Cromwell / O/C I created
The rebels wanted his head…so be it.
He would meet his end with open trembling arms comforted in the knowledge the fires of his Protestant Reformation had been their undoing.
But word had spread from taverns to the finest silk furs of the King's robes as the principalities of Lincolnshire, Doncaster, and York had all been seized by the insurgents.
"You told me they wanted this! You told me they would submit! You-were-wrong!" His Royal Majesty, ever the coiled snake ready to strike narrowed his deep set ice blues over his Privy Seal with a familiar dangerous glint that instantly compelled him to nervously swallow the lump lodged in his throat.
He held very still in a cloud of respectful silence, trying to keep his stance as neutral as possible so as to contain the uncharacteristic sensation of fear now claiming him. He was now in the King's crosshairs, the most undesirable position to be in all of England for it was only one certain step toward the shade of the tower.
Somehow, though his mind rattled at this terrifying notion he found his polished articulate timber slip out in slow precise syllables. It had been his saving grace through many a trial.
"I humbly apologize to his most gracious Royal Majesty for my severe error in judgment. (an audible pregnant nervous pause) I thought…"
"You thought!" The King fumed, a vein in his wide forehead began to pulse and without warning a pair of strong arms launched his lanky rawboned frame against the stone wall with startling force. "It would be in your best interest not to think again. Leave that to men born of a higher order! (his jaw involuntarily tensed at this familiar slight) You do realize I am going to have issue a pardon to smooth this fiasco!"
The young lion released him in a melodramatic huff before stamping against great pain of his recent jousting injury in the direction of his chamber window while he took this as an opportunity to straighten his ruffled humble black clothing and ignore the pounding of both the base of his skull and his heart. Both of which he conditioned himself to ignore on the daily. If he even once gave into…
The king purposefully kept his back to him, his crown heavy with allies' rumors surrounding the highly educated man who worked so hard to overcome his lower order and had exposed him to the Church's hypocrisy. He could feel the anxiety build inside this man older than himself but still retained a fading boyish quality in the right light.
In his silent reflection, the king extended the growing tension between them savoring the maturing discomfort and dread with the entitlement bore him. It was a cold comfort of what this man, spiritual and uncompromising, truly owed his king. Knave, Villain… The truth is Henry resented the rebels' request because it was his nature to supply the opposite. And that's when it dawned on His Royal Majesty with spectacularly promising force and the young lion instantly relaxed…he would soon get his heart's desire as the reply letter from France was arriving in two days' time.
But he felt it instantly, the sudden change in the air as the tension lifted from the King's shoulders for reasons unknown to him and gaze baited breath for his majesty to turn around. It was too easy. The abrupt way in which his royal majesty's countenance changed on an epiphany most glorious.
Only one thought occurred as the young lion turned to face him, a manic glow radiating supremely in those mercurial blue, his royal majesty was keeping something from him.
"Mister Cromwell, what are you going to do about the rebels trying to kill you?"
A sharp knock pierced the silent two-story home in the dead of night instantly rousing a palm to squeeze the hilt of a blade concealed underneath a nearby pillow.
And so it begins.
Releasing an annoyed sigh to control her sudden nervousness at receiving late night callers, she roused from her curtain-less four poster bed and threw on a nearby night robe before lighting the wick of a candle holder. Every night for four months.
Entering the hallway, she was immediately greeted by a pair of fretful brown eyes peering uncertainly through the grainy darkness from a nearby guest room trying to distinguish her shape to no avail. "It's okay. (clasps the old woman's shaking palm in the dark and feels her squeeze back) Go back in your room and lock the door behind you."
A wave of fear instantly broke over the older woman as she could sense the younger woman move with purpose toward the hallway closet and remove a long musket. "What are you going to do?"
Extending her candle into the older woman's grasp, she filled the musket with a certain amount of disdain under the disbelief and disapproval of those warm brown. "Richard wouldn't like this." A well timed yet trembling clasp of her wrist paused her mid-step prompting a pair of penetrating yet luminous dark jades to settle unyieldingly with hers. They lived in dangerous times. "And you are all I have left. Richard would want me to protect that and I will do so with my last breath."
Shock popped the older woman's jaw at this, the front door rapping increased against the sudden soft rain trickling down the window panes as Eleanor turned from her mother-in-law musket in her right and dagger in her night robe's left pocket. Don't be them.
Heart pounding in her ear, she placed the nozzle of the musket mid door trying to remember to breathe before squeezing addressing the unseen caller with a clear and loud voice. "You have a musket aimed at you. Identify yourself."
There was some hesitation on the other end of the door and finally a voice, soft spoken and refined piped up, "I am the Duchess of Suffolk. I am in labor."
It took her a second before she recognized the woman's voice, a distant unmourn memory from court. "Are you alone?"
"No. I have my servants with me. Now…please open up you fool! I am a Duchess for Christ's sake." Her dark green rolled at the presumption of aristocracy barking commands and insults as they would idle gossip.
That prompted her to undo the three locks and bolts on the main door and fix the petite young woman with delicate features and a swollen belly with a hard no-nonsense look, fire growing behind it. Don't test me. "You came to me your 'duchess'. (places a certain sarcastic emphasis on the shifting title which went unnoticed under the severe labor pains) Which means you have no one else to turn to and something to hide."
The entitlement soon woke up in those light blues gazing on Eleanor with outrage, "How dare you speak to someone far above your station with such disrespect!"
A flicker of something dangerous crackled in those sinewy jades underneath a crown of black cherry loose waves and the young duchess flinched as the young woman a few years older than her stuck her face pointedly in hers. "You are acting like an insolent child. Word of advice duchess, never mistreat or condescend an individual willing to aid you in your hour of need."
Despite the flash of anger burning in the young duchess' gaze and the bemused grin growing wryly on the adjacent lord's face, Eleanor's words had obviously hit their mark for the Duke's newest young wife grew silent and very serious. "Please just rip this bastard from my womb."
The surge of anger from about to deliver mothers was something Eleanor had grown accustomed to prompting her to compulsively clasp mid-collarbone only to meet air, her palm relaxing in disappointment. The hatred glowing in those light blues made her eyes widen and instantly grappled her attention.
It was a question she dare not ask in front of the attending lord and servants but the duchess had discerned this regardless as another contraction compelled her to grasp the forearm of the latter and she released a small groan. "No one hurt me Mrs. Pace. (shakes her head) But how is one child worth that of 4,000 lives?"
Had it not been for the flicker of the candlelight glowing in the front door, Eleanor would not have intercepted the uncomfortable expression canvassing the young lord's face. The pardoned insurgents who defied the King's 'mercy', all hanging young and old. She squinted hard and a sense of ambivalence filled when she realized who he was. "Young Master Cromwell."
Gregory could hear the surprise and unexpected discomfort in the young widow's voice and not knowing exactly where this came from instinctively deferred to the manners his family instilled within him. "I apologize for the late hour Mrs. Pace. I was riding home to my wife when I noticed the Duchess limping on the side of the road. I offered my assistance."
Eleanor nodded, a smile made out of courtesy and nothing more for it did not reach those smoky green depths. "How very gracious of you Lord Cromwell."
Without a second's hesitation, Eleanor stepped aside allowing them entry watching as Gregory tipped his head with gratitude his almond shaped blues gazing at her with confusion as he passed the threshold. The labor was over quicker and worse than she had expected…the child was regretfully stillborn and it was only then the duchess confessed with maturing relief her eyes twinkling with glee she had not felt 'it' move inside her in over a month.
The moment she wrapped the unmoving child, instinctively hooking her fore and middle finger in the baby's palm, Eleanor froze palm beginning to uncharacteristically shake.
She slipped away silently and took a cumbersome seat in the alcove of her front door. A flash of small yet deep set piercing dark brown glowing impishly up at her a wry grin forming on his little face.
Eleanor exhaled out of habit, feeling no relief in doing so. It was still dark and the icy temperature pierced her night robe with chilling force. Somewhere in the distance, a rosy pink and sun gold licked the black starless sky…it was still too early for sunrise at least 3 more hours till the sun pierced the horizon. Something wasn't right.
Tilting her head, she detected a bulbous charcoal cloud hovering ominously above the amassing emblazoned horizon prompting her large green to pop and her long lithe legs to bolt from the steps and towards the source.
Sprinting down the rocky dirt hill that led onto the main road, a dark billowy cloud steam rolled past her assaulting her senses with such force she wheezed gagging loudly prompting some of the villagers beside her to retreat and for some reason she couldn't yet fathom for her to saunter forward until she broke through.
It was only at this point that she felt this wetness slip past her cheekbones having nothing to do with what she could allow to slip through the cracks and immediately wiped the evidence from her face.
What entered next into her line of vision, charred and consumed in a fire frenzy under the diligent supervision of titled reformers atop royal steeds while the old monks watched paralyzed in shock made her blood run cold. The church was broken. Without knowing it, she felt her fingertips once again pat expectantly mid-collarbone to no avail and it suddenly occurred to her why she would never catch herself doing this again.
That little spark that kept her tethered to this world fractured as she found her palm unconsciously squeezing the hilt of her blade when it occurred to her the spider behind this, "Cromwell."
The hour was late and Master Cromwell would not have noticed save the sizzling end of the burning candle wick.
He opened his heavy lids, long elegant alabaster fingers still interlocked trying furiously to ease the contention of his troubled mind with the only solace that drove him still. And yet with a single new church doctrine to correct clergy injustices, His Royal Majesty revealed what he never anticipated: the King was still a Catholic in his heart and held no one above himself, the latter part he was fool not to realize.
Unweaving his palms slowly, Privy Seal stood at all 6 ft 4 inches sighing as the gravity of what this single document had undone: His Protestant Reformation was at its end.
A flash of deep brown orbs, unyielding to the last as he cast him a look that still gave this Secretary of State chills to this day because it suggested he was privy to a sacred truth that bound them forever in this world and perhaps the next,
"The only difference between you and I Master Secretary is that I die today and that you die tomorrow."
It was exactly four years since Sir Thomas More's execution and he could not shake the omen imprint they had on him. The words came to him in moments of crisis, infrequent elevated temperament and worst the hour of his late wife's passing to sweating sickness two years past.
As Cromwell exited the drafty castle office of His Royal Majesty, he could sense about a dozen eyes smugly narrowing –all from the King's inner circle-at the back of his head. His lobes pricked at their tongues wagging, no doubt planning his downfall with a certain amount of eager satisfaction.
This was exactly what His Royal Majesty alluded to following the tirade in his chambers last night.
"Mister Cromwell, what are you going to do about the rebels trying to kill you?" He was alone.
Exiting into the cold winter's night, Cromwell nearly walked into Duke of Suffolk who raised a bemused eyebrow a knowing gleam flashing merrily in his eye. And the jackals were whispering in the king's ear.
Cromwell swallowed hard, trying to recall the moment of peace and protection he found in prayer much as he did in his youth before advancing on the enemy in the battlefield. He tried to keep his mind on the next day's agenda which he had taken pains to schedule and edit all to the King's curt yet dismissive satisfaction before retiring to his office for the rest of the evening. The King's manner had completely changed towards him, it was clear the public blamed HR and HR blamed him. Scrolls of paperwork, no matter how tedious had been a saving grace to avoid thinking about the unpleasantness and this sudden primal need to look over his shoulder. He wasn't at war, he was now fending for his survival.
The walk was brisk, the dirt ground crunching underneath his feet as the temperature began to drop severely. Truth was, Cromwell for as long as he could remember felt the cold more than most. And yet as he headed up his path, his mind flashed on an identical pair of new stone grave tablets etched with beautiful cursive next to a slightly worn tablet that syphoned all the air from his chest. He stopped here once every day now for reasons he couldn't fathom. He had felt it coming for him and perhaps they did too.
His large deep diamond blue fell upon the modest yet spacious estate His Royal Majesty had bequeathed to him at the inception of his tenure as Privy Seal, Secretary of State and Chancellor. The house stood invitingly and all Cromwell could think as he sauntered wearily up the front steps is taking a hot bath and climbing into bed.
Turning the skeleton key and twisting the elegant doorknob, Cromwell made his way inside eager to begin to undress and try not to fall asleep in the soothing vapors of the deep bathtub. Perhaps a tumbler of whiskey would soothe his nerves as it had been too late to collect his pain pills from the local apothecary tonight. The house was surprisingly dark, not a candle light lit which wasn't exactly unusual given his current state of things seeing as the location of his home wasn't in the public domain.
Exiting the foyer, Cromwell placed a single palm on the post only to alarmingly gauge orange and scarlet tongues flames flicker protruding from the main room and upon the hallway staircase. He wasn't alone.
Exhaling carefully, the privy seal retracted from the staircase and strode slowly one palm on the hilt of his sword as he entered the main living room.
He froze on the threshold, jaw popping open in shock following the warm orange ember glow haloing the most unexpected intruder now seated straight self-possessed atop his favorite chair, graceful right palm tightening around the hilt of a rather large blade.
For a moment, he was speechless his tired mind confused and suddenly very awake large diamond blues softening trying to decipher as those rare jades fixed him with a quite formidable gaze that upon closer inspection trembled underneath the surface. "Mrs. Pace."
There it was that gentle courtesy that never faded from their interactions.
It was at this point he found his polished verbal footing, tilting his head to the side casting her a quizzical look, always trying to assume control over any unpredictable situation with poise. "How did you get in?"
"Cecily let me in." Point-blank. The truth was the young sinfully beautiful servant had most willingly let her in, still not adept in employing safety protocols nor recognizing that there were was a slow-cook burn of circumstances that had fractured inside the young widow bracing a blade to the 18 year old's throat inquiring when Lord Cromwell arrives. This was not Eleanor, she did not set out to harm people. It was as though she was watching someone else do these things with her hands, Eleanor thought as she waited numbly from the arm chair. Stranger still, the servant girl leaning in an unexpected hungry look glowing in her eye…it wasn't until she felt the girl's roaming hand…
Inwardly, she shook off the unpleasant memory, the gasp of shock on the girl's face when she slapped her off and wondered if Cromwell knew. From the perturbed look growing on his gaunt boyish features, she could tell he was making a mental note to admonish the poor girl later.
Suddenly, his diamond gaze returned to her blade, the tip buried in the left arm chair and an unmistakable hint of parental concern flashed surprisingly in his gaze that took her a back. "Don't worry. I interrogated her a little. She got weird. I sent her home."
For as long as Cromwell had known the young widow, she had always hated him for any just cause reason he wasn't blind to but Eleanor was not a violent woman but rather the most self-sure woman he had ever met.
He had grown quiet again, drinking her in with that quiet intensity trying so hard to understand that it could be so conceivable that it was him that made her burn from the inside out with such rage.
His perspicacious gaze intercepted her brow momentary twisted, as she momentarily cast her gaze asunder lost to a bleak moment before Eleanor retracted her troubled yet steady gaze back to his. "I'm only going to ask you once Mr. Cromwell."
For some reason, Cromwell never noticed those nimble ivory palms retrieving the blade his diamond gaze anchored to hers watching intensely as she arose and strode confidently until they were a foot apart. Those lovely smoke jade never breaking contact as Eleanor leaned in watching in growing surprise as his large blue gaze intensified, breath catching as she leaned into him her rosy lips a breath above his ear, "Where is it?!"
Without warning and in two expertly timed moves, his bare throat felt the dual impressions of her dagger and his military sword with rather impressive force. Someone had trained her well…and he also got the impression from the way she wielded both artillery, she could kill him if she so chose.
Unknowingly, his face fell immeasurably for this was truly his lowest moment eliciting the smallest tremor to unexpectedly ride her face, expression equally pained. How had they come to this?
The first day he officially met Mrs. Eleanor Pace the message was unwaveringly clear.
He had just been appointed the King's new secretary of state and the idea of someone else taking her late husband's position definitely got a rise out of her. She had seen him from a distance before in town attending Lutheran meetings and discretely passing out Protestant Reformation material and admitted some of what the reformers said had merit. But she also felt this Lutheran was extremely ambitious and ruthless to burn and liquidate one of the monasteries she had brought her son in an attempt to cleanse him from his ills. They had been very kind to her and her family never once asking for some kind of compensation. In Eleanor's less than humble opinion, Cromwell's ultimate goal of destroying the Catholic faith, which she overheard him point-blank confess to Lord Boleyn at Christmas, was no less corrupt and unholy as some of the bureaucratic priests of her faith.
Which is why, as she approached him for the first time she was taken a back at his gentle and empathetic manner toward her. He was tall, lanky sort of gaunt with a keen fierceness glowing exuberantly in a pair of extraordinary blue eyes. She detested him on merit. You bastard, her rosy lips broke into a wry polite smile that he instantly and sincerely returned. Cromwell had already taken care of all documentation and her husband's estate the previous day after visiting his newly married son. It was a secret joy for a father to see his son excel and be so happy. He would no longer have to endure the stain of his father's low birth.
The truth is to Eleanor she loathed this man sitting before her who stood up gentle and respectful the second she walked in. The same man who apologized so profusely for her terrible loss and having the audacity to gaze on her with a long-buried emotion that took him off guard. Close up, he had retained a youthful fading boyishness across his porcelain skin and rosy cheeks. It was near early winter and he must have only walked in from the cold.
So this was him…what England had dubbed 'the devil's messenger'. She was familiar with the Victorian convention not to allow any of her displeasure or true feelings that being in his actual presence made her want to do unspeakable things.
But underneath the mask of civility, Cromwell was adept at sensing something dark and dangerous gazing through those exquisite dark jade back at him. He had felt this kind of sense before usually from other men, calculation but there again she had not displayed any tears or sadness as was the custom from widows. It wouldn't be till a few months later that Cromwell realized it was because she bottled all that loss under a muzzle. She wore all this under a crown of dark cherry loose waves, rich and silky that passed mid-shoulder. It took him off guard as those piercing onyx green stared him down before scanning him up and down that made his jaw involuntary pop. She was taking the measure of him.
Eleanor stared at him in a self-sure way that made him feel bare….no easy feat mind you.
"Is everything alright Mrs. Pace?"
Cromwell watched intently as a small smile graced those rosy curve lips for the briefest moment he could tell her mind was mulling over something he was not privy to.
"I've heard a lot about you Mr. Cromwell."
Cromwell's demeanor completely changed, not in a terrible way but in a way to suggest she had found an unexpected vulnerability that he was pretending through the formal graces did not bother him. "You don't seem the type of woman who indulges idle gossip."
It happened again, this time a half-hearted chuckle escaped her mouth. He never had so much trouble reading someone as he did today. "Probably why I prefer to read and draw my own theories."
It was his turn to scoff in disbelief which prompted her jaw to tense at his naivety. "Your husband allowed you to read?"
The gender expectation fell flat on her ears and he could tell she was not engaging either the former or his attitude forcing him to swallow loudly. "It was not my intent to offend you Mrs. Pace. If you feel that I have I offer my humblest apologies."
Although his tone was sincere, he realized she must have been very proud. "My father taught me and my husband encouraged more."
It was at this moment, she realized she used the term 'husband' in the current and drew in a shocked breath, the reality rooting in her now tremulous gaze. He felt her fighting it, holding it back so as not to show any weakness. The truth is, Cromwell felt he had the utmost respect for this woman and he couldn't explain why.
He immediately rifled through his drawer and produced an unused cotton handkerchief and walked around the table. "I am truly sorry Mrs. Pace. I will keep you in my prayers to have God look out for you."
Unconsciously, Eleanor moved her palm so conditioned to accepting she felt their palms touch and a jolt of electricity course through her and Cromwell drew in an uncharacteristic sharp breath. His too-blues grew wide startled, taken completely off guard as she rose those piercing dark green unwittingly hooked to his for reasons she couldn't explain until approaching footsteps immediately prompted her to take her leave. The entire thing left Cromwell and his sharp mind unsettled and conflicted while merely accepting a mere token prompted Eleanor to forcibly push aside what she couldn't quite piece together transpired upon this meeting.
Something must have happened to bring her to this, those lovely dark emerald pools glistened wet threatening to fall without knowing it and the empathy that crashed genuinely through Cromwell did not go unnoticed, "Mrs. Pace." That soft polished voice reaching out only to have her cheekbones tremble.
"Don't." A curt yet tremulous command that spoke to an unconscious part of him stirred as she shook her head when that familiar stabbing conflict arouse and he could feel the blades unwittingly begin to shake in equal measure. He was staring at her in a way she caught only once before. "Don't talk to me in that way!"
A familiar quizzical for those present look, Oh you know what I mean Cromwell, manifested on those fading boyish features and yet there was this uncharacteristic tremor of nervousness that was breaking out all over him heart pounding in his ear having nothing to do with the blades that compelled him to bind the back of his palms together behind him to contain. "What way is that?"
The truth was she despised this man with every fiber of her being-from bone to soul-she could hear the frenzy of both their hearts as their words hung between them unconsciously prompting her steady palms to shake for reasons she loathe to reconcile. Lord Cromwell, was a mercenary soldier from his youth and could press the advantage at any point. All he could do was gaze on her with soulful large blue eyes…conniving bastard. She bit her inner gum in counter thought only to have the former reassert itself. Obviously, he took sick joy in watching her fall apart…she took further pains to drown out the dull truth gnawing away at her conscience at the back of her head. What had split and been suppressed years earlier, flowed unwarrantedly on a tempered sob, "What's happening to me?"
It was in this moment, Eleanor would realize later Sir Cromwell could easily have overpowered and disarmed her with very little fuss and without her cognizance. But he didn't. When she looked in his startling tortured eyes and even before then, she knew he never would. There was something going on with him too she couldn't bring herself to look behind those eyes of his.
It was something he had never once seen on her…well almost. The truth is Cromwell fought the compulsion to cradle her asymmetrical ivory rose features because he also noticed the damage she had taken care not to show him on every guarded encounter. "You're crying. It happens to us all." He admitted, kindness seeping into his voice.
The notion seem to puzzle her and it took her dropping Cromwell's sword to wipe her face and turn her palm face up to believe it herself. "It's okay Mrs. Pace."
Cromwell reassured, his tone sincere the urge to comfort her never as strong as it had been in this moment but there was more layers to this than she wanted him to know and that he was sure of.
The resounding clatter of his immobile sword awoke something her memory had taken care to protect her from, something she thought as she wrapped her arms for the last time around his little body unable to breathe in to save all she had left in the start of her broken heart, the sounds of something shiny and metal dropping from her grasp, "Willem." She gasped in shock.
Those large luminous green suddenly trembled with his in the one truth those that are not ever supposed to go before us walk in silence as the world goes on around us…it was the one agony that was not so far from Cromwell's heart as his diamond blues glistened with deeper insight, a solidarity save the dagger that now shadowed his shoulder rather than his Adam's apple. "Your son."
How the hell had he not seen it sooner? He had attended the service some years back, watching with a certain amount of shock his jaw tensing with fury his late wife had nudged him. They had stood off to the left, his diamond blues thrown at the taciturn yet unwavering look in the young Mrs. Pace's large dark green. He could never understand it, until the moment his gaze fell upon her late husband piercing normally impish onyx orbs broken and tremulous but not quite there anymore. And then he realized he never saw anything like this before for it was usually the reverse.
Something had changed inside Eleanor Pace from that moment forward everyone would say, but from the moment those smoky green met his even at a distance, he saw that whole of her she kept at bay from the world. Those eyes, oh those electric eyes fierce words and formidable character, saying but never meaning how much she hated him because that would damn him.
For that one night not so many months past…he saw the truth, caught off guard in that unyielding gaze when her gaze met his. The night, A Christmas Past, His Royal Majesty in better spirits had invited his late Secretary of State's wife, Mrs. Eleanor Pace to court a heated look in his large blue gaze. The notion had threw Cromwell, jaw unexpectedly tensing sharply drawing an unexpectedly suspicious eyebrow from His Royal Majesty before the young Lion burst into peels of mirth. "Oh Lord Secretary, Eleanor is a sublime rare creature is she not?" In the past, whenever Mrs. Pace had attended, Cromwell had always drawn the conclusion from the pleasant grin on those lush rosy lips and the disenchanted expression in those deep emerald, the truth always could be found in those obscure beauties. She only went for one person when he was alive…and now the king was summoning her presence.
Eleanor had arrived, breathtaking black velour and lightly scented wild orchid, gazing dutifully first at the Duke of Suffolk at his left before narrowing a lingering venomous gaze upon Cromwell as she walked past them only to have the younger man slap him purposefully on the shoulder, "That gorgeous creature has nothing but daggers for you."
Cromwell held his stance intact, but the Duke of Suffolk knew the man well enough to realize he was standing on ceremony, for he detected the uncomfortable tension ride the older lankier man's jaw. The man was bothered by this. The privy seal took his leave without another word, trying to stifle the moral pang rising in his throat to no avail. Every time, the cad even remotely caught his gaze throughout the festivity he flashed him a bemused grin.
It wasn't until His Royal Majesty took Eleanor by the hand on the dance floor, a soft look growing in the lion's eyes, that a strange nervousness started to percolate unexpectedly in the Privy Seal of which he could not explain nor give voice. His perceptive gaze anxiously tended His Majesty watching with growing dread as a single skilled palm was placed on the late widow's waist and the other fell lower…a tension instantly sparked in those jades, instantly smoothed the second the King's gaze met hers. She was physically suppressing her discomfort.
Fortunately, the Duke of Suffolk was able to intervene reminding the King of his lovely daughters return to Court of which he was now more than receptive to oblige. Cromwell was soon swept up, attending to the King's Common Wealth of England eschew, he was soon flanked by 4 lords and 2 nobles talking openly about their Protestant Reformation to the Emperor of Spain's representative, "Perhaps I never made myself clear. My ultimate goal has always been the complete destruction of the Catholic Church."
A seething glow burned knowingly in a pair of dark emeralds, as the young widow Pace felt that familiar wrath twinge inside her marrow as she crossed her palms across her scoop neck black velour grateful for that reminder at these familiar words. Rolling her orbs at these lofty ambitions camouflaged as a pious siege, Eleanor buried her shoulders deeper into the pillar she had taken refuge grateful the King's attention was now focused on a few scantily clad ladies of court.
Truth was, she was twenty minutes from taking flight out into the glorious cold night…her mother-in-law had taken ill two days past and what subject could say no to a King?
The second she detected a whiff of the royal court English wine from behind her, Eleanor whipped around only to come face to broad chest with a towering inebriate Lord Rochester, a hungry ugly intense gleam growing in his brown orbs as they scanned her body, "Mistress Pace, don't you look ravishing!"
He was standing far too close than was necessary and Eleanor's piercing dark emerald's narrowed to slits, "Mrs. Pace, your lord." She corrected him, a touch of warning in her no-nonsense voice.
It was true, what Eleanor had come to know about herself in her husband's absence as a diplomat and even more so in his death, she was not a woman to be trifled with and this noble was treading in still waters that ran deeper than anyone ever knew.
The lord closed whatever inch was left between them and inhaled her, licking the top of his lip in what he thought was suggestive way which only made her want to inwardly vomit, "Divine. You're available now I hear."
Her late husband, Sir Richard Pace had barely been in the ground three years come this past November and that apparently qualified his widow as 'barely used, but still good' to the court. Eleanor shook her head, trying to remain calm at the insinuation, this was one of the reasons she detested attending court and wished she could have slipped out sooner, "Lord Rochester, I would appreciate if you would take a step back."
A touch of danger crackled forebodingly in those brown orbs that surprised her and it was a split second before Eleanor was spun forcibly into a darker corner, a startled gasp cut off by an experienced massive palm.
The not so right sound had been drowned out by the Duke of Suffolk's hearty laughter at a dirty joke gone wrong and yet had prickled the alert lobes of Sir Cromwell who paused full stop in an intense reformation discussion on priest abuses of brothels. He tilted his head, his discerning gaze unconsciously stopping on the dark corner. He had distinctly heard a muffled cry, something that merited immediate investigation.
In the darkness, Rochester had her pinned, forearm against her mouth, body pressed up against hers while he sought to remove his front. The man was as heavy as a lump of coal many a collier lugged around. She felt this silent anger rising as his palm squeezed around her throat, and she was loathe to admit it as the adrenaline started hailing through her she was actually scared. And that was unforgivable.
Something aligned, fury and fear, and using all her strength mightily kneed him in the groin. She felt the heat of his heavy breath leave her, she exhaled as Lord Rochester flew irately and somewhat disoriented back before collecting what was left of his balance and launching at her again, "You whore!"
It was at this point the bulky lord slammed drunkenly into the sudden impenetrable presence of Sir Cromwell, whose perceptive diamond blues chilled with uncharacteristic menace at the young disheveled noble, "Lord Rochester."
Eleanor's heart was pounding frantically against her chest, her lobes perked at the normally polished civil tone of the Privy Seal elevating with growing suspicion, a threat could be heard in the way Lord Cromwell scoped the gamut of the scene holding the noble's shifty gaze in a vise, "What happened here?"
A blaze shrug of the shoulders, a smug close of the drunkard noble's lids and Cromwell had to suppress this gnawing compulsion that was suddenly building inside him for reasons buried deep inside him as the man waved the incident dismissively off with a regal air, "The whore came on to me and then she…"
Unconsciously, the privy seal had leaned imposingly over the rather towering noble, a spectacular vein throbbing in his forehead, a brutal look he planned to make good on and the noble retreated back into his assertions, "I did not ask you Lord Rochester. I found you inebriate, disheveled, and without the company of your wife. Now it would be in your best interest to hold your tongue or lose it."
The air hung and shivered at these words, Eleanor had never seen him like this, so unyielding and ruthless…well maybe she had seen hints of it. Truth was she could barely process this as Sir Cromwell suddenly turned those extraordinary blues cast upon her at first burning with serious authority widened with shock, "Eleanor."
It was the first time Cromwell had called her by her Christian name. As he approached, deep blues and fading boyish features softening in a way that shouldn't have slowed the frenzy of her heart but did in that dark moment.
A stab of something deep and powerful filled her unexpectedly and unmercifully in this moment and her gaze fled to the torch ridden corner eager for a reprieve.
Cromwell felt her gaze shift conflicted to the floor and couldn't quite understand it, he knew the truth always could be found if she let the fortress down in those dark green. He had no doubt himself what actually happened.
The second that shaken emerald gaze hooked to his, he drew in a sharp breath. This was not the self-sure woman ready to take him on, she was rattled to her deepest foundations. Unconsciously, her gaze shifted with nuclear force upon the bulky noble standing cock-sure with a firm grip locked sore around his nether region a stone's throw behind him, a quaking palm nestled unconsciously at the grace of her neck. Ah, there you are.
But there was something about the way she gripped her neck, cautious and pained to the discerning eye prompting the privy seal to politely request, "Might I examine your neck Mrs. Pace?"
The question appeared to take her off guard and Cromwell couldn't help but detect a slight anxiety humming off her, but given what had just transpired, it was to be expected. But the second her guarded green interlocked with his warm blue, whatever trepidation fell away and her shoulders relaxed as he gently placed a dark cherry lock behind her shoulders. His long elegant alabaster fingertips carefully cradled the sides of her heart-shaped face with such care she felt like she couldn't breathe, the pupils of his perceptive deep set blues widened as they combed each line and curve careful to lift her chin the latter suddenly enraging with murderous intent upon ten angry embedded marks aligning her throat, "Lord Rochester!"
A thick hot sliver of fresh blood flourished without warning across the bridge of her nose and Eleanor's jaw popped open in shock, dark green intensely watching the uncompromising Sir Cromwell standing a lethal glimmer still fixed in his diamond blues above the laid-out Lord Rochester.
"Sir Cromwell! What disturbs my festivities?" King Henry approached flanked by both his daughters
Immediately, the danger fled from the Privy Seal's fading boyish features instantly replaced by a neutral and amiable disposition, bowing as was the formality, "Your Majesty. I humbly apologize for any inconvenience but I was investigating a most disturbing attack on a gracious lady invited to your festivity."
Both Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth's jaws popped in succession, the latter instantly clasping the former's in horror for solace while the former turned beseechingly to the King. "Oh Father!"
"It's alright Mary. I want you to take your sister back to the guest room. It's late (noting the worried fretful look in his older daughter's eyes) don't worry I will look into it personally."
Upon the princess' leave, the King took one lingering look between the young widow and Lord Rochester and met his Privy Seal's gaze with a firm decision, "Lord Rochester is man taken to drink and loose women. (approaches the young widow who appeared tired, shaken, clothing ripped, and wearing strangulation marks) Mrs. Pace is not a loose woman she has been graciously declining my advances all evening which I respect her all the more for. Not many women can say that. (shakes his head) What a dreadful host I've been…I invite you here to honor all the hard work your late husband Richard did for me and you've had such a terrible evening. I will arrange a private coach to ensure your safe passage home."
After a brief instructions to retire Lord Rochester to the tower, Sir Cromwell glanced over his shoulder and it was only then he realized that in his efforts to shackle the noble, delegate the king's punishment to the royal guard to administer, Mrs. Pace had slipped from his sight. It was the kind of thing that happened often in the wake of the king.
The truth was the need to put as much distance between her and that castle was never greater than that royal seal of approval of 'you may take your leave'. It should have felt as if a huge weight was lifted off her chest, but her head was spinning heart hammering once again as her feet blindly carried her into the departing crowd. She was still on 'Red Alert', snapping her head at every little sound…the world wanted a part of her and she ran against it as she always would. What had just happened back there?
Her throat itched at the memory, she paused at the top of the turret staircase, something strange was happening…she could literally feel this burning pressure moving and squeezing underneath her skin. It literally felt as though all the suction was being syphoned and relaxed from her lungs. "Stop! I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" Clapping both her palms to her throat, no, no, it was happening again. He had found her somehow. "Mrs. Pace."
There was something about that familiar voice, polished and soothing, that called her from the black depths she found herself sinking into, immediately turning her attention upon a pair of concerned diamond gazing down at her. "Mrs. Pace. Are you alright?"
The sight of Sir Cromwell, long cool palms interlocked with her own to prevent any further damage to her bare bruised neck, and Eleanor felt her breath go shallow. Something happened just then as his palms unconsciously fell consolingly to the tops of her shoulders. She could feel it, the polite pretense slip away replaced with this deep vulnerability and this reed deep ache…
Eleanor drew in a sharp hungry breath and Cromwell shook with conflict…had it always been there just beneath the surface.
"Sir Cromwell. Mrs. Pace's coach is ready." They broke apart, the night came in and he led her outside, his palm at the base of her elbow not wanting to let go.
And now here they were months later…
The sharp blade stood fallow resting upon the precepts of Cromwell's shoulders as a single unanswered question burned fragile yet determined in a pair of dark green as the reason for the unexpected visit crystalized with new found understanding in those diamond blue…this was a mother fighting for the last tether to her child's soul.
It was something he had come across in tonight's collating and tallying St. Dymphna's eschew. There was something about it, as he had wrapped the fourteen inch chain in his palm his long fingers curiously examining the knob and Cromwell's jaw popped open as a single powder soft lock of hair fell into his palm, "Your locket." He realized, breath-catching at the thought.
Her head raised at this, a light seemed to fill her as the first speck of grief began to ebb at the power of this prospect as those dark green gauged his diamond blue and the first true ray of selfless joy filled him at this, "You have my locket don't you?"
A terrible thought unexpectedly struck him in this moment the tremor of which rode his alabaster fading boyish cheeks that took everything he had to muzzle, shut his lids and take a single deep breath. But surely, it mattered not?
He chanced a single glance at her, neither heard the clatter of the last blade drop, for the throng of the reed-deep ache from that night still reckoned back at her. She would leave and never know. "Just give me a minute Mrs. Pace. I will bring it to you."
There was never a moment when she thought he took flight, his footsteps merely faded to another corner of the estate before returning in that brisk authority in a cloud of unrequited questions and uncertain nerves. He ceased before her, before producing two items-her locket and an envelope-a humble yet unbearable ache glistening to the surface that tugged at what was left of her heart, pulse racing.
"I had written this to you this night's past." Cromwell finally lifts those extraordinary blue, fire in that gaze that made her short of breath as her gaze burned with a 1,000 new questions at the thought of him writing her a letter to explain any of his actions was something she was still trying to grasp. "When I saw this, I recognized the child inside…(shook his head in wonder) There was a time when this necklace never parted from your neck." Had nothing escaped his noticed?
Extending his palm in an offer to assist, Eleanor nodded with a racing heart and for the first time felt the warmth of his raw boned chest against the smooth of her back. She shivered shutting her lids careful to regulate her uneven breath at being this close to him. The truth is she had only came here to retrieve one precious item lost to her mind and her heart. But as his elegant palms modestly draped the locket around her neck and closed the clasp she distinctly overheard his breath quicken, hold and release. And yet there was no denying it…not in the single broken ache glance that dissolved the last wall she held around her heart. There was something about the way he stood, without managing to touch her-it was an ache that knew no solace- framing her in a way that forever burned them, "I know from the way that you look at me that you try and hate me (she shook from the inside out at this because she felt every word)…but as you can see when it comes to you I am not heartless."
Her lids popped open with startling almost-annoyed force…Without warning, she whipped around with a look so fierce that Cromwell was shocked to both feel and see the reeling sting of an effective slap across his left cheekbone and the offended arch of an outraged eyebrow, "Is that what you think I feel about you?! That I hate you?!" The whole initial blow had surprised him but the sudden impassioned spark proved to be the onset to another and Cromwell intercepted a second blow in time, a surge of hope and excitement beating exuberantly in his chest before casting her an admonishing eyebrow, "I said you try."
There was kindness in his voice and the veracity of these words suddenly formed a raw lump in her throat, she could see the way Cromwell was looking at her now a deeper understanding glowing in those extraordinary blues-he had seen behind her mask, perhaps in little moments long ago or now in this very moment, she cared about him. He could see right through her. "You bast-."The curse itself could not give life on her lips and they both knew it, for it was the moment he crushed his lips heatedly to hers grabbing both sides of her face in a steamy passionate lip caress that left no room for argument.
The intensity of his kiss made her breathless, and she soon found herself passionately seizing his mouth forking his dark close cropped hair with her ivory finger tips as he suddenly lifted her off her feet and charged her back against the wall. She suppressed a moan, arching her lower half against his to relieve some of the tension. She never knew it could be like this. The start of his long gentle fingers tracing and sending warm electrical thrills with an experience touch from her mid-thigh to her now pulsing folds, Eleanor suddenly grabbed him impetuously under his scabbard, Cromwell released a ragged breath. Every time she gave him that look behind the look…
It had built up inside of him, a slow cook burn, for Eleanor for so damn long. Eleanor watched as that keen fire she had felt and seen glimpses of suddenly consume her whole as he descended upon her lips, neck, collarbone, ruby tipped breasts with his mouth taken his time to delicately savor and teasingly nip each as nibbled on the right of his neck. He grunted and buckled, straining severely against her at this and Eleanor realized she had found the sweetest spot. She found his lips again, clapping his face to meet the intensity of her gaze again and began to place her mouth at the nape and felt his breath go shallow once more. She ripped open the rest of his clothing and could tell from a discerning medical eye, she would tend to that later.
The second her mouth trailed to meet his shaft his breathing had become chaotic, eyes fluttered intensely and she felt his palms settle at her shoulders and her dark green met his inquisitively and he shook his head. "Not like this. Together my dear."
Eleanor once again gave him one of those wry smiles she had bequeathed to him on their first official meeting and Cromwell felt the first truly jubilant smile to break at the ends of his mouth as he took her again in his arms. He cast all sorrows from his mind in this moment. Lifting her up, she wrapped her legs around his waist and his vision blackened with such riveting pleasure at this surreal heaven as she finally settled over his whole shaft, her dark green glistening with ecstasy. They built up a rhythm, nice hot and slow, allowing that unspoken burn to consume them with the fervor of each merciless thrust.
It was the only time Eleanor swore, green orbs glistening with equal parts pain and pleasure as she lance his long alabaster back so hard with her nails they drew blood. So fucking good, her legs were buckling. His mouth had never once left her, tending now to her mouth deepening to the kiss as she began to move in such a tortuous way atop him that made him shiver and his toes curl. So no one's ever ruffled your perfect feathers that way before huh, Mr. Privy Seal?
She could feel it, they were both getting close…he had that look…just hold it a second longer, she prayed. He took one look at the burning look that existed behind that wall solely for him and not another, so beautiful and bare and his, and it ripped through them more powerful and unyielding than any pretended not to be to each other. They collapsed against other, beautiful and bare, for the first time as he collected her face, meeting those obscure beauties seeing the truth that had always been there from the beginning behind a gate,
Eleanor (a knowing gleam in her eye as he collected her in his arms), "How did you know?"
"It was your eyes…your eyes gave you away every time." The tips of his fingers caressed her face as he broke into a genuine smile. "As did my heart."