A/N: So! I'm a longtime writer, but new to this site, and this is my first go at anything like Tudors fic. I'm going with Mary Tudor for Henry VIII's sister, but true history buffs should be forewarned that several elements here will be quite extravagantly AU. This story was originally inspired by an amusing bit of research I read about the historical Charles Brandon - that he was considered by many to be the best jouster in England, and may have used his considerable skills to ensure that Henry did well in tournaments.
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Westminster
1511
Charles spent the last day before the tournament at the archery field getting in a final practice. Over the past week, the palace had been enveloped in a whirling bustle of noise and fuss in anticipation of the festivities to come. Courtiers and staff alike all seemed caught up in the minutiae of preparations and gossip amid the endless arrival of guests, but it was blessedly quiet down here. In the waning sun of the late afternoon there was just Charles with his bow, shadowed by a few young pages and stable boys who'd crept away from their duties to watch him shoot.
Will Compton sometimes joked that Charles was followed by an ever present flock of sparrows, but Charles didn't mind them watching so long as they kept quiet and out of the way. After all, he had done the same at that age, slipping away as often as he could manage to study the great knights of Henry VII's court, clashing in the tilt yard and mastering arms. Of all the opportunities Charles had been afforded in being raised at court as a royal companion to the Tudor children, it was access to the practice yards that had turned out to be his most valuable education. He may have been an indifferent student when the subject was rhetoric or Latin, but no one—not even fair Prince Harry—could keep up with Charles Brandon at sport.
The clatter of an arriving horse broke the peace that had been previously punctuated only by the whistling flight of arrows and the pleasing thunk of a hit.
"What brings you out here?" Charles asked with amusement, turning to watch Will dismount and hand off his horse to one of the pages. As a general rule, Will had no patience for shooting at any targets that weren't already running away.
"Looking for you, what else?" Will said, brushing road dust from his doublet. He sounded mildly aggrieved, but softened it with a smile as he approached. "He wants us all back for supper."
Was it that late already? Charles studied the horizon, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. It was easy to lose track of time out here. "All right, I'll come with you," he agreed, "just one more shot."
"By all means, keep him waiting," Will smirked, peeling off his gloves.
"He won't mind when I tell him what a perfect day it's been," Charles replied, raising his bow and taking careful aim at the target down field. "I think he'd rather have me beat Geoffrey D'Arby tomorrow than be on time for supper tonight."
"I'm sure you're right," Will muttered, crossing his arms over his chest as he stepped back to watch.
Charles loosed his shot and watched with satisfaction as the arrow found its mark. Instead of sounding pleased for him though, Will let out a loud, annoyed huff, and Charles looked back over at him curiously.
"Have I done something wrong?"
"I swear by all that's holy, Charles, if I didn't love you so much I should have to despise you. He's ordered a tennis exhibition!" Will blew out another exasperated breath. "And naturally he wants you for his side."
"That's hardly my fault," Charles protested, setting down his bow and signaling for one of the boys to start gathering up spent arrows.
"Well it can't very well be the King's fault, now can it? That only leaves you," Will said, throwing up his hands. "He always picks you, and Tony and I are left to be nothing but fools and foils in front of the whole court."
Ah, so that's what this was about. Charles laughed.
"You're not fools and foils, Will, you're the spirited opposition that ensures a thrilling match," Charles corrected. "It's a very important role. In fact, there are some rather powerful men I can think of who would be quite happy to lose to the King at tennis if it meant they got to play at all."
"I suppose," Will conceded after a moment. Then his face brightened with a mischievous smile. "Lord knows Buckingham is probably shaking his fist at all of us as we speak."
"I don't imagine he'll ever be invited to tennis," Charles said, giving Will's shoulder a playful shove.
Will shot him a sidelong glance in return. "You couldn't care less for politics, perhaps that's the real reason why Henry always picks you."
"He always picks me because he likes to win," Charles laughed. "Perhaps if you and Tony spent more time practicing and less time maneuvering, he would choose you instead."
"Ah," Will dismissed, waving his hand as they left the field, "practicing is for squires and stable boys."
And orphans, of course. But Charles decided he would keep that thought to himself.
