids  prepared  a  hot  bath  before  they  left  ...  i  had  the  intention  to  take  a  soak  to  soothe  my  poor  legs  but  i  find  myself  persuaded  to  relinquish  the  tub  to  you  first,  husband.  as  forgiving  as  i  am,  i  fear  you  smell  too  much  like  horse  for  my  delicate  belly.  ❞

Potted, cragged, swollen with insistent rain: the ancient Roman roads stretching from London to Dover made intolerable the hard ride from Hampton Court.  The furrowed brows, wan faces, and occasional red-rimmed iris among the King’s entourage suggested it was not just the Dudleys who suffered from the biting, incense-thickened air, the relentless humming of the clergymen limping about, swinging their heady censers and crosses like weapons, warding away sickness, staving off the encroaching fog, the rain like whetted arrows pouring from the skies.  Miserable, Leicester spat, this overwhelmingly frivolous display, as he looked about and found William’s entourage riding by like a guild of pilgrims, rather than a royal court – so habitually famed for its luster, horns blasting, stags bounding majestic, all eyes ablaze with happy furor and cheeks reddened by whipping wind, pomp and circumstance and gold banners brandishing about. 

Now, the troupe trailed limply, colorlessly, all the way to Dover – like unwilling sacrifices – the news of Seymour’s rebirth dampening the spirits of the court. 

Not even the King’s people, usually so eager to line up in the towns which the court passed unblinkingly, straggled to catch a glimpse of him, red-gold hair piercing through the mist, a gaggle of delighted gasps following, blackened fingertips jutted out to grab hold of an inch of his majesty, a vanished mystique. And, of course, not a one stuck their necks out to see if Elizabeth and her decorated ladies trailed behind, for they hadn’t.  She hadn’t.  And, as rain hung like blood to Dudley’s feathered cap, he knew that there would be no more of her entirely: Elizabeth Tudor was dead to him, a red-gold wraith of the past, bobbing at the tail of his eyes.  Why, then, as he flayed open his doublet and tossed it to the window bench, rain-soaked fabrics usurped with fire-warmed furs, did the thought clout him with a sort of murderous rage?  This searing agony?  Was this Divine?

Wordlessly Robert Dudley undressed and re-dressed, for there was nothing left to speak: not to himself, nor anyone else.  As he wrested the gold chain from his neck and the locket from his wrists, he thought of the Irish triad that haunted his early expeditions to that emerald isle, and grimaced, the lines of his face crowded with ghosts. ‘Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die, and to die not; to try to please, and to please not; to wait for someone who comes not.’

Dudley’s gaze snapped to Amy, lingering in the doorway, as she spoke.  She looked herself, today, standing by the sleek, gilded archway: a newcomer to noble ranks.  Out of place.   The woman who for nearly half a decade his kisses had rained like Manna upon – her face, the hair that streamed over her shoulders, neck, breasts, thighs.  He’d felt her tremble against him.  Dug into the blades of his shoulders as he heaped her up against the mattress of their marital bed, driven into her with an intense and intoxicating desire, filled with his seed, for Amy Robsart at once his and something else entirely.  Passive, yet not passive; a yielding presence.  The dutiful wife; the loving mother; Helen before the war.  Why, then, he again asked, did God now see fit to bless them with a child?   His smile toward hers was surprisingly gentle, concealing the conundrum of emotions closing ranks behind his poker face.  ‘Shh.  Say naught.’  The last gilded clasp on his wrist unbroken, Dudley said, ‘the bear does not like to be disturbed.’

Dudley followed Amy blindly, mere inches of space wedged between husband and wife as his chest cocooned the arch of her spine, his large hand shifting her river of hair from one shoulder to the other, allowing him access to Amy’s soft neck.   Peering down the bridge of his nose at the swell of her belly, he took note of the loosened stays laced up her back to accommodate for her burgeoning midsection. He wondered what she might look like when her belly was puffed up in four month’s time, a king’s ransom worth of fabric draped from her swollen body.  He bit back the urge to reach for it, keeping his hands at the ridge of her shoulders, softly kneading the tension coiled in the twists of her muscles.   ‘Or yours.’  He murmured, adrift in reflection.  Dropping his mouth to her throat, Leicester kissed her not; but left his lips pursed there, breathing deeply of her powdery scent.  ‘Forgive me.  The trip taunted me; I am no use for the sparring of words.  Do you feel quite well, despite my intolerableness, wife?  Have I displeased you, Amy?  Tell me, and I shall spend my life begging your humble forgiveness.’    For what else but forgiveness could she ever grant to him?