𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓.

[leiccsters]

𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐃𝐔𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘, 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐄𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 –– ( let this my discipline stand you in good stead of sorer strokes, never to tempt too far a prince's patience. )

intro « penned by di, 21+, discord available upon request !

[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?”

[leiccsters]

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.’

[leiccsters]

𝐙𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒.

[leiccsters]

Letter penned by Lord Leicester's own hand at Dover, 1559, and delivered via a page to Mistress Kismet Dudley.

Our most Dear and Beloved sister,

Thee may beest rest assured of the pain Mistress Leicester doth feel at being parted from thee, though of health the lady is stout, and eager to convey to thee, sister, her most earnest commendations and well wishes. The lady is desirous to heareth well of thee, and is at this moment tugging upon mine own sleeve and imploring me to tell thee that the miraculous babe swelling in her belly hast thrown another boot to her ribs. In respect to the king's summit at Dover, we has't yet nay news to report but that Her Majesty the Queen of Spain appears in fine health and is, save for frightful pallor and a Spanish jaw, so near in appearance to His Majesty. I wouldst that thee were here with us to taketh parteth in the entertainments, though in all matters I trusteth thee to beest honourably comporting yourself at court, taking great pains to reconcileth our poor case with Her Highness the Princess, in whom I knoweth thy gentle and loving spirit to work many wondrous things.

Thy most assured loving brother, Leicester

[MODERN TRANSCRIPTION] You may be rest assured of the pain Lady Leicester feels at being parted from you, though of health she is stout, and eager to convey to you, sister, her most earnest commendations and well wishes. She is desirous to hear well of you, and is at this moment tugging upon mine sleeve and imploring me to tell you that the miraculous babe that swells in her belly has thrown another boot to her ribs. In respect to the King's summit at Dover, we have yet no news to report but that Her Majesty the Queen of Spain appears in fine health and is, except for her frightful pallor and Spanish jaw, so near in appearance to His Majesty. I would that you were here with us to take part in the entertainments, though in all matters I trust you to be honourably comporting yourself at court, taking great pains to reconcile our poor case with Her Highness The Princess, in whom I know your gentle and loving spirit to work many wondrous things.

@kismctt

[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.  

[leiccsters]

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?

[ladymegwelles]

The knowledge that she knew more of Robert Dudley than she ought to was enough to rattle Meg's nerves when she thought on it; though Elizabeth had never explicitly stated her feelings toward Lord Leicester to her longtime companion, it was obvious to one who knew her well just how smitten she had become in the years since the couple's first meeting. An innocent, perhaps, but Meg Welles was no fool. In her care for Bess' happiness, and her own head, she locked her thoughts on the matter behind closed lips, but her eyes and ears were another matter entirely.

The secret was not particularly difficult to keep - there were those who had their suspicions of course, the princess' own brother and the earl's wife included - but none would hear a peep from Meg, not even the earl's sister, who had become her dear friend. Her loyalty to the Boleyns had graced her with continued good fortune that she had not yet found reason to risk; yet deep in her heart, Meg could not ignore the occasional pang of envy. Their affair put them both in a precarious position, with Elizabeth's honor and reputation on the line, but oh, was the princess happy. Stoic and solid, Bess was not one to exhibit any outward signs of girlish infatuation, but try as she might to hide it, Meg could see it in her eyes each time she returned from time spent with her paramour. From the days when she first learned how to read old tales of romance and chivalry, of Arthur and Guinevere and the like, Meg had desired - no, craved - the joy of being truly loved. She wanted a man to see only her, her name on his lips when he awoke in the morning and his name on hers when she fell asleep at night. Why, if the princess could have this happiness, could her ladies not have the same? Or was that the rub - if Elizabeth could not marry the man she loved, none of her crop could?

She took a moment to study the man in question while his eyes were averted; if was not difficult to see why Elizabeth had fallen under Robert's spell, and he hers. Meg did not approve, of course, of a man doing wrong to his lady wife...but she could not question the admiration that passed between her friend and her lover. Robert was kind enough to Meg, she supposed, never stepping too far into her sphere so long as she did not step too far into his. "They are," she agreed, once again turning her attention back to the subjects before them. Mary Rose Tudor had married for love, hadn't she? Perhaps there was hope for them all yet.

"Specifically to summon me?" she echoed back to him, an amused grin sliding over her features. "I suppose I should be honored to be at the other end of such a task. Though surely you have more important matters to attend to than locating the princess' ladies." She tore her gaze away from the wall for good, refocusing on the earl. "I trust her outing was successful? It was wise to take advantage of such weather before it turns colder."

[leiccsters]

Whether or not Meg’s surprise was genuine was of no consequence to Dudley; he was satisfied that she took care to present it with credibility, to the naked gaze appearing nothing more than the reverence one’s royal mistress was due – an elegant brow cocked, one’s head canted, and the ruse was complete. For though the girl’s orphan-hood was something of a tragedy, it certainly aided in the Earl and his lover’s quest for stealth that, coupled with appeared to be innate loyalty toward the Tudors, Meg had a paucity of ambitious relatives hounding her for scraps of gossip, juicy shreds of information that could potentially incriminate them. Then again, Leicester had long begun to suspect that Elizabeth was something of a sister to her charge, where blood relations eluded her; like her mother before her, and for reasons not entirely clear to him, Bess had ushered Mistress Welles under her waxen wings, lavishing her with royal favour – a favour that, as Dudley knew all too well, was seldom as idyll as their detractors’ had hoped.

Robert conducts a nod, his penetrating gaze sweeping once more over the portraiture clinging to the tapestry-hung walls – each gilded-frame gleaming against sheets of dust and woven thread – before offering Meg his arm. ‘I assure you, nothing is more important than ensuring the Princess’ happiness to me,’ he clipped merrily, ‘if not merely for my sake – then yours. The Tudors and their paroxysms are not to be underestimated.’ Cracking a smile, and with Meg at his sleeve, the Earl steers them back into the jaws of the court – already in full swing, basking in the end of summer heat – strolling in the direction of Elizabeth’s presence chamber (the shadowed corners of which Dudley knew intimately well). For a mere moment dubious, Dudley’s brow rose as he evaluated Meg’s query. ‘Ah, yes. The Princess’s passion for riding will yet outmatch us all. I long for the days when my age can be used as an excuse for my inability to ride abreast with her, but perhaps we both know she’ll never accept it. Your mistress’ bloodthirst for helpless animals would astound you.’

As he casts a sidelong glance in Meg's direction, he prods: 'do you enjoy a hunt, my lady? Or to hawk? We so rarely enjoy your ladyship's presence on the field; it is a curse indeed.'

[leiccsters]

@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.’

[leiccsters]

Letter written to Princess Elizabeth from Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, dated to the end of September 1559, written at Rycote by the Earl's own hand and privately dispatched to the Princess via an unknown lady-in-waiting.

As the hour of your knowingness draws near, I am compelled to write to Your Highness and remind you of the stalwart and tender affection I have long borne you, given as naturally as a fool to his master, with no care for reason or preservation of my mortal coil. Elizabeth, I most humbly ask you to pardon me, for it is not your permission I beg, but for your forgiveness. Never was there a perfect servant, and though my love for you has, and always will be, the chiefest joy in my life, I cannot feign displeasure at the news of Lady Leicester’s quickening. You know very well that I have long desired to be a father, a role that, for perhaps many sound reasons and others frightfully unknown, Fate has seen fit to cruelly divest me of. In years gone by, I had given up all earthly hope to impart filial affection unto one of my own blood, and have contented myself with the rearing of our dear Nan and Robin. In selfish scheming, I admit that the children I imagined at the close of day bore your scarlet tresses, your infectious laughter, but how can I hope for that which is never to be?

Whether or not I deserve my good fortune, or have any reasonable inducement to foist my wandering writings upon you, I implore of you to think well of me, to wish a long and healthy life over the son or daughter that will bear my name. I ask that you receive Amy Dudley with compassion. She is, I fear, one of the many casualties of our violent delight. It is neither her fault nor yours that my boldness condemns us all unto eternal anguish.

Elizabeth, were I a stronger man, I would swear to you that this would be my last letter. God forbid, I know it will not, but for a time, it must be thus. In the end, I must loathly bid farewell to you, the man you most affectionately called your ‘eyes,’ your Robin, though ever I pray God bless you from all harm and save you from all foes. As you know, my love and affection for you remain ever the same, semper eadem. I am your humble servant, bound to faithfully and obediently serve you and yours. But for your sake and mine, and that of my unborn child and long-suffering wife, I must cast us into nothingness. I release you, my mistress; let us set this love free at long last.

Set us free, Bess, and I swear never to bring anguish unto you again.

[thunyielding]

If they were meant to act within the realm of subtly, then they had failed time and time again. For it was Elizabeth who called for his arrival with each passing breath, or whenever she felt the tug of her heart that loomed towards Robert Dudley in the same way the strings of a lute would make a bard sing. Before her ladies and her servants, it had been something of an unsaid, almost open, secret that her love for Dudley burned all the more brighter with each passing day — that when the servants cleaned her, as they combed through her hair or dressed her satin-finished skin, they would observe the markings of a lover with a stubbornly pressed lip. She knew as he grabbed her then that his actions would mean another stitch made in the blanket of secrets kept within her household, another hinge to remain locked in fear of an opening that would ruin, not only her virtue, but her responsibility as heir to England. No longer would she be for the country’s well being, but she would become any other young woman cursed with the animalistic hunger for love.

As she slipped to her knees, scratching her adorned skirts that had cost more than any other maiden (bar from the Queen, perhaps), Elizabeth had not waited to take his hard cock into her mouth in an effort to display (again) just how much she wanted to show him how she cared, or how she wanted him, or how even then when caught in a flair of his ill temper and her sovereign ache it was her priority to act out the same habits retold by simpering maidens who had once heard of Anne Boleyn’s French tricks — but this was not the first time Bess had thought to coax his pleasure by the means of her warm wet mouth, but rather the one of many spent in some eager need to keep him aware that although he was bound by the laws of matrimony he belonged to her.

Sucking on his cock like a courtesan with reddened knees, in that moment Elizabeth was no longer one of royal birth but rather his desire, his pleasure and all that came with the taste of pearls against her tongue. Her dress, that felt heavy and rigid with the same gem sewn into its hemlines, pooled around her in waves of gold shaded by his expansive frame that seemed taller and grander when knelt before him with the lapping tongue and plump lips of a girl almost drunk on desire. For the dark glint of her eyes followed the fall of the hair that surrounded his cock before lifting to him instead — her head then buried against him as his hand held her hair in the same roughness that had often coloured their secret rendezvous’.

Upon their eyes meeting, Elizabeth could not help but muffle a moan around the hard edge of his cock, pulling her mouth from his in one gentle pop of her lips that left her smile to brim with the for-knowledge that his pleasure was soon to seep from him. Their night would end as thus, he spent by her actions and she euphoric with the knowledge that he would return home with the smell of her sweet cunt embedded in his fingers, her perfume and all such beauties laced into his person. Though sin would come in the morning upon the early congregation of their common folk, Elizabeth thought nothing of it, saving such horrors for the next day when the court would be lazy with the joy of a night well spent — what sin was it, then, to give yourself to a man you loved? Though she did not plan on going so far if she was to be a true wife to England, there was enough evidence that she wanted it.

On her knees, she felt the warm throb that echoed between her legs, an insistent yearning almost causing a leap of confession before she muffled such thoughts with his clear arousal, her ears twitching to the sound of his voice that seemed in some fever to have the deed spent between her lips. With the taste of him warming her mouth, Elizabeth closed her eyes and awaited his final submission before his hands tugged at her, guiding her up to such unsteady feet that buckled beneath her weight upon the loss of his member. With her mouth sanguine, red-hot and lips plump with a desperation to see her own dreams met, Elizabeth buckled her hips towards his own — with a sticky hand she leveraged herself against the brick wall, the other met upon Robin’s shoulder in some need to keep upright. With a tightening of her throat, she spilled forth with eagerness, her body then attune to the rhythm of her heart that continued its merry dance to a thunderous beat. “Of course I enjoy it,” she replied through a deep rooted moan that shook her very core, her cunt already slick with matched desire as his hands busied themselves with the layers of rich fabric that ought to have been well looked after due to the many hours spent in its creation.

“I sleep-walk through life till I am alone with you, Robin. I am but your whore when we are alone, am I not? Am I not yours, Robin?” She coaxed, pressing the half-crescent ridge of her nails against his shoulder to purposefully mark his skin in a consistent game of making one’s presence known — not that she would allow Robin in her company if she could smell the other on him (or even if she was known to be at home at the same time as he), otherwise she would pertain the visage of an avenging angel rather than a beloved Princess.

But nonetheless, she forced such thoughts from her mind as his thickened fingers caressed her, her hips grinding against the action with such need one would truly claim to see the spark of embers in her eyes. “Oh, Robin... If you wait much longer someone will take heed,” she teased, almost laughing in a girlish tone, her obnoxious nature seemingly then taking the foothold of her experience before she leaned against the harsh backdrop of rose petals, damp leaves and the harsh embrace of thorns. “Take my cunt into your embrace, take it,” Elizabeth hissed, her auburn hair haloing her pale face in some reflection of the incoming moonlight that lit their chosen boudoir with silver, her smile stretched against her face in some giddy expression of a girl who thought she knew what she was doing.

[leiccsters]

He liked Elizabeth best in such a state of indomitable wildness, wild for to hold – for though duty bade them to observe fine conduct at court, hovering above suspicion, hours spent cantering across the park and galloping fervently over the green fields of England – at speeds doubtlessly lethal – gyved them to no such rigours of formality. There, in the shared, private sanctuary of lovers, with trees bare above their head and ground dew-strewn and ancient beneath them, Elizabeth was not madam, but sweetheart, and Leicester was Robin, always Robin, her Robin, his tongue as bold as the gilded bear sculpted by molten gold across the Dudley’s heraldic badges.

Leicester takes urgent heed of her waspish command, wasting precious little time as he kneels before Elizabeth and sweeps the many damnable layers of her skirts aside, drawing one of her calves to drape over his shoulders, revealing the sweet core of her sex to him; its heady drench of arousal weeping into his neat beard. She was now his Queen, and he his loyal servant, bound to loving fealty. But still desire to take her, to claim and conquer the virtue promised to whatever prince took her hand like Attila over the alps, smouldered within his beastly breast.

‘I intend to take more, much more,’ reproved Dudley, leering up at the Princess through a thicket of red-brown lashes, tracing the soft marble of her chin with his gaze. He snared her lovelorn eyes with his own, catching her chin with her hand, forcing the broad pad of his thumb between her teeth: bitten hard, muffling the sounds of her urgent adjuring. ‘Hush now, sweetheart, take heed that you do not rouse the dead.’

The balance of supremacy sufficiently shifted, Dudley’s unkempt head of inky curls disappeared between her legs; collecting her soft thighs in his hand, the mewls that dripped from Elizabeth's lips and the arch of her spine urged him forth, eliciting an impish smirk against the needy fount of her cunt as his tongue lapped her to glory. He desired to coax her to completion once, twice – as he’d done at Ampthill, the driving rain forbidding them from returning to polite company – to curl his fingers into the damp curls of her maidenhood, stroke her, nibble at the soft skin of her thighs, spread his tongue flat against her sex, licking into her again, again, plunging and plowing his wet sword into her cunt, so irresistibly tight around his finger, fluttering around him, pulsing as she rode a crescent of ecstasy ... but they could not risk being caught.

He sinks one long finger into her, his mouth forming around her swollen bud, the pressure of his lips, suckling lavishly, and the curl of his digits – one, two, disappearing to the knuckle-bone into her honeypot, now clenching fiercely around him as waves of pleasure gathered within her – the sound of it, wet and illicit and sloppy, delivering her to a quavering fullness, for which he was greedy to ensure. Dudley’s muscled chest provided safe harbour to Elizabeth as she collapsed around him, knees trembling, his arms slipping around her waist as his chest heaved, and his head dipped to lavish the Princess’ lips with a sweet kiss, lips still damp. ‘So beautiful…’ He swore, ‘the most beautiful jewel in all of England.’

Dudley's hand moved to Elizabeth's face, which he cradled tenderly, and gently pushed aside a wet tendril of hair glazed to her skin. ‘Especially with your cheeks are flush with desire, your lips freshly mused.’

[mistikfir]

Elizabeth I (2005)

[robsartd]

though  amy  robsart  had  come  very  far  from  where  she  had  been  raised  as  the  daughter  of  a  glorified  farmer,  granted  a  begrudging  respect  owing  to  the  vast  stretch  of  lands  that  he  possessed  and  had  passed  into  her  hands,  and  then  as  the  wife  of  a  household  guard,  there  had  been  very  little  attempt  made  to  rise  any  further  than  where  she  was  currently  placed  and  one  might  even  argue  that  she  had  shown  very  little  interest  in  court  life  before  her  husband  had  been  made  master  of  horse  ─  hopelessness  and  no  small  amount  of  guilt - stained  grief  had  driven  her  into  the  arms  of  robert  dudley  all  those  years  ago  but  affection  now  rooted  her  to  his  side  through  the  best  and  worst  of  times.  the  proud  girl  that  she  had  been,  an  unbroken  mare  that  reared  back  at  the  slightest  attempt  to  tame  her,  would  have  spat  upon  the  spectacle  that  she  had  become,  even  if  only  a  few  people  were  aware  of  the  shame  that  she  was  forced  to  constantly,  silently  endure,  cursed  by  her  love  for  him  and  the  determination  of  a  mother  to  spare  her  children  from  the  truth.  it  was  a  truth  that  she  desperately  wished  to  forget  as  well  and  in  the  warmth  of  their  chambers  with  her  husband  before  her,  it  was  seemed  easier  to  pretend  that  they  were  at  home  with  no  god,  king  or  council  to  steal  his  attention  away  from  her.

whether  they  were  in  kenilworth  or  in  london,  it  had  become  one  of  her  duties  (  when  she  was  not  in  attendance  to  her  mistress  anne  )  to  ensure  that  there  was  a  warm  room  and  a  soft  bed  for  him  to  sink  into  after  a  long  day  ─  though  her  vows  had  been  made  in  some  haste  before  the  countryside  priest,  she  had  treated  each  uttered  word  with  a  gravity  that  she  had  not  shown  to  her  first  husband.  amy  would  never  be  clever  enough  to  navigate  the  political  intricacies  of  court  but  she  would  always  try  to  support  him  and  do  her  best  to  ensure  the  future  of  their  children  at  the  risk  of  her  own  morals,  so  she  knew  exactly  what  to  say  when  necessary,  well - versed  in  his  idiosyncrasies  after  nearly  a  decade  of  marriage.  ❝  my  lord  husband  is  most  generous  to  allow  his  majesty  to  hold  the  victory  as  he  does  not  yet  have  a  wife  to  soothe  his  pride  if  he  should  lose  to  you.  ❞  he  was  being  smart,  more  likely  than  not,  especially  if  william  inherited  the  late  king's  appetite  for  flesh  and  a  fight  along  with  his  red  hair.  ❝  what  else  do  you  hide  up  your  sleeves  ?  a  gift  for  your  wife,  perhaps  ?  ❞  

as  light  as  the  legs  of  a  spider,  her  fingers  trailed  up  his  arms  as  though  she  meant  to  unravel  what  other  secrets  he  had  kept  hidden,  calling  him  back  to  her  with  a  considerable  amount  of  success.  the  press  of  his  mouth  was  received  with  a  delighted  hum,  spine  extending  to  push  herself  up  further,  closer  even  as  he  pulled  away  to  leave  her  mouth  parted  and  her  eyes  glazed  with  the  beginnings  of  a  carnal  hunger  that  had  quickly  replaced  exhaustion  at  the  first  touch  of  his  hand  upon  her  skin.  ❝  if  you  mean  for  me  to  persuade  him  as  i  persuade  you,  husband,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  such  methods  are  reserved  for  your  pleasure  alone.  ❞  one  hand  formed  a  fist  in  the  billowing  material  of  her  shift,  squeezing  and  twisting  with  impatience  that  mirrored  the  burning  heat  in  her  abdomen  and  lower  as  he  disrobed  until  a  pale  knee  is  exposed  to  create  a  divot  in  the  mattress  ─  he  captivated  and  manipulated  her  with  an  ease  that  would  embarrass  a  prouder  woman  but  she  obliged  his  inspection,  shifting  her  face  in  his  grasp  only  slightly  so  that  she  might  take  the  tip  of  his  thumb  between  her  teeth  with  a  gentle  bite,  entrapping  his  gaze  beneath  her  lashes.

❝  for  you  ?  impossible.  ❞  his  finger  was  wet  from  her  mouth  as  she  moved  to  speak,  relinquishing  the  grip  on  her  shift.  amy  extended  both  arms  until  they  rested  upon  his  shoulders,  leaning  forward  to  line  up  the  length  of  her  torso  against  his  own  like  a  stretched  feline.  her  back  was  kept  arched,  partially  to  add  to  the  appeal  as  the  swell  of  her  breasts  pressed  against  him  and  also  to  keep  the  small  curve  of  her  stomach  as  hidden  as  possible.  ❝  you  could  never  run  out  of  good  fortune,  robert  dudley  ...  you  have  always  created  your  own  fortune.  you  will  defy  men  and  challenge  god  and  you  will  win.  ❞  he  was  destined  to  rise  to  the  heavens  as  a  star  and  she  would  watch  from  afar,  as  dutiful  as  the  astronomers  that  kept  watch  over  the  night  skies.  ❝  but  perhaps  it  is  time  for  you  to  take  steps  to  ensure  a  stable  future  rather  than  pursue  excitement  ...  we  need  an  army  full  of  dudley  boys  to  conquer  the  fields  of  england,  after  all.  ❞  perhaps  one  grew  within  her  now  ─  her  mouth  parted  to  tell  him,  fingers  pushing  at  the  loosened  shirt  around  his  shoulders.  with  her  nose  this  close  to  him,  amy  could  smell  the  traces  of  liquor  and  tobacco  on  his  breath  as  well  as  something  deeper,  muskier  and  rich  with  a  fragrance  that  nearly  made  her  sneeze.  it  brought  something  to  mind  though  she  could  not  place  her  finger  on  it,  mind  clouded  with  a  haze  that  compelled  her  to  draw  back,  landing  on  the  mattress  and  a  pile  of  pillows  with  a  soft  laugh.

❝  don't  you  agree  ?  ❞  a  foot  flicked  up  daintily  to  beckon  him  closer,  the  hem  of  her  shift  rising  to  unveil  more  skin  ─  a  coquettish  gesture,  a  deer  teasing  the  hunter  just  seconds  before  she  falls  into  his  trapping.

[leiccsters]

Amy’s long, amber-coloured hair smelled of fresh-crushed lavender, bluebells, meadow-sweet, popping up around the mellow red-brick stables of Kenilworth Castle – of home, halcyon days, the hum of bees and the fountainous trickle of their children’s laughter, rippling like a knight’s banner in midsummer skies.  He breathes deeply the scent, strands of copper-silk cascading between the gaps of his long fingers like a river’s gentle stream.  In the brightest gardens of England, won by fame and glory and devotion to the King and his family who now occupy its velvet throne; in the dark, stone-walled chambers of their keep, likenesses of that illustrious family dappling the tapestries, their black eyes, their spindly splendour.  

Oh, he kens well that she would rather be there – anywhere but here – where his heart is her domain and where he will gladly abscond to when plague and the summer’s stink runs riot in London and assume the role of a dutiful husband like a prancing actor in a paltry play – but never without mournful parting from she who’d pierced his soul, the Virgin who keened for his touch.  He blinks away the film in his gaze, though a shadow of that regret – of that longing – remained scattered amid the gilt–flecks in his eyes. 

Leicester transfers his hands from her arms to her knees as her fists knot at the linen of his shirt, craving his proximity, clawing at his shoulders.  His fingers roam deftly across the softness of her skin, the winkling dimples embossed into the soft muscles of her thigh, each fleshy divot pressed firm into her leg – those small ripples and stretches of flesh ladies hid from their lovers with coy flashes of their skirts that made his mind drunk with lust.  ‘If my wife will accept my presence as such,’ He murmurs, ‘and forgive me for not having the good sense to arrive at our chambers flush with gifts deserving of her praise, I would be most humbled.’  Pinching the plumy underside of her thigh, he murmurs, ‘I cannot make promises to you, wife, but I vow that if I must fight, I will carry our banners with pride.’ 

He nips, in turn, at her mouth, a mischievous gleam curving at his lips as their chins meet, a bumping of flesh and bone, her spine arching toward his body with movements feline.  ‘Is that so?’  Robert hums. ‘I daresay, Lady Dudley, if you were not so chaste we would have long courted glory and fame. This body of yours would’ve taken you far.’  He tangles his hands in her hair, gripping a thick, silken clump of it and using it to tilt her head up to face him.  ‘But then I would not have the pleasure of knowing your sweet virtues alone, for which I would happily die a poor man.’

His wine-dark eyes watch with thinly-veiled anticipation as Amy shifts back and falls against the pillows, her limbs fanning about her, enticing him with the outward fall of her knee, the coaxing of her arched foot.  A quirk of his lips, a shift and a hardening beneath the belt, and he covers her body with his like a mighty marble slab, his hands mapping the mounds of her outer thighs, lifting her leg to drape effortlessly across his waist, his arousal finding perch in the honeyed gap between her knees.  ‘I would be a fool not to.’  His breath coasts across her skin, his head bent to lavish her neck with his mouth.  ‘We mustn’t wake the girls, Amy.  Bite my shoulder if you must, or else they’ll have my head long before I can spill an heir into you.' His words – chaste and methodical – are a far cry from the vulgar passions shared with Bess, but no less heartfelt. 'Do you understand, darling? Believe you me, if we were at home, and not here...’ 

[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."

[leiccsters]

The terse silence flooding the halls of court gives way to Leicester’s presence – so often infused with boisterous confidence and lordly swagger – his footfalls as quiet as a red-blooded stag stealthily picking its way through the green meadows of Kenilworth. His lungs bleed, the knotted muscles of his thighs quiver and ache from another vigorous hunt with Elizabeth; followed by a rendezvous in the stables, breathless laughter and the fervent panting of their sweat-soaked stallions beating in the wind with the fierceness of an encroaching army. Though thoroughly exhausting Leicester (and having ended in another feral lover’s quarrel) their hunt had, at the very least, given her ladies a rare respite from rigorous service, allowing at least one of which to wander off before her mistress returned to her lodgings, a welter of demands and rebukes upon her fastidious tongue.

Although a bosom companion to the Princess (and also, for reasons unclear to the Earl, very dear to Her Highness), Elizabeth had mentioned the lashing she’d given Meg only days prior… a cutting reminder of what it meant to be loyal to a Tudor, no doubt, close enough to the fire to feel its suffocating, sweltering heat but never close enough to burn gloriously with it. The Tudors were, after all, gods on earth, the sun itself, Kings placed on the throne by other men, by bloodshed and lust for power – but as Leicester lights his gaze on a portrait of Henry VII, his once penetrative stare swirled about with a smear of clouded oil paint, something akin to a smile descends over the corners of his mouth.

‘Indeed, impossible,’ Dudley echoes. In her grandfather, Leicester saw Elizabeth’s cool determination. Steely resolve. Narrow, black eyes; her wry mouth; her mind like a Petrarch tome containing shards of brilliance, a glittering cathedral. And for a moment, he debates remaining silent in the hopes that Meg will leave him to his reflections, leave him to simmer in his momentary annoyance with the woman he loved with both soul and body. ‘She was a pretty woman, the King’s aunt Mary.’ He points to a dual portrait of the French queen with her bearded husband, Lord Suffolk, set against an olive-green canvas. ‘All women in love are pretty. Don’t you think, Lady Meg?’

Clearing his throat, Dudley’s eyes sharpen to attention. ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Princess has dispatched me to summon you.’ His brows quirk, daring Marguerite to pass judgment as to why the Earl was doing her mistress’s bidding. She must, by now, know better: Dudley’s suave and charming courting of the Princess amidst passionate and fiery galliards was not merely ‘courtly love.’ He was in love with Elizabeth, and there was little hiding it from her ladies – though certain trinkets and kindnesses went a long way in procuring their silence. ‘But what is one more moment of solitude?’

[ertugrulgifs]

Turgut Alp in ‘Diriliş: Ertuğrul’ - Season 3, Episode 13

[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.

[leiccsters]

The exquisite passage of her hand, clawing and palming the rigid outline of his arousal, would have been consolation enough.   Robin shut his eyes, words coming to him in dull, delayed oozes of consciousness, his thoughts waylaid by the wicked thrill coursing through his veins.  Still his hands saw need to ground at the fleshy mounds of her backside, leaving her cream skin pinked with the webbed patterns of his groping fingers – like a nun’s arse, after a brusque flogging, blooming like a summer poppy, a virgin’s fierce blush, his touch, his clawing digits, tattooed against a Tudor’s untouchable flesh.  He wonders not if her ladies will catch sight of them as they lather her body with precious oils and fragrances, for her simpering maids were easily enough bought and flattered into silence – their blind-eyes keeping his neck squarely attached to his shoulders.

For once, a clever retort failed Dudley, eluded the quick strokes of his mind.  Elizabeth had slain the eloquent, charismatic courtier within and usurped him with someone ravenous, bucking his hips against her hand, his pelvis driving with instinctual thrusts, his teeth sinking into the fullness of his bottom lip to restrain a gruff snarl from tearing from his lungs.  A hiss tainting his words, followed by the shaking of his head, Robert concedes: ‘I would try. Even if I was forced out, I would try.’   But as her soft, damp hand continued to explore the throbbing length of him, Dudley’s brow knotted with a need to maintain his restraint, and complete and utter ecstasy at the feel of her fingers stroking him, coaxing him out of his breeches, until he stood at full alertness; his sulky, sensuous mouth slightly agape.

This – an open-aired, rose-scented rendezvous – was not the warm, wood-paneled rooms of Hever, those ancient stone walls containing the mingling cries of pleasure they keened into the air as Dudley’s dark head delved between Elizabeth’s legs.  It was not the hunting lodge, many miles out from Hampton Court, they’d found abandoned – and made their own, christened its vacant wilderness with tender couplings, the twittering of birds and gentle susurration of the ancient elms of London an orchestra to their private depravities.  But still, Elizabeth would find Dudley’s lips crushingly eager, his breath patched, nose pressed up against the crook of her neck, his dark and determined gaze cradling hers with a hungered intensity.  She would feel his sweat-slick skin against hers, every callous, the curve of his fingers squeezing at her sweet virginal thighs, prying them apart so that his knee could butt between them, the rough-hewn fabric of his trousers sliding against the needy heat of her core: a delicious irritant to her touched-starved centre. 

‘But you are no blushing bride,’  Robin growled low, taking a fistfull of Elizabeth’s hair to yank her head back, tipping her oval-face toward his.  The intensity of Leicester’s gaze blazed even through the darkness; though his fierceness, his aggression, could not have belied the obvious love and tender affection that bled from his voice.  ‘And though you are wild for to hold, I’ll see fit to torment whoever takes your sweet cunt’s maiden voyage.’  His lips quirked into another devilish smirk as he seized another kiss, deep and decadent, pushing his tongue in her mouth as she stroked him to glory, thumbling the pearl of desire that dripped forth from a mushroom head, her thighs falling around his. 

Dudley mourns the absence of her hand around his cock, the firm grip around his sizable length, given way to the bracing coolness of the night’s fresh air.  His eyes then snapped and shuttered to alertness, irises expanding in wild dilation, as Elizabeth sank to her knees, a tide of gilded-brocade rippling about her, and took him from stern to stern.  Taming falcons such as she was a practice of patience and Dudley had come to anticipate Elizabeth’s reservations, especially at court.  But her sweet, wet, suckling mouth around his hardened shaft robbed him of all rigid reason; his shoulders slumped forth, one hand matted in Elizabeth’s long, autumnal mane, and the other buried in the lushness of the rosebush, bracing against hard brick.  At the sound of her tongue gently lapping and sucking at him, Dudley breathes out a sigh, the boundless impatience of a promised lover, of profound joy. 

His gaze traveled downward; he bites his lip at the way her mouth, formed in a perfect bow, releases his cock to the balmy air, before sheathing it within her warm lips again, again, again; taking him, liberating him, with torturous ministrations.  It was a wondrous marvel to see her so transformed, his blessed virgin; her cheeks blooming with their covert coupling, her neck scratched with bites and bruises shorn from his own lips – easy enough to blame on a clumsiness that everyone knew Elizabeth did not possess.  The truth rankled at him like a thorned collar – there would never be justification for this sin; she would never be his wife and he would always be her servant, but with God’s mercy, Dudley could accept it.

Blissful visions of vivid color burst behind his lids, guiding him ever closer to the release he so desired. 

‘Fuck, Elizabeth.  Do you enjoy bringing me thus?  Sucking my cock and robbing me of all earthly reason?  Do you see what you do to me, my sweetheart?’ 

His member twitched with an indication of a forthcoming climax, a deep grunt escaping him.  Perhaps she enjoyed it – this wave of power she held over him.  Perhaps he enjoyed it, too – equally, if not more.  

Before he could release his seed into her mouth, Dudley hauled Elizabeth up by her arms and pressed her back against the hardness of the garden wall.  ‘Whores tricks,’ he says, his hands once more finding purchase under the layers of her kirtle,  the pad of his finger grazing against the cluster of slick, pulsing nerves found at her core.  ‘Let me show you how a princess of England ought to be pleasured, Bess.’

[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  ?  ❞

[leiccsters]

The warmth and silent crackle of the hearth settled into Dudley’s body, sliding invitingly into his cache of weary bones. The madness of court, of delegations of Spaniards and swaggering Frenchmen, marauding door to door, had overturned England. It was not merely his devotion to the Princess that devoured what precious little time the Earl once spared to the obligations of a family man, but, indeed, the rapacious expectations of a young King at the height of his ambitions. It was not enough to relieve his frayed nerves with long, hard rides through the green and flowering hills of England, horns blasting, wind whipping at his sunburnt face. He relished the quiet comfort of his wife’s presence, a tonic to his troubles – nearly as much as he enjoyed Elizabeth's fierceness.

Perhaps it was that Amy was a country girl, and he’d brought her to London to be a great lady, to peacock in her finery and fustian, made her a countess. But at heart she bore a sort of rustic simplicity that he’d grown rather fond of – there was no equal to her at court, and that, too, warranted his affections. Amy's quiet amenability to his indiscretions; her turning of a blind eye. It both contributed to and alleviated his compunction. But whatever the root, Robin's mouth curved into a faint grin at the sweetness of her voice, breathing in the aqueous air of their chamber, infused with the herbs and rosebuds which Lady Leicester strew across her bathwater.

His eyes still ablaze with determined fire, Amy's quick amendment – ‘of the gambling table’ – gives him pause. He casts a sidelong glance in her direction, scanning her face, a burly black brow risen toward his hairline. ‘Never, if the King can help it. But if I did not hide my ace in my sleeves, I would have been surely crowned victor.’

Leicester sloughed toward their marital bed, brought with them from Kenilworth, canopied in rich velvet embroidered with the Dudley’s coat-of-arms, and settled into his well-worn dip in the mattress. His deft hands made quick work at his linen shirt, untying the knot at his chest. He leans his head back at the gentleness of his wife’s touch, her thin fingers prodding at his taut, gnarled muscles. Squeezing his eyes shut, Robin is grateful that she cannot see the flash of guilt that twists at his face – the stabbing, crushing reminder that he deserved her high-esteem and timid affections not. Not for the first time, he wonders if Elizabeth's rich perfume lingers on his skin, his shift.

But still he tilts his head, slanting his full mouth against her unsuspecting lips – an apology, an olive branch, of sorts – his tongue only briefly grazing the seam of her part as his hands slide to hold her by the arm. He’d hardly embraced her in weeks; they’d both been preoccupied in their roles at court and, rather strangely, Amy’s disrelishness to the taste of ale on his tongue had grown ever more profound; even a whiff of it sickened her. ‘His Majesty is something of a romantic,’ Dudley says, their lips only a breath apart, ‘perhaps you could convince him. I do not doubt that your methods of persuasion are still as keen…?’ He flicks his brow at her, teasingly, leaving her bereft as he divests the rest of his regalia.

Kicking off his boots, Robin’s hand reaches up to cradle the side of Amy’s face, the flushed apples of her cheeks aglow in the firelight. ‘But if God has already granted me a wife as sweet and honourable as you, I see no reason why he should look kindly upon me thus.’ He tilts her head – as if testing how much she’ll allow him to take – as he peers, earnestly, into her eyes, his irises tracing each freckle to paint her fair skin. ‘Do you think it possible, Amy? To run out of fortune?’ His mouth forms into a thin hyphen, neither morose nor condemning as he remarks, 'if I was a lesser man, perhaps I would have a bevy of sons. But life would not be nearly as exciting, hm?'

[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."

[leiccsters]

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?

[kismctt]

the grandeur of the evening was certainly not lost on kismet, constantly in quiet awe of the theatrics with an unusually wide grin on her lips. while her mother's voice haunted her throughout the night, scolding her for showing such a childish nature at such a function, kismet reassured herself that it was unlikely that any eyes were truly on her while she so often stood beside far more beautiful ladies. she'd spent most of the evening thus far attached to meg's hip, arm intertwined with the other lady as they whispered to each other about the other attendees. however, they'd since parted ways as meg claimed she had other company to attend to, and kismet's eyes had caught sight of her eldest brother trailing away from the bright lights of the celebrations. 

with a hum, kismet followed after him, pausing in her steps a few feet away from him. the scent of his pipe made her scrunch her nose in clear distaste, a hand on her hip as she regarded her elder brother with a raised eyebrow. " i shall be profusely bewildered to learn of anyone who is not troubled by such a scent, robin." she jested, face shifting into a smile towards him. " is something troubling your mind? do the king's celebrations not please you?"

[leiccsters]

Dew had fallen over Hampton Court, bathing his head in a soft, nearly invisible drizzle, and Kismet’s light footfalls squelched in the grass. Dudley squints nearsightedly, his black eyes scanning the gentle flush of her cheeks, the meek tilt of her head, before casting his sharp gaze back to court, to the revelry, the singing, a gabble of voices exploding into laughter, the auburn-haired King who will need Rochford to haul him up by his armpits to continue gulping down vats of wine. Somewhere, of course, there was Bess – undoubtedly commanding attention with her rare and incisive wit – whose tightfisted affections had put Dudley in such an irritatingly foul mood. He shakes his head, determined. ‘No, nothing, sister.’

The Earl’s voice is as clear as his expression, the pipe in his hand snuffed out with a quick blow and tucked squarely into his doublet. Robert lavishes his face with a grin – fleeting, genuine, crackling like the bursts of gunsmoke in the night sky. He was grateful, at least, for what he perceived as neither ignorance or accomplice on Kismet’s part, that she did not call attention to his indiscretions. ‘What would be amiss? We are back at court. All is well.’

Dudley stretches out his arm to Kismet, a fountain of fur suspended from his coat. In the absence of tobacco’s heady aroma, the river reeks, and come morning it will be grey and dreary and stink of piss; leaden ribbons of water cut by ships and wherries and royal barges, framed by the misty veil of London. ‘Come, I’ll take you back. Amy will be looking for you.’ His eyes fell on her hand, safely tucked into the crook of his arm. ‘How does a country girl like you find court?’ He asks, leaning into Kismet as they trek back toward the palace. ‘Do you follow the Princess’ direction, and mind your words?’