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It had been Dover Castle itself that had fired an inspiration within Thomas’ belly, so much so that he found himself wandering the grounds in the same way a groundskeeper would do when trying to find the difficult shrub causing a rot among the many. As he paced the outer walls, he looked out into the sea and how the waves went from the less appetizing tint of brown to a magnificent blue-green patched with sea foam in a way one would imagine Aphrodite rising from the scallop shell. Against the stonework he scribbled into his journals, his mind henceforth high above the clouds and far from the reality that tempered every other courtier’s brows. As his wife matched the temp of her son, the Spanish made haste and the lower nobility closed ranks, Thomas remained beyond the precipice. Let him wander on nature, indeed, but it would be Wyatt who would comfort or advise his family if they so needed it — even if, some thread of his person seemed to worry of his security in that infamous house of Tudor.

Upon the ramparts, where the King’s army stationed themselves en guard for any sort of trickery sent by the King of Spain, Thomas met the son — a handsome, broad Prince who seemingly adopted nothing of his mother whom Thomas had always wagered was quite plain, if not too sober for his attitude. Rising to his grossly tall height compared to the others bar his step-son, Thomas could not help but welcome Felipe into his inner sanctum where the birds passed over their heads in search for warmer climates. Wrapped up in velvet and furs which had long been a gift from the Dowager, the Earl of Allington bowed formally before inviting him with a single gesture. “I see you, too, have grown tired of the constant meetings. Though I am a faithful servant, and would do as much as I can if asked, I have always found happiness among the wilds. Will you join me before the eve grows too cold?”

@felipaed

#twyatt unintentionally flirtnig with the spanish sibs #habsburg.#bd.event003

If Thomas Wyatt was a certain type of man, perhaps he would’ve taken advantage of the situation of which he had found himself. As a consort to the King’s mother, as a husband to one of the boldest women to have walked the Earth’s green carpet, Thomas was one of the most powerful, prestigious men in the country — even if one overlooked his previous lifestyle of poetry, merriment and luxurious treatment of mistresses and an abandoned first wife. And yet, he seemed to release the very promise of certain fame and glory. He did not whisper into the ears of his stepchildren, nor did he seem to garner much affection from the other councillors who often fought to ignore Wyatt in any oncoming situation. After all, Thomas was no politician despite the late King’s manner to embolden the poet’s place in court as an ambassador to various foreign courts. What he enjoyed, thereafter, was the wine that flowed into his cup or the music that echoed along Dover Castle’s fine, looming halls. And though he would remain as a steadfast advisor to the King and his needs, Thomas lounged in the same way one would think a jester would — ignoring the confusing, tense communication that lay in wait between himself and his wife’s own stepchild, thee infamous Mary Tudor.

In the feasting hall he kept to himself whilst provoking an audience with the coaxing call of his poetry, there he waxed lyrical upon the history of the castle and the romantic overture of Eleanor of Aquitaine — so, perhaps it was not solitude he was after but rather a quieter, less serious means of attentions. With his words he drew a vision of jealousy piqued with one ruling king and a lover in tow (for the idea of a menage á trois was not something that Thomas had been a stranger to, for had he not watched Anne’s own envy whenever Henry looked at another woman? When the very thought of either Mary Tudor or Jane Seymour came to taunt her?), leaning back in his chair like a slovenly Roman Emperor awaiting a fresh bunch of grapes before he met the eyes of one he knew by all but name. Rising to his feet, the crowd dispersing for the change of tune, the Earl of Allington then lowered himself to a respectful bow — for she was the daughter of Mary Tudor, a daughter of Spain and by blood right even a claimant of the throne itself. She was a beautiful thing, but much too young and too late for Thomas’ wandering eye.

“Your Grace, I hope you find Dover to your taste. It is a far stretch from Spain, for that I am certain, but it is always a pleasure to diverge from the solemn routine of Hampton’s everyday routine, am I not right?” @lainfanta