@boleynqueen / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.
A hiss lodges itself in William’s throat as his eyes rove over the lewd illustration, sketched onto the back of a dampened Penitence Paper: Queen Anne, his own mother, splayed on all fours, worshiping a serpent as her pregnant belly suspends beneath her. He crumbles the paper and tosses it into the roaring hearth, the heady flames licking at his eyes, at his flesh, at the deep furrow stamped between his brows, the glower gamboling about his mouth. ‘To hell with it,’ he commands, turning on the heel of his sable boot to face the Dowager. ‘It is gone. Uncle has dealt with it. No doubt there will be a round of executions as soon as the culprits are apprehended.’ His conviction does not mask prevarication; no such arrests had yet been made. ‘It will not be long now before the traitor’s blood is spilled.’
Conditions at court were frosty, tense, but the morning was hot. Windy. A gust of September air flutters through the uncurtained windows, attempting to snuff the fire. William crosses the chamber to place a conciliatory hand at his mother’s arm, a compassionate tilt to his copper head. In weather like this, if the papers had not fouled the atmosphere of court, the young king would be hunting; in the wealds beyond Richmond Palace, or traveling downland with his court to the charming countryside of Sussex, riding high on the late-summer airs, strumming virginals beneath a twinkling canopy of stars. Surrounded by the Boleyns, the richest, most powerful family of England. Even at her age, the Dowager would besot them all with her exaggeratedly French graces, her tales of excitement and peril. ‘I beseech you to forget it, mother.’
He steers her toward a pair of seats arranged by the windows, allowing the Dowager to overlook the courtyard, and those courtiers roaming beneath her squinted glare. ‘Come, let us discuss the French – that always lifts your spirits, does it not? I desire you to encourage Bessie’s attentions toward the Dauphin Burghley informs me that the French might look to a Spanish alliance, but you know better than any how undesirable that is for me, for England. We must present a united front to our Parisian guests. This–’ he gestures to the fire, ‘–cannot frighten us.’
