Thomas had spent most of the evening against the wall, his back pressed against it for support as his hand strayed to touch his wife’s, her place a comfort to the soul that seemed heavy with guilt. Unlike some others, who saw the evening’s affair a grande break from the everyday workplace, Thomas’ mind still surged with what was going to happen once the Medici sought an audience with the King alongside his half-brother and Catholic claimant. In the dark, he groped for answers or logic, his eyes staring into absent space as he tried to decode the knots that amassed around the subject like heavy, untameable weeds. So distracted by unending questions, he had forgotten about Mary — no, she was no longer a Mary, but a Queen of Spain. 

When she had been but an estranged daughter of the late King, Thomas had been contracted by Cromwell to coax her back to court to reunite with her father. The mission had been a success, and in turn Thomas had felt a sense of care for the Lady Mary — but, it had been a job, and so there had been rules to follow, goals to achieve. There had been no real sense of friendship or even respect, and as different as she may have been, he had changed in turn. It was unfortunate, then, that they met whilst in costume for this celebration of the women at court, his own visage curated by the hand of his wife to become some figure akin to Hades — he felt facetious, a false pretender and sincerely unworthy of Mary Tudor’s time. But, there they met once more, this time at differing stages of power. 

“Your Grace,” he called, his bow subtle, his eye not leaving hers — as if one blink was all it could take to lose the Queen. “I must apologise first for not meet you at Dover, there was some pressing business I was forced to attend.” @lareinamaria

His stomach dropped, his eyes lingering upon Lady Percy who presented herself in the same way a councilman would do. Without the fear, or the tempering ache of what was to come, perhaps he would’ve found some admiration for how she held herself before the two men, how she came to the table with her own seasoned intellect — before she had been sent alongside the men who acted on behalf of the King and the Lady Regent, he had barely known of whom she was other than the known fact that she was from the Percy household, who raised alongside many other ambitious noble families to stake a place upon the King’s inner circles. Indeed, Thomas hadn’t really known of her existence. But her knowledge and methods of presenting herself within Florence was enough to leave him bolstered, so much so that perhaps he could offer her some role as guardian to his only child and daughter, Cecily. 

But, he would think of that later when the existence of his head was not put into question. For then, within that room that seemed thick with unbridled tension, Thomas could only think of this ghost of a babe he had once huddled from London to Essex, a babe now grown into a man placed in some sense of martyrdom against the break with Rome. Lowering his gaze then to the table itself as James moved into action, his voice filtering into nothing but a background haze, her jaw then clenched till he went to grind the back of his teeth.

“He will be displayed as some alternative to a Boleyn child, that is for sure…” With a grumble, he moved to sit himself up straight, his hands then flush against the table top as he turned his head to look at James, his eyes searching for his — his sudden need for action an unstoppable wrench in his attention. “I won’t put you in a situation, nor Julian, nor Lady Percy, that means you to toe the line of honesty. But I ask you, we must keep this under wraps till I can arrange safe passage for Penelope and Cecily…” With another curse, he banged the table beneath his fists, scraping his chair back against wood to rise to his feet, his hands then pushed through his hair as he began to pace behind the table before he faced Lady Percy at last, his gaze sincere if not overwhelmed with stress. “Thank you, my Lady. You have done us a grand service… Where is Julian? Have you seen him?”

sibella  does  not  linger  in  the  doorway  and  crosses  the  room  in  quick  strides.  "i  require  nothing,"  she  replies  gently,  descending  into  the  lone  chair  left  at  the  table.  lithe  fingers  reach  for  the  cup  filled  for  her  and  yet  she  could  not  pick  it  up.  "i  only  come  forth  with  information  i  discovered  whilst  giving  alms  this  afternoon  at  il  convento  di  san  marco,"  she  paused  a  moment,  glancing  at  their  faces.  "regarding  edward  seymour."  sibella  would've  preferred  they  believed  that  she  happened  upon  this  knowledge  than  sought  it  under  pretense.  she saw no point in seeking glory at a time like this. initially she'd planned on  withholding such damning information  from  all  three  of  them. an  adherent  to  the  true  faith  herself,  the  news  of  a  living  catholic  heir  to  the  english  throne  should  have  sent  waves  a  joy  through  her  person.  she'd be declared a saint and history would revere her for her steadfastness and devotion.

and  yet,  the  expression  upon  lord  oxford's  face  when  she'd  imparted  the  information  to  him  remained  with  her  even  hours  later.  with  an  exhale,  she  began. "when  i  visited  florence  many  years  ago,  i  fostered  a  friendship  with  the  prior  of  the  monastery.  i  mention  this  to  demonstrate  that  my  information  can  be  trusted,  as  the  prior  wields  much  influence  over  the  medicis  and  is  oft  included in their business, though to some it appears to be manipulation .  i  inquired  upon  the  rumors  of  the  late  king's  son—  under  pretense,  of  course." he  all  but  confirmed  that  it  is  indeed  edward,  that  is  housed  by  the  medicis  in  their  palazzo." @jamescecils

Thomas was always going to return to Penelope, even if it’d take ten years to do so in the same manner Odysseus went to his own patient wife, but without the frequent infidelities that had cursed that figure of epic poetry. To he, there had been no other, no more temptation found in a rowdy tavern than put before him in his own marital bed — for as soon as he had seen her he had seen something holy in her eyes, something that deserved the loyalty of someone strong or albeit ready to cut all who thought to get in his way. It had been so when Thomas had thought to cross ranks against his own Master, his own role model who had become a quasi-father instead of his own who had always lived and breathed by the job at the Tower. But as soon as the safety of his family had been threatened with the upheaval of Cromwell’s master plan, or when the tally had been drawn to secure a Boleyn victory, Thomas had done just as he had once thought foolish or for certain something unfathomable. So, he had proved himself, he had proved that if the hair on his wife or his daughter’s heads were put into question then he would cut any throat that dare thought to harm them. And with his return, he came raked with insecurities, the fact of illegitimate son of the old King a matter fresh within his mind. 

He was home, but whether home was good enough for his family was under superstition, for even as he kissed her — his words laced between his need for attention — he could not help but stray to what was to be packed, what was to be kept or what was to be lost to the crows of Hampton Court. He knew then, as he looked at her, that he could not tell his wife of the truth. That if it came out that he, Cecil and de Vere had lied (for Lady Percy, as a translator, would hold little weight to the fury of a King and his other councilmen) to their Master — a trick played by Walsingham’s own hand in the fight against Cromwell — then he would not be surprised to find himself resting against the chopping block in practice for the final swing. No, he could not have Penelope then put under the scrutiny of treason — she would remain unaware, she would be safe. Perhaps, if they were lucky, after his death she would be exiled to her own paternal hearth with Cecily in tow, where they could survive and live their lives without the constant threat of being a Walsingham. 

“I would tell you, I will tell you when the time is right. But I cannot lie to you, Penelope, I have never and I never would. But you must believe me that I keep you shrouded for good reason, for you and our daughter, our family,” he whispered, as if the walls had ears, his brow flush against her own as he held her there — oh, and how in love he was, and what a weakness it was to be so passionately reserved for she. “Pack all things that mean more to you, we can get clothes or essentials elsewhere. I must stay, but you and Cecily could go —” he murmured, before pushing her hair from her shoulders, putting the gentle nudge of his nose against her neck, bowing before her as he held her against his broadness, his lips finding the sweet curve of her skin to kiss, his body played the fool against his mind that worked furiously against the deadline.

the word had come that the men had returned, yet penelope did not immediately flank to her husband's side, it would be a foolish scene and she was no longer a young maiden who was at the mercy of her hysteria and follies of the heart. instead, penelope had paced their rooms endlessly, allowing cecily to prattle at her about the lessons her tutors had been harping on as of late, till her mother eased some of the tensions in her shoulders. it was nearing mid meal with still no sign of thomas' return to their chambers, penelope sighed to herself as she ordered cecily to go wash up before they ate, shifting towards their bedchamber. penelope was certain that he must be held up with the king, yet her heart still raced in mild anxiety that perhaps thomas was not returning and soon, james would darken their doorstep to inform her of trouble that had befallen him. 

in an effort to soothe herself, penelope moved towards her own trunk, kneeling down to sift through it till she found the shirt that she had tucked away at the bottom, it had been on she'd been slowly working on hemming and sewing for him. penelope lifted to her chest, his scent still lingered on it faintly and with her eyes closed she nearly could trick herself into believing that he had returned already. her fingers traced the corners of it, a fond smile on her face as she recalled the way thomas had teased her when she stolen it from his body directly, pressing fleeting kisses to her cheeks till she near a mess in giggles, tossing it aside then so she could map out every scar on his body with her hands. the memory warms her cheeks, lifting the tunic to her lips to press a faint kiss to it before resting it atop her trunk once more, praying she didn't accidentally undo one of her own stitches in her temporary melancoly moment. 

the sound of cecily as she cried out at the sight of her father is enough to send penelope shooting up with baited breath as her eyes watched the door to their bedroom, hands clasped in front of her as an odd sense of anticipation filled her. soon, the door had opened and thomas' figure stood in it, penelope's face lighting up instantly at the sight of him. before she has a chance to rush for him, he is dashing for her and she is enveloped in his arms, her own hands gripping him desperately. " thomas, you're home," she whispered, barely having a moment to return the kiss before he is rambling again, a frown replacing the smile on her lips. her hands sought out his cheeks, cupping them and forcing him to hush and look at her in the eyes. " my love, please, you will work yourself sick in such a fret. tell me, what is it that you are so fearful of? we have conquered together so much before, we shall do it again. lay your worries at my feet so that i may soothe your tired heart."

THOMAS WALSINGHAM as HADES

Greek god of the dead and the King of the Underworld

There are many tales that surround the information harvested from the unusual voyage to Florence by Thomas Walsingham, James Cecil, Julian de Vere and Lady Sibella Percy - but all worries, threats or weak hearts seemed to vanish upon the eve of grand festivities held at Hampton Court. Where the women performed, the act of metamorphosis turning every fair headed maiden into extravagant goddesses, Thomas remained sober in the background. Hand upon hand, he would linger beside his wife Penelope, who personified Persephone, coaxed into wearing something fitting for the namesake he had adopted for the night's entertainment.

The black velvet trimmed with red thread was suitable, and multi-functional, but it did not escape his attention that he adorned the darker deity as his person for the evening, hoping perhaps that this flamboyant gesture would be enough to keep the Cromwells at bay, for even a period more. With the keen eye of his beloved wife, the very figure of many future romantic historical fiction novels, his adorned cape was fit with figures pertaining the glory of Hades. Visions of keys with no lock had been woven into the lining of his cloak, figures of three headed dogs lauded as Cerberus when Thomas himself had never had a pet of his own, and pomegranates intertwined with flowers pertaining the visage of his wife's alter ego.

Thomas had returned home as soon as he had been able, for the safety of his only living child and wife was all that mattered if one was to think further on the troubles that came from Florentine waters. If only he knew of the Cromwells and their rising tempers, then perhaps Thomas would’ve instead called his family to the Holy Roman Empire or Spain, where there were acquaintances that could be thus used as safe harbours. But, no, he had been blindsided by the news from home only due to the fact that Walsingham had thought that nothing would happen, that when he had left there had been no news of his old Masters clad in black, nor had he even come to think of anything other than the looming threat of the real, breathing illegitimate son of King Henry VIII. 

Though perhaps James or even Julian enjoyed the welcome home, Thomas kept himself to the shadows and back passages, his pace quickened upon seeing the known hallway that had since become the quarters kept to himself and his family. Breaking through the door, he met his daughter — his hands clasped against her sweet face as he kissed her brow and cussed with relief. She was safe, Cecily Walsingham was safe. With a breath, he held her close to the repulsion of his only child, who had since grown to find her father only a suffocation to her growth. But, she proclaimed that she had missed him, and that her mother waited for him behind their walls. 

With one last kiss, he strayed, removing his travelling cloak and heavy leather gloves in the process, the items dropped to the floor in a rushed fashion before pushing the door open to reveal his ever patient love. In a frantic dash he carved his arms around her, embracing her against him in one lunge — a gasp then passing by his stubborn lips, his brow falling against hers. “Sweetling, you are here… God, how I have missed you,” he then sighed, passing his mouth over her own, before a quick release. “What have I missed? How has Elizabeth fared? No, you must have your trunks packed, we must make haste to somewhere of the utmost safety. I shan’t risk you or Cecily in a fault of my own.”

@pcppyy

Though it may have seemed rowdy or raucous, Thomas was far from calm enough to enjoy the plight of Florentine wonder. No, his mind instead raced to all possibilities, to try pre-plan scenarios that had yet to even take place. Whether the Italians truly claimed the righteous existence of a boy who had once been rushed across the country by his own two hands or not was beyond any importance, and so what remained was what to do with the information of which was about to come. To have a spare Catholic heir roaming the continent was far from ideal, if anything it was one of the worst things that could’ve happened — for the entire world could turn on England to seat this illegitimate son of Henry VIII, that and William, who’s father had made the job of hiding the infant Thomas’ priority, had the right to blame Walsingham how he saw fit. 

As soon as the Lady Percy rose, her visage appearing before the two men as if caught in a flurry of importance, Thomas straightened, his brow creased into worried lines. As James charmed with his usual spiel, Thomas remained in observance, before unfolding himself to draw a pitcher for the three of them, filling the cups with his eyes flickering between them. “Come sit with us, my lady… If there is anything we could do for you, you must ask,” He added, his speech simple and less adorned, his hand already rushed for what was to be said as he pushed a cup towards Lady Percy before falling back into the seat beside James, a professionalism then adopted in place of the stray smiles that had first adorned his face.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒. closed to @thquldnunc & @jamescecils 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. undisclosed lodgings, florence [ a rose with thorns. ] 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 & 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄. 4 november 1559, midnight

when  they  first  arrived  in  the  gilded  walls  of  mightly  florence,  the  sun  shone  ever  so  brightly  that  the  city  seemed  seemed  to  shimmer  in  its  wake.  yet  by  midweek  the  gods  reared  their  disapproval  by  placing  bloated  clouds  in  the  sky.  rain,  thunder,  and  lightning  had  become  their  sudden  companions,  knocking  on  every  door  they  seemed  to  enter.  sibella  and  julian  hurried  to  return  to  their  humble  lodgings  in  a  brief  moment  of  respite,  before  rainfall  entraped  them  once  more.  as  they  parted  ways  to  their  separate  rooms,  she  watched  the  trail  of  droplets  they  left  behind diverge,  her  eyes  following  upwards  until  they  landed  on  the  drenched  satin  ribbon  that  was  tied  around  his  wrist  until  it  was  hidden  behind  his  closed  door.  sibella  spent  the  rest  of  her  night  in  solemn  silence.  her  mind  volleyed  between  the  damning  information  she'd  learned  that  day  and  the  man  with  whom  she  spent  the  day.  she  picked  up  a  quill  to  sort  out her  thoughts  yet  for  once  she  did  not  know  where  to  begin.

through  her  door  she  heard  cecil  and  walsingham  return  from  their  outing,  rowdy  and  raucous.  the  table  and  chairs  clattered  as  they  sat  down  (or  so  she  presumed).  sibella  could  hardly  make  out  any  of  the  words  they  were  saying,  yet  she  was  half-sure  that  they  spoke  more  of  the  italian  women  they  encountered  and  less  of  the  illegitimate  tudor  son.  with  sarah  already  fast  asleep  upon  the  bed  that  they  would  share  for  their  stay  in  the  florence,  sibella  fetched  a  silk  robe  and  fastened  the  ties  against  her  waist.  she  inhaled  a  solemn  breath  before  placing  her  hand  upon  the  door  handle,  pulling  it  gently  so  that  she  could  slip  out.  arms  crossed  across  her  chest,  she  whispered  sternly,  "i  must  speak  with  both  of  you.  it  cannot  wait  until  morning."

Whether Julian de Vere and Lady Percy would find a sweet note of happiness among the glow of Florence was not within the first layers to be expanded upon during their voyage to the Italian city. Indeed, what mattered the most was the whereabouts and quality of this propped up Seymour, and if he were due again to forsake the safety of his soul in lying or worse to keep his family safe. Though he trusted Cecil to do what he must to take great care of Penelope and James’ own goddaughter, Thomas was well aware that the only person he could so count on to do anything was himself — whether that be murder, betrayal or something equally as sinister. But, there was a truth that lay bare between either man, an honesty laced with the dire moments of fragility. Penelope had seen him on occasion stripped of any pretence, but even then he had emboldened the lie of who he pretended to be in order to support her in the darkest moment they had experienced as one soul in two bodies. 

The death of their son, barely aged but a day, had been expected but indeed never fully realised by Thomas who had been present at many losses of life, but never one so closely tied to his own. The babe had been so small and precious, the idea of him blossoming with a hope for a better, more morally aligned future — but he had been taken, as many newborns had been that year, to be but one of the many who fell to the dark touch of infant death. Even then, in those hours of unquenched sorrow, Thomas had put on some show of comfort and consolation for his wife, indeed smoothing her hair or rubbing her back between tender affections meant only for her. But behind the scenes, he had wept to himself, his hand cupped over his jarring mouth in order to silence his sobs. Everyone had warned him, but Thomas felt himself untouchable after the fall of Cromwell and the rise of his own position — and even all these years later, now so far away from where it had even happened, Thomas could feel the pinch of agony nipping at his heels.

This was the first time in his life he felt truly threatened of what was to come, of course, perhaps the King himself would be simply manipulated to take a certain method towards his councilmen, for after all it had been James and himself who had nurtured the boy to become the young man he now embodied when perched upon the throne of England. Would he really then turn his back on his surrogate fathers? The men who had seen him as but a toddling infant and then as a flourishing child? After the loss of his only son, he had come to treat William differently — he had softened, given him gifts beneath the flamboyance of ceremony or taken to walking with him as his father stroked the fires of a burning temper. Would he really think to punish his loyal servant? 

Thomas’ brows knitted together; he was no boy, no soul to be twisted. He was a King, and could call upon all other Princes to display his holy might. James was quick then, and the sole audience to witness Thomas Walsingham dwell on the darkness that approached. But the matter was, he believed him. He believed James’ security, in his hopes and beliefs. If he did, then the women of court had no chance beneath his illicit spell — for the thought almost made him laugh, though he bit it back with a forced stance, his eyes searching for him as he tried to decode or understand all that had been said. In truth, Thomas would do the same for him, and with a sigh he put his hand to James’ shoulder, a rare embrace offered only to he who would even think such treasonous thoughts of regicide. “Have we gone soft, do you think?” He then asked, squeezing James’ shoulder in some unspoken statement, something sweet and tender compared to the world they had shut out. “If it is Edward, Henry’s son… There will be a lot of work to do…”

 A restlessness and fear beyond the average assailed him; they had entered into this dreary fellowship with so little known, so incomprehensible. The keen, still cold of the Florentine morning was succeeded in the day, by a sharp breathing of English winds; a heavy firmament, dull and thick, sailed up, and settled over James. Repairing to their little room, there they found a bright fire; tall candles stood on each side a of a great-looking glass. James had observed the look in Thomas' eye, the expression about mouth; how could he avoid being led by association, to think of darling Cecily? She had the velvet grace of a kitten; such a lively, patient child - so patient with all his blunders in play, so wonderfully to be depended on, to afford joy to her parents and godfather. Cheerful as James naturally was, he made a point of being, there was no true enjoyment to be had; still, his tone was changed from grave to gay. "Lady Percy has already encountered my charms and deigned them tolerable; perhaps, even pleasurable, though she is slow to the truth that she admires me deeply. Yet she and Julian seem well suited - his majesty may have secondary motives, in our unfortunate tour of a subpar city state." 

Both men had been pained with the terrible unerring penetration of instinct - discerning under florid veiling, the bare, barren place of truth; no calamity so accursed could be felt by they two, but the affects of this tour's grand failure. They attempted to do justice; for James' part, he doubted whether they, mere men, had the right to do such justice - it was difficult still, to shake the firm conviction the work they did was righteous and needed. Perhaps he was tired to death of a life of seduction and mindless labours; that he longed to have the means and leisure for a good life, such as Thomas had built. Thomas had made peace with his fate somehow - too readily perhaps; he ought to have stood out longer, but he looked so kind and good. Thomas held out his hand with amity, good memories reproducing sorrows in James mind - a mandate to care for Thomas' family should he expire, was issued; in James' soul, rankled a chronic suspicion he would not survive the loss of the man dearest to him in this world. 

"It was never a task you should have been assigned - we are reminded so oft we are beneath the monarchy, yet they desire us to smote or contrive to wipe out those deemed our superiors; Thomas, William shall not have your head. I love our king, as I have loved his father before him - but the Tudor dynasty is a wriggling worm beneath my foot, if placed beside my love for you, in direct comparison. I will not entertain notions of your death - but I swear to you, that I make the protection and care of Penelope and dear Cecily, my life's work. My own life will be placed in harms way, to protect theirs; I swear to you, my dear friend."

i will not ask you where you came from. i will not ask you, neither should you. | a playlist for the walsinghams.

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

savior complex by phoebe bridgers.  ivy by taylor swift.  work song by hozier.  orpheus by shawn james.  jackie and wilson by hozier. in the best case scenario we'd die at the same time by my name is ian.  gold rush by taylor swift.  like real people by hozier.  mastermind by taylor swift.

Secretly, beneath the formal declaration of royal missives, a letter lands in Lady Walsingham’s hands in a hurried script of writing. There is no time for romance, seduction or fantastical metaphors for how one’s love grows with absence, but warning and coded words previously declared in case of emergency. The situation itself is dire, and lays well beyond the hope that had previously clouded their home life. With his absence, anyone may whisper into the ear of the Lady Regent and then to his Majesty in Dover — to blame Walsingham was all too easy, and would be seen as a gracious act due to Thomas’ own sins imprinted on his soul. Torture. Double-crossing. Lies. Murder. Scribbled by moonlight, there are odd spelling mistakes that make no sense to an intellectual mind, and blots of ink seared into the surface of paper.

Pen, I wear thy gift upon myself day in and day out, and wilt behold forward to future gifts at which hour I am released. I doth not stray from thy shadow with glee, but rather by duty bound with frustration. I pray that yourself and Cecily wilt see the land of Cornualia, to spendeth the incoming Yuletide surrounded by goodness sewn into the tapestry of our fair Isle. For myself I am not sure at which hour I wilt beest back, but I would insist that if 't be true thee art in needeth of anything thee must wend to Cecil if 't be true that gent journeys back before I have the chance. He will provide, even if he finds himself ensnared with another married woman and another tender babe. Still, you know as well as I that his worth multiplies in such circumstances as this. Stay well from the wolf's proximity, and though our King is good and gracious, you must make sure to take some air from court affairs with my equally treasured daughter. I am with you, I am yours.

Walsingham.

a carefully folded piece of parchment, tucked in between the shirts packed that thomas brought with him to florence, it carries the faintest smell of their fireplace and the floral perfume that penelope often wore. as if she had hurriedly written the contents before laying beside her husband in bed. beneath the parchment is handkerchief, embroidered along the edges with a litany of various tiny flowers. | @thquldnunc

my sweeting, 

lady fortuna is a cruel mistress to force us to part once more, i suppose i shall perch as a bird upon the window, collecting seeds as i await your arrival home to me. i meant to gift you such a token for the yuletide, a pity that i pricked my finger a thousand times over simply to have to now make you another for the holiday. i request that you dutifully tuck it into your pocket, so that perhaps my prayers will cross the seas and protect you in my absence. 

careful to not allow james to return home with a bride or child, i fear there is not enough time to remind him of my wrath. 

[ there is a few smudged lines, as if after writing them, penelope swept her finger over the ink before it dried in an attempt to erase them. the only decipherable words being ' love ' and ' promise '. ] 

do try to not keep me waiting very long, lord walsingham. 

yours & yours alone, 

pen.

Florence itself was but a radiating city of orange hues, brightened conversation and shifting eyes caught behind the backdrop of shadows. But to Thomas, who had never quite found the itch to move anywhere beyond English borders, it felt only stale with awaiting punishment. Why he was there, alongside the esteemed council skill of Cecil, de Vere and Lady Percy who acted as their gilded translator, was a matter of the gravest importance. As their King went to Dover to meet his feared half-sister, Thomas had received word from a certain ambassador set upon Italian soil a troublesome kind of news had broken against his own better judgement.

When Edward Seymour had been given to the world in some last laugh of the Tudor’s want for another son, Thomas had been given the role of guardian. It had been his first proper role after the fall of his old mentor Cromwell, and had been given with great importance. But, Walsingham was not a wet nurse, and still sore from an infant loss of his own, Thomas had decided to extend the babe at arm’s length. Instead, he gave him away to another in some seclusion within Boleyn focused land — of course, he had met Edward on occasion, when he would not be missed beside the backdrop of Henrician court life. He had grown plump from over-indulgence, and wore such a look that once belonged to his natural father that Walsingham was forced to look twice — but, he left most of the care to his surrounding maids that had been plucked from both obscurity and desperate nature to do what the Spymaster would insist upon. It was only his fault of misjudgment that all had blown up in his face.

He had been eager, then, to split their group of four into two groups. Though he felt he could trust de Vere, he did not know Lady Percy well enough to be alone with her — or to indeed confide with her for the mistakes already made, Thomas was only in need of Cecil and his confidence, and so caught his company in some effort to walk along the Arno before the council would reunite to witness the matron who claimed the youth of the illegitimate Tudor. “To think that our first European tour is spent in such mockery. I do hope de Vere does not fool the gentleness of that young lady, though better he than yourself,” he added, his smile playing upon his lips before he lead the way into their suited apartments, already rushing to inspect the security, pulling back sheets and wooden slats in order to banish any looming spy. Once their isolated was confirmed, Thomas mood shifted into paranoia.

“Do not ask me how a Seymour has found himself in Florence, I do not know, I do not understand myself. Someone has sought to undermine me and it has worked… Gods, if William does not see my neck upon the block then I would be a lucky man. You must promise me, Cecil, to make sure Penelope and Cecily are out of the city, that they are deep in English countryside and you must, you must swear to keep them safe." @jamescecils

“You know very well, my love, that my cock only hardens for your pleasure — you do tease me so, it is as if you wish me to stray from your side till the coming of the evening?” Thomas provoked, taking her into his arms, his kiss as passionate and blinding as any other he bestowed upon his most beautiful wife, to the woman whom he had sworn steadfast fidelity to and one whom had since kept his protective nature in check. Against her, he practiced a playful moan, the noise only for the warm cup of her ear — the hallway yet empty but reaching the point of fullness at the break in meetings or ladies feasts. Stroking his hands over the edges of a body well known to he who had caressed such skin before the creation of two children; one heavenly and one almost fully grown. Without care, he put one warm curve of a palm against his wife’s breast, his grin as greedy as the late King’s when faced with sweetened meat as he groped her through the stiff brocade of her courtly dress. “How I would have you in anything else, how I am at a loss of your beauty every time I am blessed with your company. You will be my undoing, my curse,” his tongue slurred on desire before he dropped his grip, taking instead to her hand as he guided her down the hallway upon the oncoming noises of their peers — of women matured to the sights of well worn wrinkles, to the men who pranced over well trodden wood in a manner to display peafowl feathers.

He leaned into her hand then in the same way a dog would its master’s caress, his eyes closed in a moment’s adoration before the heavens broke into solid stone to reveal the pained light of the day. The hours would hence be long and torturous to be without the stained hand of his wife — and so, he turned to step back into the skin worn day in and day out, the costume of a courtier and scheming Spymaster with the weight of a legacy upon his shoulders. He had told Penelope almost everything to do with his life; from Elizabeth Barton’s torture to Cromwell’s life lessons, he had shared in the same honeyed hopes a lover would a suspected match. But, by his own sense of his family’s safety, he had refrained from ever spilling the truths that surrounded the illegitimate son of the late King or off the upcoming foray to Dover. She would know in time, perhaps, but what good would it serve his wife and daughter if they knew of Thomas’ involvement in the seclusion of the red-haired babe? 

“My sweetheart, you wish to know? Well, I will meet with Cecil and de Vere before reckoning with the King upon some matters that are of little interest. Marriage, the holy bonds, that will probably be mentioned and thus I will have to share some input, though such a matter should be kept in patience if we are to use his manhood to our advantage… I have thoughts on the Princess, but that is for ears not owned by yourself, for I have yet to even share them with the council,” he murmured, his words quickened by whispers, hurrying their feet against uneven stonework, leaning into his wife in an effort to create a quiet intimacy around them. “And what of you, my sweet? What have you to share with your husband other than what throbs between those darling legs? I cannot go into a meeting with a hardened quill, or I will be the joke of the noon.” 

her laughter is soft and  merciless between them, relishing in the way that thomas so easily shed his courtly stature at the touch of her hands, at the girlish antics that she entrapped him with - as if they were young courtiers again, stealing moments away before duty called thomas back to cromwell. eyes remained focused on their watch obediently, even as her body curves into his touch, his lips leaving fresh goosebumps in their wake that will remain to haunt her throughout the afternoon once they have parted yet again. " you remain a cruel, yet devoted man of english blood. tell me, does our majesty make your cock stir as strongly as i do?" her words are hushed between them, a slip in the dignified lady that she always so often carried. the secret bits of their selves that they deigned to only share with one another.

" i suppose i shall tolerate being another bird whispering in your ear, my thomas. perhaps you shall find my words sweet enough to reward with another press of your lips when we must part." a grin hidden on her face as the sound of his muffled groan sent a shiver down the length of her body, dark eyes full of wanton desire as he pulled away from her once more. 

plump lips fall into a teasing pout as he tugged her forward, falling forward and into his side as if her body was meant for no other place in the world. she lifted his hand to her lips to steal another kiss along his knuckles, ripe with adoration and devotion for her beloved, before releasing it so that she may slip her arm through his. " i fear that if i awaited your return in our rooms, you may have found that i have sought to shift the entirety of them to play a foolish jest on you." penelope hummed, smile returned once more to her features. " no, i would rather pluck a few moments away from you while we walk. it shall settle my moods to know that i have delivered you safely, less a stray lord attempts to bother you incessantly and needlessly." she stretched out a hand to gently fix the hair that she had mussed previously with her antics. " may i inquire on your appointments?" 

Thomas ran his fingers across his lips, the tips thus pressing back comment — though commanding sincere friendship behind closed doors, the Spymaster had long learned to keep his public persona far from soft or genteel. To the eyes of the witnesses, or to the observation of the arrested, Thomas was harsh and unforgiving. He was to be held at a distance in fear of growing too close to a man who had forced confession from Holy Women who thought to break the spell between King Henry VIII and his second wife. Though he had killed, as was his duty when in service to the crown, he had not fallen foul to every such rumour — sometimes, there would be a whisper spread among the hot-bed of gossip to install fear in the hearts of men, that Thomas Walsingham was a child murderer or had long since thrown the baby Edward into the sea off Dover’s cliffs. Of course, these rumours had been spread in good spirit, to bolster his reputation. And yet, when afforded his privacy, Thomas was a fond man who held the ones he loved closer than anyone would dare have thought about him. Akin to the way he kept his only child and wife from public hearsay, he had learned to treasure and obey by the hands of men he had grown to love. James Cecil was but one, but also Julian de Vere who had since proved himself to be a vital form of friendship. 

With a whisper, the crook of his finger revealing a sodden grin, Thomas shook his head and hissed out a barely audible, “ — quiet”, his eyes flickering from his fellow council member as he took watch over who it was who remained around them. But, they were safe — they were if anything entirely untouchable after signing the execution of known traitors who had only a month or so previously walked among them all as silent, unseen spirits of court. Turning back to Julian, however, he listened with the same intense stare that would’ve rather suited a serious conversation pertaining the well being of their King or treasured Princess, his unblinking gaze only softened by a huff of amusement, the lines between his eyebrows wrinkling with quiet entertainment. “A country girl, then? You sound smitten, if I did not know you better I would press you for more. But, I am a gentleman — to inquire over the beauty of such a person would be foolish. But, I should remind you that a stablehand is little less than a chambermaid to a man of your status. I do not regret to tell you that your father would hate as such,” Thomas added, twirling his fork in the air in a moment’s absence before returning to the meal. “I hope to at least hear that you took her to bed, to chase a young maiden is to the foolishness of Cecil,” he teased, before taking his cup to his lips.

there was a piece of julian, self serving and arrogant in a sense, that took amusement at plucking thomas over the rivalry that at times far more resembled young brothers attempting to outdo the other to keep any residual boredom at bay. as frequently as he spoke mischief about james to thomas, julian was awaiting cecil at his office so that they may share tales and overhead whispers. the meaningless ones that spoke of other men's too soft cocks and failings in marriage beds. " no, i suppose like a whore's cunt, i prefer you sharp edged and mean to me," he jested, laughing easily as he considered thomas' suggestion. he absentmindedly scratched at his beard, a light shrug of his shoulder. " it is difficult to find a rumor that he shall not spin into a fanciful tale that begets him, perhaps i whisper that he wets his sheets often enough that the servants have begun to resent him. oh the woman was of little consequence, she was far older than even you and i believe she may have hoped that such an accident would divine i seek to court her." he waved his hand in a brief, meaningless dismissal of the subject at hand. 

julian was not a naïve man, he knew that he could not carry on for much longer without a wife, rumors would start to speculate and his children deserved to have a motherly figure within their life. not a governess who kept them occupied while he attended his own duties, and a father who split his time unequally between his duties to them and to his title. at thomas' request, julian set aside his food, leaning forward over the table as he wracked his mind for the memory of the woman that had thus bewitched so far. " we met in the stables, yet i could sense she was from a far more proper upbringing, out of place amidst the muck and hay. her features were flush with a youthful glow, hair that shone beautifully beneath the sun - as if it was freshly spun golden wool." he took a brief pause, humming softly with a faint smile. " with eyes that looked as if they were stolen from the sky itself, they were reminiscent of cloud watching as a boy. and she kept up an interesting conversation, thomas. every remark a spit of fire within it."

Perhaps Thomas had thought the Seymour wiser beyond his years, but it had always been proven that to underestimate a certain person was to predict a sure defeat — at least he had somewhat put weight behind the idea that he was not some grand mind waiting behind the chess board but in fact a man of leisure who would grow fat on the meat served at dinnertime and bold with deep glugs of pressed wine. His eyebrow rose at his answer, though if he thought himself an actor then perhaps he ought to find a new activity to pass the day — Thomas was no fool, for how many (both innocent and guilty) persons had he taken within the crawling passages beneath the Tower to extract confessionals in order to get what he or Cromwell had been after? To lie was human nature, but he had bared his teeth at such pretty words, and so found himself only frustrated that John Seymour was not reacting like a man scorned. But then, Thomas had no idea of the secret that coated John’s existence, and so remained almost oblivious of it. For he only found doubt in Seymour because of his family name, and what man would not wish to avenge the loss of his parents? 

“Then be on your way, John Seymour… — if there is nothing I can do for you, then I would ask you not to waste a second more of my time.”

John found himself ill-prepared for Walsingham's directness. He felt foolish in retrospect for having been so careless, but he had not expected the niceties to be glossed over completely, as if he had not spoken at all. He shifted, as if to physically as well as mentally regain his footing, contemplating what he might say as he met the Spymaster's dark gaze.

"No, sir, I do not think of you as such," he said lowly - one of many lies he needed to tell to survive the maze of court. "I have no feeling of enmity toward you. I suppose a man in my position could very well find reason to. But I know that anything done that I might take offence to was only done in the spirit of the law." It rankled to say, but John had learned the song and dance by now, the distance he had to place between himself and his family despite the pain it caused. "If anything, I would think you feel that way toward me, Lord Walsingham. Which seems a pity as I do not know what I have done to warrant it."

bloody days muses + taylor swift lyrics (pt 2/?)

meg welles ft. others as sweet nothings (midnights).

From his youth to his present, it had always been distinctly known to Walsingham that it was rare for a true love match to be found among an arranged, suitable marriage. Though he did not boast of his affairs in the same manner as Cecil or write romantic prose like Wyatt, the Spymaster well and truly adored his wife who had given him a life to lead among the many darker days found beneath each Tudor King’s rule. His adoration for her remained a closely guarded secret, their private life locked tight behind a door that would’ve otherwise been broken into by the fever of gossip that often took the court by the horns. 

He had seen her before he had met her in the middle of that lonely hall, her skirts peeking from the seclusion of the alcove as her own lustful gaze met his. They were older then, older than they had once been when he had been but a protegee of Cromwell and his sniffling minions — and yet, one look was all it took for the Secretary of State to sip at the fountain of youth, his stride carrying him towards his wife with heavy steps before he took her hand into his, his head turned from toward the opposing ends before facing Penelope at last, his hand dropped to instead encase her face, his thumbs resting atop of her cheeks as the alcove instantly transformed into something intimate. 

“I have told you —” he began, his voice low, covered by an ache at the back of his throat, his body leaned so slightly against her own in some manner to vie for control, his attention put upon his love despite the very tips of his ears tuned to the outer world. “ — you must not tempt me like this, or I will never get my work done,” Thomas growled, leaning his lips then against Penelope’s brow, her cheek and then her ear as he turned his wife’s head to the side, for both her to keep watch and him to do as he may. “You will have me waste daylight hours kissing your lips, is that right? Well, I cannot — I shouldn’t. You must walk with me instead, I have people to meet, and you can whisper in my ear as we go,” Thomas muttered, his lips then pressed against the shell of her ear, his poise suddenly swallowed with a muffled groan, his hand finding her own as he pulled her forth, his harsh manoeuvres made with a grin that enraptured his expression. “Or, perhaps you will find heaven in our rooms, waiting on my return?”

closed starter for @thquldnunc !

as a little girl, penelope had often dreamt of the man that may one day lay claim to her heart - tall, gallant lord with a massive estate with a thousand rooms for her to explore, or a charming gentleman with a booming laugh and prickly beard. thomas was neither of those when they met, a young blooded man with soft eyes that reminded her of her father and a smile that made her heart race furiously. his jests never failed to make her laugh, he watched her as if she was the only woman in any room they stood within, and penelope did not believe she may ever love a man as viscously as she loved thomas. even now, with nearly more years together than apart, penelope still found herself in constant wanton desire for her husband. a hunger that only grew with every glimpse she saw of him throughout the days, frequently banning him from spending midday meals with her so that she may not steal his attention for the rest of the afternoon - to force him to lay siege to his wife till she was sated and cheerful once more by the time the sun set. unfortunately, her husband was not quite lucky enough to escape her endless hunger this afternoon, having spotted him walking towards her, head down as he remained deep in his burden laden thoughts. with a teasing quirk of her lips, penelope stepped out his path to rest in a hidden alcove within the hall. 

as thomas began to pass her, a single hand grabbed his doublet and tugged him towards her and the hiding spot. with a quiet laugh, her back rested against the stone wall, chin tilted up towards her husband in a similar fashion to the way flowers shifted to always face the sun. her thomas. her sun. in all his entirety before her, looking as handsome as he had when he left their bed this morning. " you were almost tardy for our appointment, my sweeting." her hand drifted to cup his cheek, fingers teasingly scratching at the light scruff on his face. the wrinkles around his eyes reminded her of the laughter they so frequently shared, the warmth of his smile that she was granted the privy of seeing. she despised deeply the layers of fabric that kept them apart, wishing desperately to wrap herself around him." it is unfortunate that we must meet like this, my lord, when shall your wife ever allow us to be together?" her voice is heavily laced with jest, finger under his chin as she directed him down to kiss her softly. 

“No,” he answered, his hands and mouth then caught on pause, his smile flickering before disappearing, his emotions tucked behind the shift made to eat and fuel his body for another meeting held by his assigned flies that fluttered around court without notice on a daily basis among the shadows, forever readying their knowledge to be passed back into Thomas’ own ear. As he pushed his food from one side to the other, he nurtured his own time, his hubris colouring the tilt of a smile before he disguised it with a single spoonful of their shared dinner. “Do you wish me to be soft on you, Julian? Come, that’s not my style,” he pushed, before his patronage of the Earl of Oxford turned again to talk of Cecil and his overt attraction that often had the girls of court go to him in the same way a bee drunk on honey took to dive among the flowers. With the shake of his head in a trusted, playful manner he took another forkful, his eyes then rolling in retaliation. “He may have, he is a tease — you may only offer a rumour back, that would shut him up. But, wait, an accident on your horse? Julian, I thought you were too grand of a rider to fall into such mistakes. Whom was it who played your shining knight in the shape of a beloved maiden?” He then provoked, gesturing his fork towards the other. 

It was no easy task to be a widower of a woman once loved, but as time went on with the steady drum of a war march it would only be a matter of time till you were either drowned of loneliness or tempted to a far more enticing fate. To Thomas’ own private life, he kept his affairs secret — his wife was barely talked off, if only to protect her from foes who would wish to harm the Spymaster in some way, his daughter also hidden behind country estates whilst governed in the same step given to a son. That, and Julian had his own to think off, for a mother-figure would not harm a child as long as the potential woman was not as irksome as some other women of court. With a gentle shrug of his shoulders, the Secretary of State took to his half-emptied cup, sipping at its contents with hesitant denial. “Oh? Won’t you describe her fully then? I’m sure I could find a name for you, if that is what you would be so after…”

the man grinned mischievously at thomas, head ducking with a fond roll of his eyes as he began to help himself to their meal. " am i meant to believe that you have shunned me so greatly that we are ally and ally alone? you wound me dearly, far more than any accurate truth i may speak on your gently aging features." at thomas' gentle nagging, he fixed a pointed look on his friend - perhaps thomas' ruggedly handsome looks worked to persuade his wife to heed his words about others within court, but julian was far more stubborn and prone to prideful attitudes. " it is a wonder he captures any woman's attention with such a loose tongue. i was accosted by a lady the other morning who sought to offer me her condolences on my accident with a horse. somehow, the court believes that i am grieving the loss of my manhood - a rumor that i am certain cecil started out of anger that he lost in our tennis game." 

julian's good nature was still evident on his face, an amused smile that only dimmed slightly at the mention of him making eyes at court as well. it was not a lie, yet he'd been hard pressed to attempt to court anyone since the loss of his wife, while it had been a marriage arranged by their families - he'd grown to love her and the loss still stung at times. on the nights when he returned to a cold bed with no one there to welcome him back nor brush the hair back from his forehead as she had once done. " are the children not enough? they occupy most of my evenings after we have split," he said with a shrug, reminiscent of a child hiding a secret for a moment. " you must keep this between us, thomas. court has dulled for me, i must admit, certainly the council keeps me busy frequently but aside from dudley's wife - i rarely indulge in conversation with a woman. though, i crossed paths with an intriguing bird the other day, i did not yet get her family name, however."

Though the health and wellbeing of the English people somewhat relied on the testament of the council, Thomas often felt obliged to turn a blind eye from their prayers — what were they to him but passing noise whispered in the background? He felt their whims were due only to King William, their noise satisfying an itch that came with being a ruler of their time — keep him to English shores and all thought of glory that came with expensive and mostly useless wars would stay adrift. Though he was his father’s son, for with each passing day there was something essentially Tudor that grew larger than his skin could conceal, and so it would be sooner rather than later when all came to a halt, that the noise of his people would mean little to soaring ambition or stubborn dreams — to put strength behind his grandfather’s war on Bosworth field or to justify the schism carved by the other that stretched between home and God himself. 

And yet, despite the weight that drew beneath the canopy of English woodland, the four men traced their way across the carpet of fallen leaves as if they were anyone else. As if caught in a single day of pure leisure and gallant, beating hearts. As they talked of women, the conversation swaying to the tantalising question of who would one day be picked as their assigned Queen, Thomas could not help but smile in the same way he would his own small brood — for these men were his family, in some way. James, his long standing ally. Julian, an old friend’s now grown son and William, a surrogate son he had never had. “Julian, the Duchess of Medina is our treasured guest, I doubt she would be too glad to hear of James’ wandering eye,” Thomas reminded the younger fellow, his eyes then shifting ahead, watching from behind with the observation that had once earned him the moniker of surveyor of court. 

Choosing to ignore the very mention of being called an elderly hen, Thomas rolled his eyes from one side to the other, his hand then wrapped around the rein of his horse as he drew the mount to a slovenly walk — the grandeur that came with the first kill of a hunt was not something he had ever thought worth his time or attention, and so allowed the others then to take their chances, his head only lowering upon the renewed mention of the Habsburg — whom he knew as his cousins, a smirk made in reply to the quirk of a single brow. Perhaps another would’ve shuddered at the chance of forming a grudge with his Royal Majesty, but what would he do to his sole Spymaster? Thomas smiled then, ignoring William’s burgeoning irritation that coloured his face in a stark, sudden stroke of reaction before it folded to flamboyant cheer; to be the child of Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn would mean only one thing, to be constantly led by the whipping lash of emotion. 

Catching the skin of wine, Thomas put the drink to his mouth, savouring its flavour in the moment’s celebratory toast before gaining ground upon the others, his tongue then pressed into the inner warmth of his cheek. “Please, James — a singular family jewel is nothing to bemoan, though I do worry you are on path to strike a nemesis in the grandiose of de Vere. It is certainly something to celebrate, to awaken such a reaction within someone normally so tranquil! Show James, Julian, how one may truly strike the heart of an awaiting foe and do such in the name of our merry King.”

julian kept to the rear of the pack of men, allowing james and thomas to fill the air with incessant sort of chatter - the banter they seemed to keep up so easily, whether it be on a hunt or a meal shared between the men. occasionally, he chimed in with a comment but he prefered to ruminate on the careful and meticilous design that he had placed into their hunt this day. at times it felt more like the trio of men were brothers of his, the kind that he had not been privvy to as a young boy raised around a bevy of sisters. " careful, the day is young and james' wandering eyes have yet to settle. perhaps he shall go cross eyed for lady mendoza. the court is in quite a fit over her beauty, i've heard," he jested, flashing cecil a teasing grin. it did little to ease the slight anxiety that ate away at julian, worry and doubt that perhaps the king shall not be entertained by the hunt. the scent of blood still hung heavy in the air from the talbot murder, and julian had little desire to join her in the grave. 

at thomas' suggestion, julian sat up straighter on his horse. " surely, our majesty may go as he pleases without the chattering of an elderly hen?" the earl teased with a playful grin directed at thomas, though his eyes spoke of a gratefulness that he often attuned to the other man. it was not easy to take the place that his father once held, but he tried nonetheless. " yes, i shall go ahead so that we may actually catch something before it runs off at the sight of your hideous aim. or yet, your majesty, perhaps you shall like to have the first kill of the hunt? it would inspire us greatly, i do believe. far more than the words of old men."  @boleynsrex @jamescecils @thquldnunc