@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.’
