The Other Henry VIII

Narcissus

When the first day of a new month dawned over Dashwood, the sun's golden glow flooding every inch of the estate, Princess Clara's bed had long been abandoned. An early riser since the days of seizing every spare moment to see James, she stood half a mile away, clad in a washerwoman's garb, at the side of a lake. In a morning so still as this, one might mistake it for polished glass. She stepped closer to catch a glimpse of her own reflection, hazy and pale as it was, and found herself unable to look away.

Court had become stifling. She was trying her best with Prince Christian, but every exchange between them seemed to boil down to the question of faith. Another threat had weaselled its way into her chambers, this time in the form of a crude sketch depicting her bound screaming to a stake. Enveloped in flames. Even the castle had lost its appeal because, no matter where she went, Clara could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her. Sometimes she would flee like a mad woman from the main hall to the highest tower, from the stables to the library, as if to outrun her own fear. Then she would enjoy but a minute's respite, before that very same prickle on the back of her neck returned and plagued her all over again. Only out here, in the depths of the woods, could she find peace.

Footsteps rustled behind her. Clara turned and mustered a smile to greet Charles, who had emerged from the trees and was making his way toward her. Wedged under one arm was a long sackcloth bundle, and his eyes were combing their surroundings for danger with the restless caution of a true soldier. He stopped short about five feet shy of the lakeside.
"My Lady, forgive my tardiness," he apologised, looking more than a touch uncomfortable, "I thought we agreed sunup. Had I known, I might have risen earlier to  —"
"Do not concern yourself; I merely desired a moment alone. It's beautiful here, don't you think?"
He frowned. "The lake or the county itself?

The furrow in his brow was so sincere that Clara was forced to suppress a smile. "Both. But out here, in the grounds, especially. One almost feels on the fringes of reality. My brother Edward once told me that lakes and ponds and rivers are all just mirrors for God." She gazed at the calm waters fondly. "You know, I cannot blame Narcissus. An eternity here would be the easiest I can imagine."
Charles cleared his throat awkwardly, which snapped a reluctant Clara out of her reverie. "My apologies," she said briskly, eying the package. "May I see them?

Laying his cargo upon the forest floor, he knelt and unwrapped it methodically. Inside were two fine longswords with gilt cross-guards, sturdy shagreen grips and a ruby inlaid in each rounded pommel. The iron blades, set ablaze by their first kiss of morning sun, glimmered almost blindingly as Charles passed one to her.

Clara stared, awestruck, as though he had just offered up the keys to Heaven. When, a fortnight past, she had requested his guidance in the art of swordplay, she had all but forgotten the true thrill of holding such a weapon in one's hands. She had forgotten the beauty. Many did, she supposed, when faced with the bloodshed they could inflict. Breath caught in her throat, she rotated her wrist smoothly to test its weight in her grasp and nearly gasped at the ease of motion. Lighter than the first she had held, and more elegant, certainly. The other had been clumsy, imbalanced; this one skimmed through the air at her command like a satin ribbon.

"Like this," said Charles all of a sudden, correcting her grip with swift, professional hands. The very touch of her skin seemed to make him uneasy. Perhaps, pondered Clara in faint amusement, he feared it was treason to so much as lay a finger upon her person. Perhaps it was — she had never checked. "Are you right-handed, My Lady?"
"Left. How about now?"
"Good, good... just bring your elbows closer in, My Lady."

Her presence must have become too much for him, for then he drew back and began to rifle through the numerous pouches which hung upon his belt. Clara adjusted her stance as instructed, questioning what on earth he carried that required so many. There was a stiffness in him, she noticed, no doubt the last laugh of that old wound from weeks ago; but then, Charles had never been one for fluidity of motion. Only with a sword in hand did he come alive.
At last he withdrew a crumpled piece of parchment from his belt, and began to explain his lengthy plan for this first morning.