Tudor Rose

xi. from bad to worse

April 30, 1519

There was no letter from Francis, only his ambassador's quiet arrival. The man, distinctly French with his pointed mustache and hopelessly romantic look in his eyes, reassured me with a single knowing smile. Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, it felt as though all was well. My daughters were on their way back to court, a French alliance was successfully brewing beneath my husband's nose, and Scotland's invasion attempts had finally come to a screeching halt. At first glance, I was living my lavish life with the sense of security that most only dreamed of.

That was not the case, of course. My marriage had effectively crumbled to nothing more than a union forged years and years before by two naive, foolish children who believed they'd found love. To add to the embarrassment, my husband chose to place the  bastard boy he believed to be his above his own daughters, and a new set of awful rumors about me had started circulating court. Even with my twenty-eighth birthday only hours away, I still felt unfulfilled. In the center of my heart, where an unmatched sense of love and passion once burned fervently and brightly, resided a gaping hole that longed for even the slightest bit of affection.

From a chair near the fireplace, I watched the Norwood sisters with careful eyes. Lydia, who was proving to be much more troublesome than her sister, was chatting quietly with the kind and controlled Clara, who ironically embodied everything that Lydia was not. Cecily, on the other hand, seemed to be a decent lady beneath the coldness that was aimed towards me. A product of her upbringing, no doubt. And so, I regarded her behavior as disappointing rather than shocking. 

The real arrival occupying my mind was my daughters'. Kate was nearing seven years, and Anne was nearing four, and they'd grown so much in such little time. When they exited their carriage, they approached Henry and I immediately. Nestled tightly in my arms was Katherine, whereas Anne sneakily approached her father first. 

The third person that emerged from the carriage was shocking to everyone. Eleanor Tudor, daughter of Elizabeth of York and Henry VII, stepped onto the damp cobblestone. Her blue eyes, identical to her older brother's, were wide with curiosity, with a hint of mischievousness as well. Her Tudor-auburn curls fell loosely past her shoulders, framing her delicate, regal features and contrasting her pale skin. A necklace with an E pendant rested on her collarbone, which was entirely exposed due to the cut of her neckline. She lived up to her reputation as the most attractive of the Tudor siblings. 

"Brother. Queen Anna," she greeted warmly, smiling and dropping into a French curtsy quickly, "I hope it is alright that I have returned from my travels early. I was at French court last, but I left rather quickly. When Queen Claude died, King Francis discussed with me the prospect of marriage, and despite my numerous denials, he still pursued me. So, I left."

"Why did you arrive with your nieces, though?" I asked, "Surely you could have traveled to court on your own."

"I did not want to intrude," Eleanor answered, "And although I sent numerous letters, I received no reply. I wrote to Lady Bryan about a week ago, when I first arrived in England, and I have been staying at Hatfield since."

"Oh," I replied curtly, a shocked expression painted on my face.

Eleanor's charming, intoxicating blue eyes met my own dull brown ones and instantly I knew that a denied marriage proposal was not the only reason the famed Tudor girl returned to her home. No, her expression plainly stated that she was plotting something right beneath our noses - not that I entirely disapproved, as I was doing precisely the same - and to retain any small sense of security that lingered in my cold, hollow body, I needed to find out what the auburn haired princess was planning. Quickly.

__

Laced in a crimson gown with a crown of roses, I strode down the halls with a small note in hand. Mary or Clara had slipped it into the small, dusty spot on a bookshelf where the pair always left the news they didn't dare to speak.  What started as gossip turned into secret plots against me; affairs turned into bastards; love turned to hate. And Mary and Clara thrust themselves into the center of it all, scrambling for any bit of valuable information that they could garner. Anything of merit was delivered to me discreetly. The two ladies had each turned into a unique, voluntary type of spy.