𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐀 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀.
THE YEAR IS 1456. THE WINDS BLEW COOL, and the mist rising from the River Thames had been thick enough to be cut with a knife, yet just beyond the cloud of white vapor smothering the still waters stood the future Queen of England –– a white light shining through the dense fog, clasped in her hands the prayers and aspirations of not one, but two, countries. Harry Plantagenet, the future King, stood impenetrable at the bank of the river as he awaited her arrival, skin roughened with gooseflesh as the barge transporting his intended gradually pierced through the silvery, moistened haze that dripped icy perspiration from his brow.
Bitterly cold and humid: an enchanting combination, yet an altogether appropriate welcome to the city of London.
Chatter is around, and it grows stronger and more vociferous with each passing moment; the whispered grouses of his advisers have since eluded his notice, whilst the chink of goblets topfull of malmsey shared by august women of the court and the rattle of armor worn by soldiers begins to grate upon his nerves, standing alert to the polemic winds. His silence was taken as read, the latent importance of the hour felt keenly by all, pitted in the belly and absorbed by wine and banal discussion. Katrinka of Russia’s happiness in England would affect the next century of English rule, he knew this, and yet his mother’s ill-fated end soured his anticipation into something closer resembling dour foreboding.
The frigid air and the potentiality that buzzes like static in his ears has a way of keeping the Prince of Wales alert, fast wicking away the body heat trapped beneath numerous layers of costly furs. The copious amounts of ale circulating his system from the night’s frivolities has burned away, too, leaving a lingering staleness in his mouth. The Duke of Gloucester, his uncle, is ever at his side, murmuring tones of sage consolation. Smile –– Harry recalls him repeating.
“You’re greeting your wife, not your executioner.”
He wouldn’t be so damned restless if he were.
In no hurry to dislodge the imprudent glower upon his face, Harry glanced down at the miniature in his hands, fastened to a small prayer from his beloved’s own hand. If Sir Andrew Rublev, an esteemed artist from Tsar Ivan’s court, was anything to go by, Katrinka was –– as her own country –– dowdy and hearty. Sallow, her forehead higher than his father’s, her chin dissolving into a thick throat, fingers gripping an Orthodox text with the might of Samson and her complexion ruddy. Courtiers will seethe of her disfigurement; all Europe will take notice of his pitiful selection in bride, and sneer at his crown.
If England’s relationship with Russia was not so vital to securing an Eastern peace, he would have sundered the betrothal the moment Katrinka’s likeness had landed in his hands and sought out the first English rose he came across to marry instead, swilling this loathsome affair.
The minutes toiled by at a glacial pace. Dawn had broken over the city, and sunrise was in full effect; the mist now rising in smokey swirls over the gently lapping water, dissipating into the gleaming sunlight. Westminster Palace became a mere silhouette against the brightening sky. The air smelled potently of brine, and as beads of moisture clung to the tall grass, all but whistling in the wind, an uncomfortably chilly sweat began to drip from the nape of Harry’s neck.
Now beginning to bemoan the many layers of clothes he donned, Harry kept his eyes pinned to the magnificent masts rising like lances from the small, but mighty barge; with ease clipping the calm waters of the Thames, albeit far too leisurely for his liking. “Must this take so long?” Harry’s eyes flickered toward his uncle, flashing with thinly-veiled indignation. “I'll miss Suffolk’s hunt at this rate.”
“God’s blood, Henry, it is your wedding for Christ’s sake – not an afternoon social call.”
Yet, as Edmund spoke, Harry’s gaze snapped to attention. From beneath the barge, a woman sheathed by a linen headdress arose to greet the morning airs, head tipping to the wind, fingers finding perch and tangling in the dark tresses that escaped from beneath her humble veil. Perhaps a trick of the eyes, Harry’s shoulders squared as he caught a glimpse of her obsidian-black gaze boring through linen, meeting his. Soaking in the image of the boy who would make her Queen. An unconscious smirk tips the bridge of Harry’s lips upward; wondering, and not for the first time since the betrothal was sealed with Papal approval, would she prove herself his opponent in this game of chess, or his ally?
