#leiccsters

[robsartd]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡    . . .    robert    dudley    (    @leiccsters    )    𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞    . . .    dover   .

the  road  from  london  to  dover  had  been  made  even  more  difficult  by  the  weather,  evening  downpours  softening  the  ground  beneath  their  feet  in  the  morning  until  not  even  the  relentless  pace  maintained  by  the  front  of  the  entourage  could  compel  the  stragglers  to  move  any  quicker  in  pursuit  ─  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  encampments  around  dover  castle,  the  countess  of  leicester  had  to  be  helped  out  of  the  litter,  fingers  pressed  against  her  mouth  as  a  maid  guided  her  from  the  courtyard  to  the  prepared  rooms  close  to  where  her  mistress  was  positioned.  she  would  have  preferred  to  make  the  journey  on  horseback  as  the  fresh  air  would  have  helped  to  soothe  her  unsettled  belly  but  amy  would  not  risk  the  health  of  the  babe  with  such  a  harsh  pace  and  an  unfamiliar  mount,  confining  herself  to  the  swaying  litter  even  if  it  had  made  her  feel  wretched  beyond  belief.  the  only  other  person  who  seemed  to  be  as  miserable  as  she  felt  was,  coincidentally,  the  earl  of  leicester,  whose  ill - temper  had  seen  their  shared  rooms  emptied  of  servants  that  morning  which  suited  her  well  as  she  unpacked  their  belongings  slowly,  laying  out  one  of  his  doublets  on  the  bed  so  that  she  could  find  a  gown  that  closely  mirrored  the  colors  of  his  velvet.  

holding  a  sleeve  up  to  the  window,  her  head  turned  instinctively  towards  the  sound  of  his  approaching  footsteps,  lumbering  with  a  heaviness  that  foretold  his  prickly  exteriors  ─  the  thought  brought  a  secretive  smile  to  her  face  as  she  pressed  the  rich  fabric  of  his  doublet  to  her  lips,  turning  on  her  heel  to  greet  him  as  he  entered  the  room.  ❝  you  are  still  in  a  mood.  ❞  a  fair  brow  raised  in  teasing  mockery  even  as  her  stomach  sank.  amy  could  play  the  fool  quite  well  but  even  a  fool  could  not  ignore  the  obvious  reasoning  behind  his  change  in  temperament,  his  impatience  with  everyone  but  a  select  few.  the  pleasure  of  possessing  his  undivided  attention  was  still  fresh  but  how  long  could  she  feign  blindness  to  his  unhappiness  ?  as  she  held  one  hand  out  to  beckon  him  closer,  the  countess  of  leicester  decided  that  she  deserved  to  be  selfish  for  a  moment  longer  though  she  would  also  attempt  to  appease  and  distract  him  when  possible,  if  only  to  spare  the  servants  from  rotating  duties  to  avoid  their  corner  of  the  castle.  ❝  i  have  sent  the  servants  away  so  i  fear  you  will  have  to  terrorize  me  instead.  come  here,  my  bear,  and  change  out  of  that.  i've  found  a  gown  that  better  suits  this  doublet  to  let  me  lay  claim  on  my  husband  through  his  clothing,  if  nothing  else.  ❞  the  babe  was  still  a  poorly  kept  secret,  at  least  until  she  could  tell  her  mistress  anne  and  receive  her  blessings  and  permission  to  retire  to  kenilworth  once  the  period  of  laying  in  arrived,  but  already  amy  had  to  take  out  a  few  inches  from  her  waist  to  make  space  for  the  swell  of  her  belly,  the  ribbons  of  her  bodice  loosened  even  now  to  allow  her  more  room  to  breathe  freely.

❝  you  are  not  cross  with  me,  are  you  ?  you  cannot  be,  not  after  your  child  has  left  me  feeling  bereft  of  strength.  if  anything,  i  should  exile  you  from  my  bed  after  this  ...  already  he  has  inherited  your  ornery  demeanor.  ❞  turning  back  to  the  bed,  she  pulled  the  curled  length  of  her  fiery  mane  to  one  side,  exposing  the  pale  stretch  of  neck  and  shoulder  with  the  impishness  of  a  wife,  demanding  for  her  husband  to  slide  around  the  softness  of  her  body  kept  solely  for  his  delight.  

[ladymegwelles]

& @leiccsters

Years had passed since Meg Welles had first laid eyes upon the inner walls of Hampton Court, its pillars seemingly reaching to the heavens in the eyes of a young girl who had not yet viewed such splendor. Still new in comparison to the other decorated and historic castles build by the Tudors' ancestors, Henry VIII's cherished home sparkled with opulence and exquisite taste. Portraits of the family lined the halls, some even unknown to Meg, who had taken great care to memorize the most important figures leading up to William's ascension - his father, of course, and his grandfather, the victor of the great Lancaster/York conflict. His grandfather's mother, the formidable and fearless Margaret Beaufort, stoic on canvas as she was said to be in life. The list went on and on, each person an important part of shaping the generation that currently held the throne.

Her steps slowed in front of Queen Elizabeth, wife of Edward IV. Their dear country had been thrown into even deeper strife with their marriage, yet that couple's great-grandson now sat on England's throne. Meg wondered how proud the Woodeville woman might have been to know that her line continued, not only with William but with Bess, who carried on her name and ferocity.

Footsteps drew her gaze away from the painting, the sound of heels meeting the floor echoing across the hall. Her lips drew into a pleasant smile for the man she saw before her gaze turned back to the Yorkist queen. "It is uncanny, is it not, how strong a family resemblance can be, Lord Leicester? Though the princess was blessed with her father's hair and her mother's eyes, it is impossible to deny the connection to relatives of yore."

[bloodydayshq]

please follow & welcome the following roles: additionally, our following list has been made public.

@cecilyfitzrys

@edmcndd

@sebastiandelorges

@johnseymour

@richardofrochford

@ursularich

@thunyielding

@boleynsrex

@leiccsters

@agneseymour

@unconqucred

@philippaed

@thquldnunc

@ivorylaced

[thunyielding]

As the heavy clouds split in the wine-dark sea of the nighttime sky, Elizabeth hitched her skirts up over her feet and broke into a girlish laugh, the noise as well tuned as any lute, before she cast her net wide to embrace the closest of companions. Her hands — her royal, holy hands — took to the shoulders of others as she tried to hop over the blades of grass in fear of ruining the gold brocade created by loving stitches, before she relinquished them of their responsibility upon seeing the shadow of the one she could not help but love. 

Love? Was it that? Of course, it shook her deeply, as if he had set his anchor within her — that with each tug she ran with the pace of the strongest horse. But, then, was it not she who almost always yearned for his presence? Was it not she who etched secret words between lines of careful penmanship for his quick release? 

But who was to question the order of their Princess? A woman sculpted by Tudor blood and Boleyn passion, a figure cast in the shape of a mother yet soaked in the fury of a father. No one, bar perhaps the figure who remained in shadow, could coax Elizabeth from what she wanted, and without further thought she pushed her companions aside to guide her vision of glittering gold towards he — Robin, [i]her[/i] Robin whom she had fallen for in the very first days of their common place friendship. What was she but struck by Cupid’s bow, for beneath the glamour of being holy by birth, she was but a girl with the same desires of any other. 

So, she ignored the suspicion of other courtiers, slipping in line towards Dudley before the rain could draw the line between them in broad, fine strokes. For as soon as she reached his part of the garden, the clouds had spilled upon the earth as heavy as they could've done, falling in fat droplets that lit a chorus against the awaiting canopies. Rushing to him, her heart a-flutter against her chest, Elizabeth threw herself to him with her hands already grasped around his elbows, her body ready to latch onto his in that first second of their long-awaited reunion.

“The heavens! Look!” She cried, holding back joyous laughter before craning her neck back to look above them, to gaze with widened eyes, her hands clutched around his arms, her faith in his safety, all too obvious for anyone to make some vulgar comment. "What an omen..." @leiccsters

[philippaed]

though  bradgate  house  had  not  lacked  for  visitors  with  the  favor - seekers,  paltry  entertainers  and  conspiring  noblemen  that  had  darkened  their  doorstep,  exhausting  her  hospitality  as  the  mistress  of  the  household  long  before  her  father  had  passed  and  the  weight  of  being  head  of  the  family  had  passed  onto  her,  the  sheer  number  of  people  that  had  answered  the  invitation  to  sojourn  in  hampton  court  had  taken  some  familiarizing  with  after  nearly  seven  years  of  being  away  from  court  outside  of  answering  royal  summons  and  attending  the  necessary  festivities  for  births,  marriages  and  coronations.  her  sisters  had  long  since  taken  their  leave  from  her  side  to  disperse  among  their  old  companions,  blessed  with  the  chance  to  shed  their  concerns  for  a  moment  with  an  optimism  and  belief  in  others  that  she  had  replaced  with  a  calculating  eye  that  she  used  to  measure  the  worth  of  those  around  her,  dismissing  or  treasuring  her  friends  (  allies,  even  among  those  that  she  considered  kin  )  according  to  the  value  that  they  might  bring  into  her  life.  yet  even  for  someone  who  delighted  in  the  ostentatiousness  and  subtle  politicking  of  court,  the  revolving  list  of  names  and  bodies  had  slowly  grown  to  grate  at  her  patience  and  philippa  knew  that  she  should  seek  out  of  moment  to  clear  her  head,  allowing  the  smile  that  now  ached  at  her  cheeks  to  falter  into  nothing.

there  was  a  pleasantly  gentle  breeze  that  picked  up  along  the  riverside,  cooling  the  heated  apples  of  her  cheeks  as  she  sought  out  some  privacy  though  the  freshness  of  the  air  was  soon  tainted  by  a  strange  scent,  sweet  and  musky  in  a  way  that  reminded  her  of  a  great  furred  coat  or  the  bark  of  a  tree,  if  her  face  was  pressed  entirely  up  against  it.  her  nose  twitched,  chin  lifting  in  the  air  as  the  figure  that  emitted  the  scent  in  great  puffs  of  white  smoke  turned,  revealing  himself  to  be  the  earl  of  leicester  ─  there  was  no  mistaking  the  width  of  the  gentleman  for  anyone  else  and  something  sour  with  uncertainty  curled  around  her  tongue  even  as  she  smiled,  dipping  her  head  into  a  small  nod.  ❝  i  thought  you  were  on  fire,  sir,  and  had  you  not  turned,  i  might  have  convinced  myself  that  i  would  be  doing  you  a  kindness  by  pushing  you  into  the  water.  ❞  curiosity  furrowed  at  her  brow,  unbidden  and  in  spite  of  herself,  at  the  foreign  contraption  and  philippa  knew,  had  it  been  someone  familiar  at  the  riverside,  she  might  have  bullied  them  into  letting  her  attempt  a  puff.  ❝  it  is  strange  but  not  entirely  unpleasant.  did  you  come  to  the  riverside  in  the  hopes  that  the  breeze  will  blow  away  the  smell  and  cover  your  habits,  my  lord  ?  ❞  or  was  he  similarly  spent  by  interacting  with  guests  of  varied  backgrounds  and  motivations  ?

robert dudley / 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. event-thread, river thames.

        The tip of his long pipe leaked a curl of damp, pungent fog, and with it, the distinctive stench of tobacco clouded the air.  Sweet-smelling, earthy, a touch piquant.  Smoke coiled around Dudley’s long, black beard, unbound with a deep sigh heaved from within the Earl’s broad chest.  Although not yet couth to smoke at court, Dudley had taken the opportunity to escape, without drawing suspicion, as the rest of the assembly fawned over the troupe’s performance – sneaking toward the river’s edge to avail himself of a puff.  Dudley was, and always had been, greatly fond of courtly theatrics – it was, rather, the simpering delegation of foreigners on English soil he disdained, each velvet-robbed threat to the Tudors’ sovereignty and security. 

What good could come of them, those peacocking French?  The French who craved much more than Calais, but to rule England itself?  And what of those devout, unwavering Spaniards, sombre in both body and blood?  With an arrogance unmatched at court, Dudley openly exhibited his distrust and derision.  It was, after all, these very guests – kings, princes, and emperors – that would expect to get an heir off His Majesty’s sister, the only woman in England powerful enough to command the earl's exultant affection.

Dudley’s posture neatened, and his lip curled with quiet annoyance, as his ears pricked to the telltale rustle of approaching footfalls.  He turns with a clear-eyed expression to the visitor, cutting a proud, graceful figure. ‘A Spanish vice,’ he quips, touching his pipe.  ‘Tainting the blood of a wholly English man.  Does the scent trouble you?’

[thunyielding]

She knew that her words would sting, or dive deep beneath the surface to reveal something that had been almost forgotten. But Elizabeth couldn’t help it, for she felt entirely broken, her heart sliced in two to reveal nothing but a yearning for something to fit that very spot. For since she had known him as a girl, when she had been nothing but a bag of bones with coiled red hair, she had felt to trust him entirely. Without truly taking heed or control of her own feelings, she had offered him pieces of her body in return for nothing but his loyalty, for his companionship, and his damned love. Even seeing him there, fitted for his voyage along with the rest of her brother’s company, was quite enough to evoke a desire from within the fiery depths of her soul, and so she put her hands behind her back — as if to straighten her spine, when in reality she began to press her fingers against her wrist to feel the pulse of her veins, to feel something that was not the emptiness within.

How could she ever release him, truly? How could she ever be anything but his devout follower? How could she ever truly be England personified when she was already spoiled for all? Her eyes narrowed to suppress a cry of anguish, her gaze fleeting across his face before settling to a space by his side, her concentration wavering with every beating second.

On one hand she seemed to get what she wanted, she would become a Lady Regent to her people, she would lose the headache of Robin and his swollen wife. But the other, oh the other. To be away from Robert Dudley was enough akin to driving a blade into her chest, enough to riddle her foolish or useless to anyone who may have found themselves in need of a leader. And yet, she stood tall, even if it was he who would be wise enough to see through her facade of cool stone. Pressing her heels into the ground beneath, Elizabeth only stared ahead, her attention then only stolen upon the mention of love once more, the coldness of her gaze pierced through his own eye — her lips down-turned, her misery spilling from one gaze.

“I care nothing for her, but I had your sister send my kind congratulations. Is that not enough? You know very well, no — you know more than anyone upon this Isle — how such a thing tears at my soul? I do this for you, I give my blessing for you, to keep slander from your door and that would be my parting gift, my last omission of love. For I do love you, I have loved you since I was old enough to think of such an emotion. You know, oh you know so very well, that I would have married you a thousand times, in a hundred lives, if it was not for the fortune of my birth. I will never marry, I should never think of it. But if I had had a choice, the merest hope of normalcy, then you are aware that I would’ve chosen you,” Elizabeth hissed, the confession spilling from her lips in an unstoppable wave, her hurt then painted across her face in lines of youthful skin, her weight then misguided as she began to pace that very spot, a single finger jut in his direction.

“You think I rebuke you for my selfishness? For my own satisfaction? Oh, Robert, you are bigger and brighter than that…” With pause, Elizabeth tried to centre herself, her temples aching with the burning of a first headache, “ — but you love her, too. You do not love me alone. You cannot, not with she being with child. No, no. If this it to be it, then know that I must — I will — release you of our past promises. I give you my blessing, I will give Kismet pride of place. But you, do not think that I can stomach your presence. Do not think that you are ever to be invited to my table again. To see you, happy or in love with someone else… No. Not even I could suppress that,” Elizabeth cried, salt-fresh tears then spilling over the high arch of her cheekbones, her head turned away from Robin with a final, silenced sob before she struggled to contain herself. “Burn my letters, burn everything I have ever given you. This all ends here. It must.”

Robin bore an uncanny talent for reading Elizabeth’s mind, and she his. Perhaps it was that the entirety of their lives had been entwined, like the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, the white and red of the Tudor rose interflowed. She’d been scarcely a girl when Robin, fresher than a lanky-legged colt, first came to court – she, the daughter of Great Hal, and he the son of a gentleman usher with no title, and precious little riches, to inherit; charisma and confidence and drive jostling him to the innermost of her father’s dying flame, the Dudley bear borne with pride on his sleeve. Natural affection and shy-eyed lusting predisposed the pair to friendship. Shared talents and hobbies drew them closer than convention and honour and her mother would dictate. There was no one in the world over, save Amy, with whom he’d felt more at home – and long before his goosequill scratched across the parchment that augured their demise, he’d known Elizabeth would intend to deride him and mock him with her petulance, if only to conceal her own hurt.

Foresight, howbeit, did not prevent her words from stinging.

Dudley had the good sense to hang his head low, shielding himself against the Tudor rage that rushed across him, his narrowed gaze trained to the dust scattered across his boots. It was a rage he knew well – only, this time he found himself at its embittered receiving end, felt its piercing blade etch on his skin, painting a thin line of scarlet across his neck. With great reserve, the earl uttered a gruff ‘yes,’ before his gaze lifted to the vaulted plafond, dredged with cobwebs and ancient carvings of warriors. ‘I imagine there was a time when there was a worthy answer to that question.’ Now the uncertainty of his fate gives him pause, an Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat, exposed to her gore-drenched claws. ‘Though I suspect your calumny rhetorical, is it?’ A way to take the knife that had wounded her and plunge it into his own heart? ‘In any event, both Amy and I have been summoned. You’ll be rid of us yet, Princess.’

Thinning his lips, Dudley regarded Bess directly, his expression pained. ‘But pray tell, Elizabeth, and I will gladly take my leave of you: why do we praise Odysseus for his loyalty, but gnash your teeth at the man who has ever loved you?’ His jaw twitched involuntarily. ‘I have not always been a perfect husband, but to you and to Amy, I have always striven to be a good man, worthy of your affection, and my love has been pure – if not misguided.’ Fisting a hand around Hestia’s rein, Dudley breathed, ‘I would have chosen you. It would have been you, Elizabeth, who I would have taken as my wife, my life and limb. It was you who would not have me. The Cleves duke. The French dauphin. Hell, Northumberland’s boy. How many times do you think your brother has thought to marry you off to one of them? Praying they’ll fetch a pretty price, a firm alliance?’ He brought his chin to his chest, his black gaze burning into her. ‘You have always been out of my reach, with or without her. It is I who has sinned; it is I who repents knowing the taste of you. Save your fury for me, for she has suffered my indiscretions long enough.’

[thunyielding]

His reaction may have deserved a different answer to the one she gave, but Elizabeth was in no mood to split her personality towards the one sculpted by the sharp talons of her mother’s falcon. Did she not risk everything to see him? She was no girl, no woman to be touched as he had touched her — she was England, born and bred. She was Britannia. Boudicca. She was every woman and man born upon those shores, then how, pray tell, was she meant to deal with the longing that caused an earth-shattering ache between her legs, her bones and upon the beating of her heart that shook with each determined exhale. 

Extending her neck, oblivious to her own place in the world, her hand grapples for him, her mouth parting in the same manner one would split a peach as she moaned for his embrace before he, in his stubborn manner, turns from her with the same expression as a man would wear when losing a round of cards. It was frustration then, or something akin to such an emotion, that left Elizabeth to fall slick against the garden wall, her hands clumsy as she sought the sturdy leverage of the brickwork, her fingertips tangling for just a moment into wild flowers that had fought against the human construction to part through the mortar; nature prevailing against the menace of intrusion. 

What else could she have said? He knew. She knew. It didn’t matter how much she wanted him — or  how many nights she had spent dreaming of him when caught in a sleepless night. With her heart drop with a thump into the bottom of her stomach, Elizabeth sought his true self through the vain naivety of manhood, then against all logic, she allowed him to take advantage of her benevolence, for did he think that the hardship stood alone against him? Indeed, perhaps physically it was all too obvious that he bore such a heavy task, but Elizabeth still ached in a similar tug of the heartstrings, her gaze lingering upon his own as he approached once more – and yet, against her better character, her lips remained shut in some tense action of a jaw clenched. 

“Do you think I am a fool?” She asked, through the tremble of her sweetened lips, her hands flush against his chest as he went to hold her again, his embrace a torment to a body that yearned to submit. “A Monk cannot be married… You would be a terrible Monk, we both know that,” Elizabeth whispered, her throat tightening at the facts that began to push their way into view, to destroy the original torment filled only with wanton lust, for to mention his marriage was against her own happiness, to even think of whom waited for him with a life to offer for his own entertainment was enough to leave the clouds to turn from heavy rain to furious thunder. And yet, she could not help but fall her brow against him, her torment ever present as her hands cascaded down his chest to the taut fall of his hose.

With a slow, steady breath, she seemed to once more contain herself — the deft work of her fingers made haste as they untied his breeches, a hand slipped between the material to come against the warmth of heated flesh. No, no. If he were to return to someone else that night, then let it be sure that she remained upon him in mind, body and soul — and with a determination, she took his hardness into the cup of her hand, working his length with certain jerks of her hand as her lips found the neat throb of his neck, the dark glare of her gaze shot over his shoulder as she looked to the shadows for any sign of an intruder, an ever present will to be in charge of all that she could touch taking some command as her head tilted towards his before drawing his lips into her own, her warm breath yet sticky with what she wanted more than anything else. How was it fair that anyone else could make such a mistake? To fall unnecessarily in love with a man she could never boast off? With her eyes closed, she mapped his cock, his lower stomach and hip bone with her hand, knowing the path across his skin as well as she had mastered her tongue in all languages but his own.

 “Dare I count the ways how I would have you if there was nothing standing in the way? I would love you so fiercely, with more intent than any woman may ever boast of a silken lover. Do you hear me, Robin? Will you try to understand?” Her voice strained, as if teetering on the edge of a slovenly beg, before she pushed his breeches from him, lowering herself by the slight bend of her knees to risk all exposure to the weather, as she took his arousal between her lips in an act performed only ever behind the safety of locked doors.

Elizabeth’s admonishments drew him back to the present, though her hand palming at his arousal kept the passion and lust he’d long held for her ignited, held so long in loyal check. He slides his forehead against hers, his breath fanning against her skin in ragged, frustrated pants, his skin slick with sweat and need. He drags his mouth against her cheek – with his lips and teeth and body lavishing her captivating, familiar, vulnerable face with his kisses, open-mouthed, nothing short of a declaration of devotion. Cloaked in darkness, Elizabeth clung to Robin and he to her, his hand finding the thin swell of her breasts as hers dallied upon his hardness, a heat bubbling in his belly and welling in his chest that seemed, in a moment illuminated by the purest of desire and tenderest love, inextinguishable. Only…

You know – you know.

Her words pump in his ears like hot blood, circulating with the fervent exhaustion that comes from a long, wild hunt, his thighs trembling with the fierce fury of a stallion. Robert reluctantly, desperately, tears himself from her, untangling their long limbs, detaching his mouth from her throat and her nimble fingers from his waist. ‘I know.’ The Earl stalks off, turning his back to the Princess, biting his knuckles between his teeth. For all his strutting and arrogance and confidant intimacy with a woman of royal blood, Elizabeth’s refusal humbled him, enraged him. More than that, he felt the loss of her coaxing hand shutter through his body, as his cock surged with raw need. ‘God’s blood, I know this, Elizabeth!’ His voice roars louder, sharper, than he intends it to, like a schoolboy deprived of his toy, a king deprived of his crown. Elizabeth will tell him ‘ought you mind your place, Robin,’ but if she had any sympathy for his soul, she would pardon him for it – this one great, unpardonable indiscretion: love. His fingers trace and pinch the long bridge of his nose, his chest heaving out a guttural sigh.

He bit his tongue, on which held many bitter words, and turned to face her. Without words to express his tenderness he pressed his lips to hers, as softly as the lighting of a butterfly, her mouth cold and unyielding. He tipped her head back, looking into the liquid amber of her eyes, and watched her slip away like fine grains of sand in an hourglass. He’d taken too much; she would punish him, keeping her affections more tightly-fisted than the privy purse for it, but he was powerless to express it. ‘I am sorry, Bess. Know that I would give anything to have you. Not your money. Not your titles, or gold. It is you I crave, Elizabeth. This –’ His hands knead her backside, roughly pulling her back against his subdued arousal, a throbbing reminder of his desire. ‘All this but for a moment of your time.’

His mouth cracks into a faint smile, their foreheads joined once more. 'I will be your monk. Monk Robin. How does that sound, beloved?

[thunyielding]

But, despite claims later stated through a practised mouth, Elizabeth was not simply a Tudor offspring from red-haired crowns and hot-heated tempers — no, she was more than that. She was half-Boleyn, with the bottomless onyx of her eyes and fore-planned ambition that saw beyond the clouds and into the stars. So, she did not fall into his seduction, into his rare form that pushed against her as if he were less in control of his actions, but rather coaxed him thus with her thigh held up against his hip bone, one hand yet clasped around the warmth of his neck, the other trailing between them as she felt his arousal pressed against her in an obvious ploy to get what he wanted. 

But a Tudor never surrendered, not like that, and a Boleyn knew what she was doing. Temptation was the role played between them, the emotion only cut when either partner fell to their knees — gone were the Holy harmonies sung on high, absent were the guards withstanding their watch. What remained were two souls bound together, two souls that could not just split the boundaries into physical forms, but rather rolled into their breaths like gasps surged from the back of their mouths. And so, she waited — or at least, her tongue paused to relish in his…

Well, one may think that it was rash, harmless or simply tied up in the lust that came with prolonged exposure to a woman whom you could not have. But to Elizabeth’s eyes, it was devotion, an aggression that splintered his bones — a love that left his throat gasping for air. And oh, did she enjoy it, did she savour his need like a cat toying with its dying prey, her hand cast between them as the bow of her palm rubbed over his reckless hardening, her eyes narrowed to the point that she could barely see him through the light hairs of her eyelashes. Perhaps, after all of this, she was teetering on the point of giving in, to fall to the need that had often overcome any other King with their numerous wild oats. 

Clasping her hand against him, the other pressing half-crescent redness into the back of his neck, Elizabeth almost hissed with her own unflinching pain, her tongue stubbornly pressing between her lips as she tried to fathom what to say in that moment, or what to confess to with the front of her skirts bunched up above her waistline. “Hush, Robin — hush,” the Princess whispered, her command lucid against the sickly-sweet taste of her mouth, the aftertaste of something deemed suitable for a royal affair. “You know —” a curse ready on her tongue, her breath heavier than before, her hand still touching him through the material, her caress suddenly twisting to bare-knuckled desperation.  "You know."

Lily-white skin yielded familiar blooms, a flourish of colour searing underneath his mouth and the weft of his hand; the taste of rose-water and brine sampled by the warm lavishing of his tongue. What woman could frustrate him, enrage him, unravel him, such as Elizabeth? But God, what woman’s touch could set his skin aflame, command his body with such powerful need, control him with exultant strength? She’d been nothing more than a simpering child when he’d first come to court – the King and Queen’s summer-haired delight – peering at him through a fan of pink lashes, her black eyes kindling approval, her delicate hands caressing the stomacher cinching her waspish waist, but now… his loyal affections had taken a fervent quality, for she was a woman grown, an irresistible, formidable, vexatious woman, ruling him with her tongue as Theodora did the Byzantines.

A groan ensnared in his throat, Dudley sighed against her supple flesh as Elizabeth gyrated against him, the half-moons of her nails clawing at his skin and the bones of her hip prodding into a wall of taut muscle. ‘Careful, yes, always careful…’ He assures, mindlessly, numbly repeating her words, spitting them back into her mouth, drawing them out with his teeth. But as he speaks, a rod of hardness implores against Elizabeth’s thigh, and his hand craftily slips into the partings of her gown, holding her calf, cupping the back of her knee, lifting her leg so that it winds around his waist like a lithe serpent, luring him to his demise. With this grasp, he pulls her firmly against his body, so there can be no question of his desire, and grins ruefully at the sudden gasp of pleasure that unleashes from her mouth.

‘Say the words to stop me.’ His voice is gruff, a hoarse plea, his hand groping her soft thighs, his blood racing. ‘Release me, Elizabeth. Or pray God give yourself to me, take my flesh and blood, or I’ll die a torturous death in your arms.’

[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?

[thunyielding]

For as much as Elizabeth yearned for Robin in his entirety, there was something bigger than either of them that commanded the careful shift of words and movements - and yet, she filled her head with sinful ideals that she meant something more than what her mother or father had ever dreamed possible for her. As if, some would whisper, she was greater than God himself. And yet, though she knew this to be blasphemy in the greatest sense of the word, she embodied it with her pride that possessed her body, that left her fingers to trace over the shape of his shoulders, arms and chest with a desire that burned through her skin like hellfire.That left her to tease just what she ought to keep at arm’s length. 

By all means her neck was his, her fingertips and earlobes his by command. Who else could get away with treating her as if she were any other woman? As if she were but flesh, blood and bone for him to savour between secret meetings — oh, those meetings, the adrenaline that throbbed through her veins in some act of survival! With a sigh that left her lips soft and all but swollen with need, Elizabeth stretched her throat for his embrace, her eyes suddenly closed to etch the sensation into her skin for later, when she was alone or beside her ladies’ cots with nothing but the whisper of his touches to keep her company. 

Alas, before she could truly take control of the situation, Robert had lulled her forward, her feet skimming the stones of the courtyard as they broke into the flourish of blossoming roses and dew-coated thorns. As the world turned around them, Elizabeth found herself weightless, her hands grasping his arms in some effort to take charge before he pressed himself against her, leaving the Princess to murmur and whine as if caught in the height of untamed passion. Squeezing him tight, Elizabeth passed a noise akin to a moan before one hand took the back of Robert’s tender neck, the other set of fingers already working at the taut tug of his shirt, wanting to somehow feel the warmth of his skin before the night could all too suddenly come to a close. 

“I dare not answer, Robert… Let us pinch this moment into an existence all of its own, let us have this,” she yearned, her voice tense and fragile as she moved her head, as she nudged his wet mouth aside to crane instead for his lips, to kiss the mouth she thought as her own as her brow fell slick against his, Robert’s broadness almost hiding her entire visage if it had not been for her golden brocade and numerous pearls that shimmered even in the haze of rain and moonlight. “You are my torment, my greatest desire. Now we find ourselves at Court, we must be — no, listen. We must be careful…”

Dudley had always been an ambitious man – a peril of the Dudley blood – though his natural confidence had been enhanced by the heat of the princess’ ardor and the relish of the young King’s favoritism upon him. Yet his crafty diplomacy set off his reckless charm, and in Bess’ presence, innate talents became intensified. She summoned his masculine prowess, flattered him with courtly charm and won his favour with her booming, youthful spirit. He’d taken many liberties with Elizabeth – spoke to her like a lover, and, when she permitted it, like a commander, although at other times no more than the lowest subject would dare to – and he intended to take more. Many more. But Elizabeth gave inches where Dudley desired miles, and his eyes flashed as she ordered him about with fierce determination.

Bess’ lips trembled not in her lordly demand; they stretched boldly, stretched endlessly, and uttered the oaths of a wizened sailor without provocation. How, the Earl mused, could this magnificent woman ever be just one’s man wife? He would come to share her, he knew, and though he could never have her completely, he would beg for tatters.

Her lovely neck. Her long, white, tapering fingers, tickling his throat as she bestowed upon him a chain of gold. Her waist, the size of a bodkin. Narrow black eyes, so strikingly like her father’s. Dudley clenched his jaw and looked about. ‘I would not dare stray,’ he ground out. With dew dripping from his chestnut beard, curling hair, and emboldening his jaunty, reckless nature, Dudley cut the Princess a grin and greedily snatched her hands in his. ‘Save your protestations, Bess, you’ll only waste time.’

With little more than a word of warning, Dudley hauls Elizabeth into the pitch-black evening, where safety had become elusive but privacy was offered in spades – provided, of course, that there were no other pair of lovers darting about, with this exact scheme in mind. They race neck-and-neck through the tall, rose-splashed mazes of the queen’s knot garden, hidden amongst rows of lofty, bristling hedgerows. He forces her bodily against the a cluster of blackthorn, one hand caging her wrist against the bush as his leg crams between her knees; his mouth seizes upon her neck, lapping at the sweet, briny alchemy of her skin. ‘Elizabeth. How I’ve desired you…’ Dudley growls. ‘What can I do, Bess, but crave you? Your presence is no more a comfort than death itself – but your absence is its very grief.’

[robsartd]

sleep  seemed  to  be  as  elusive  of  a  creature  as  her  husband  had  been  that  evening,  skittering  about  in  dark  corners  and  fleeing  from  the  light  as  though  he  were  a  rodent  in  search  of  the  comforts  that  only  his  bonny  bess  could  provide  ─  there  were  mousers  for  such  a  problem  back  at  stanfield  hall,  wiry -  haired  fat  cats  that  hissed  in  warning  if  her  boots  drew  too  close  to  their  space  but  if  there  had  been  any  claws  in  her  hands,  it  had  long  since  been  clipped  short  when  faced  with  the  magnetic  force  that  was  robert  dudley  and  certainly,  the  princess  had  far  sharper  tools  in  her  arsenal  to  counter  with  should  amy  attempt  to  swipe  at  her  ankles.  it  had  been  easier  to  find  rest  when  he  was  far  from  her,  when  the  tireless  demands  of  her  beloved  mistress  anne  or  her  darling  children  would  invite  exhaustion  to  leaden  her  limbs  until  she  was  weighed  down  into  a  dreamless  sleep  but  without  such  distractions,  amy  could  do  nothing  but  overthink  whilst  at  hampton  court,  gaze  darting  up  at  the  first  muffled  sounds  that  neared  the  door.  silence  had  been  her  companion  for  hours  so  the  slightest  change  in  the  air,  the  weight  shifting  around  the  floorboards  and  the  door  creaking  open  had  given  her  enough  time  to  school  her  features  into  feigned  disinterest,  the  words  in  her  holy  book  blurring  as  he  approached  his  side  of  the  bed,  the  sheets  cool  from  his  missing  warmth.

a  soft  hum  was  extended  in  greeting,  her  determination  to  remain  unmoved  by  his  presence  warring  with  her  desire  to  aid  in  his  undressing  but  her  body  was  rooted  into  spot  by  the  growing  bump  that  she  had  grown  increasingly  aware  of  whenever  he  was  near,  shuffling  back  into  the  pillows  so  that  her  shift  tented  further  around  her  front.  ❝  husband.  ❞  clipped,  the  title  dripped  with  subdued  resentment  ─  the  only  hint  of  emotion  she  can  allow.  motherhood  had  gentled  her  flame,  giving  her  two  impressionable  young  minds  to  mold  that  she  refused  to  traumatize  by  fighting  loudly  and  frequently  with  the  only  father  figure  they  knew  but  that  did  not  mean  that  she  felt  any  less  than  before.  (  perhaps  that  was  what  was  lacking  but  amy  could  not  take  things  so  lightly,  so  impulsively  as  she  did  at  twenty,  though  god  alone  knew  how  much  she  ached  to  hiss  and  scratch  and  slap  at  him  until  his  outsides  matched  her  shredded  heart.  )  ❝  were  you  victorious  in  your  conquest  ?  ❞  flinty - eyed,  she  glanced  at  him  as  the  metal  met  with  wood.  ❝  of  the  gambling  tables.  ❞

watching  his  motions,  her  gaze  caught  on  the  framed  miniature  and  unwillingly,  the  wall  she  had  painstakingly  built  around  her  heart  over  the  past  few  hours  that  she  had  spent  stewing  in  bed  begun  to  crack,  one  hand  extending  across  the  sheets  to  rest  on  his  empty  side  ─  a  silent  invitation  to  hasten,  to  sit  so  that  she  might  unlace  his  boots  and  busy  her  hands  so  that  her  mouth  did  not  overshare.  for  all  his  faults,  robert  was  a  good  husband,  a  better  spouse  than  she  had  been  to  dear  sir  christopher  with  her  roaming  eyes  and  coquettish  nature,  and  a  wonderful  stepfather  to  the  children.  she  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  love  their  own  children,  in  time,  though  she  feared  making  him  choose,  knowing  what  (  who  )  his  first  choice  would  always  be.  setting  the  book  aside,  she  rose  till  her  knees  were  tucked  under  the  weight  of  her  body  before  crawling  the  short  distance  to  his  side,  fingers  at  his  sleeves,  gently  guiding  him  until  he  faced  her.  ❝  i  prayed  for  you.  ❞  for  a  devoted  husband,  though  she  would  not  ruin  the  night  with  her  bitterness.  best  save  that  for  the  morning  when  it  was  not  as  cold  and  she  was  not  as  lonely  with  the  household  awake  around  her.  ❝  i  missed  you  ...  i  have  half  the  mind  to  petition  the  king  to  return  you  to  my  side  earlier.  do  you  think  i  could  convince  him  to  show  clemency  on  your  neglected  wife  ?  ❞

@robsartd / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. the dudleys' apartments, hampton court.

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.

‘What is it that you pray for?’ He asks, gesturing to her devotionals. ‘Warmer days, new gowns, better rooms?’

[thunyielding]

Though she was sure that her brother would not claim the sudden upheaval from London to Dover a blessing, Elizabeth had found the arrangement quite to her liking. Not only had she been given the surrogacy of a regency in the stead of William’s forthwith absence, but also the time it took up thus meant that Elizabeth was far too busy to dwell on the ache that throbbed in her chest with uneasy, almost thunderous beats. She had occupied herself with letters sealed by her signet ring, her pen scribbled to the name of the council sent to Florence with the rumour of her late father’s illegitimate child newly found, and then to the incoming visit of her sister before making some note to be sent beneath the curtain of darkness to the King and her mother. Then, as was her duty, she would sit and take petitions as her ladies lay in wait around their Mistress. To court, Elizabeth wanted nothing amiss, nothing to be whispered about in chance of what was to come nor to the double-edged sword that came with the absence of the Tudor King. 

She was, of course, still furiously angry with what had passed in the two months that had taken the court by storm — but most of what she had once thought was then nothing but ash collected from the fire grate and passed into thin air. But it was a hard road to climb when everything had once been done with he by her side — her horses, well bred and cared for with the same love she thought her people took to her own noble self, had only ever seen her Eye as a counterpart to their excursions,and so had been left to the green fields beyond Hampton to stretch their own fine legs. Even card games remained a constant torment, and so, Elizabeth had turned to hold a sober household of fine theological debates, dramatic retellings of the Giants that had once called England their home and then to the secret whispers from messengers whom she had sent in some wish of knowing more than one could really offer. 

So, then to be faced with his sour features left the Regent with pursed lips and a narrowed, venomous gaze. Yet was she not a fool for him? One noise was enough to leave Elizabeth to flounder like a fish caught outside of water. How did he have such a grip on her person? Even if he had performed his duty as a husband and Earl, Elizabeth had somewhat thought that he would practice a certain type of restraint, that he would savour her own taste rather than his wife’s, who had more than enough offspring to play pretend as a happy little family. And so, it would never be as easy as that, to break ranks and embrace him as she had done many times before. Instead she held herself upright, her lips stern set into a neutral line, the dark glare of her gaze settled just passed his shoulder in some effort to not look directly into his own wandering eye. 

“Thrilled is not the word I would’ve used,” she snipped, a single finger flexed to give her ladies an adieu, sending them into the surrounding corridors where they could wait to begin the Princess’ nighttime ritual of brushing her hair, oiling her hands and devout prayer. Once they were gone, Elizabeth finally looked at him, the whites of her eyes set against the colour of her iris in terrific contrast as her throat pressed against the pearl inlay of her collar, her dress cut high upon her chest, the brocade fashioned in her trademark crimson. “You are meant to be in Dover, or did His Majesty find himself without need of your arrival?” An open taunt, her eyelids lowering to look across his surface of costume. His wife, his jointress — had she the wilds of her mother she would’ve sought her demise by then, but there were more than enough rumours that floated around Elizabeth’s inheritance that came in the form of her father’s temper, the threat of her wrath a constant plague upon her ladies who had been dealing with her violent mood since the mysterious letter had broken between her hands. “I do not blame him, what could you do for him? He has all the men one would want: Percy, Boleyn… Who is ever in need of a Dudley?”

@thunyielding

The hills of Hampton Court were blurry with rain; reduced to swaths of aqueous gray and green, wobbling over the horizon, the earth’s distant curve imperceptible from the royal stables. Dudley glides a leather-gloved hand across his horse’s chest, the Jennet's heartbeat thrumming through the spectacular knot of muscles encasing her lungs, glowering as the beast swings her long neck and hinges her doleful gaze to his. ‘What is it, girl?’ Leicester murmurs, scratching behind her ears and earning an appreciative whinny from his – notoriously volatile – Hestia. ‘Where’s the harm in a little rain?’ He asks, the pitter-patter on the roof almost too gentle to hear: a soft drum, a splash into the sopping-wet ground, hissing and gurgling as it drains into the gutters. Hestia husks out a nicker, returning Dudley’s query with marked ambivalence.

They hadn’t much time to ready. Less than an hour to primp and preen, to saddle Hestia with the bulky weight of the Earl’s armory and caparisons, for come morning, Dudley would be, with the rest of the King’s middling retinue, riding hotly out to Dover; facing at least a two-day journey (three, if the grounds remained pulpy) galloping full out across the rutted, boggy fields of England, clods of deep-chilled earth flying from the hooves of King William’s destriers; speed and glory hampered by decorum and the lay-of-the-land, all forced to tarry behind the King and his ever-growing string of paramours. What lay ahead in Dover brought yet another lour to Leicester’s lips, deepening the lines of consternation flanking his mouth. He turns his face, dark as a cloud, to the sound of nimble footfalls crunching over a smattering of hay, a halo of humidity-wizened hair fanning about Elizabeth’s oval-shaped face. Hestia swished her tail, clouting against the stable doors. But with an ease for which he was lauded to command his geldings, Dudley held Hestia at bay, the stony arrangement of his brow not yet revealing the tempest of emotions he felt at Elizabeth’s presence.

Bess … Her name ghosts across his lips long before he musters the good sense to curtail such familiarity. ‘Your Highness,’ The Earl greets, his voice gruff, as Hestia releases a disgruntled neigh, white vapour blowing from her nostrils. Dudley then lowers himself into a deep bow before the Princess, one hand at his abdomen and the other conducting a flourish. ‘I hear I am to congratulate you, lady regent. You have all that you desire now – the crown jewels, your brother's power, and a court of ready subjects.’ Decidedly grim, he punctuates, ‘you must be thrilled.’