Auburn curls bounced around her, strands of golden light spilling through the boughs of the mighty Oaks. Through the grass she meandered, breath-taking, free, the secret and the joy of his life. His Elizabeth. When they wanted to be alone they stole away here, to this secret glade beyond the prying eyes of the court.

Pin by pin she'd release her hair, slip from shoes and run wild. She would laugh until he felt his heart would burst with his love for her. Sometimes they would talk, sometimes they would be silent. When she grew sleepy he would enfold her in his cloak and lead her horse slowly back home. Whatever excuse he could find to elongate their time together.

Today she unfurled a letter, mischief in her eyes. Arthur awaited her, as always, breeches hitched up his calf, demeanour relaxed as he lounged in the grass. At length she sat with him, demure as ever, close but not touching as was their custom.

"He writes again my love, imagine that."

Jealousy was plain in emerald eyes before she firmly quietened him.

"We should forge ties of metal and blood. What use is cloth and grain? Moscow and London should beat with the connection of military might."

Arthur scoffed, tilting his head back. It was hardly a love letter, nor his Queen in any doubt of the young man's intents. Jumpy little upstart, they had barely heard of Russia until of late. No, France was more a concern, or Spain, both vying for his beloved's affections.

"Arthur."

It was only when they were alone that she indulged in his name, each time it sent a tingle of pleasure through him.

"Yes my love?"

"I want you to engage this Ivan fellow, woo him if you must, I require his trade."

Suddenly he was sitting, mouth dry, stomach tight.

"My Queen it is only for you that my heart beats."

"Regardless Arthur, I would have it done."

Their eyes met, pleading and stern as Arthur reached out, his hand hovering over the petite counterpart. Dare he touch her? So many times they had stretched towards one another, yearning in their hearts and eyes. Always they had pulled away at the last second. She was to be 'untainted', above reproach.

"I know the ways of men and countries my love."

Reproachful but kind she withdrew her hand from temptations way and Arthur was, once more, defeated. Though he desperately tried to conceal it there was no hiding the special brand of madness that consumed him each time Francis paid them visit. Nor the fact he would refuse to visit her for some time after he departed, to give bruises and bites time to heal.

The preparations took a clear month; Arthur silently watched and waited upon one knee at his Queen's behest. Into his pocket she tucked a handkerchief, a memento to recall her by. Then she cast him out to complete her bidding.

The journey was long and Arthur's temper foul. In the end they left him to his quarters and his brooding. The closer they drew to Moscow the worse his mood became. Wasn't it enough that he had to interact with Europe as it was without having to sweet talk the man who was spoken of in dark whispers and declared as 'terrible'?

Arthur would do anything for her though, for his 'Bess'.

So when the day arrived he was in his finest breaches and doublet, emerald in colouration and embroidered richly. About his throat was the ruffed collar so beloved by his Queen and in his hands was a lute.

"Announcing Lord Kirkland, representative of the Kingdom of England."

If only they knew how apt that was.

Doors parted before him, in the distance two men stood side by side, awaiting him. Head held high he strode forwards to meet them, assured; the world would be at his feet one day. It wasn't until he was almost upon them that he locked eyes with the Russian representative.

Tall, ever so tall, with hair so soft and pale it could barely be called blonde. It was his eyes though that captured him, like amethysts, almost shyly watching him from behind his Tsar. Russia had the makings of greatness but there was –something- about him and Arthur, try as he might, could not put his finger on it. As long fingers tugged the woollen scarf higher Arthur drew to a halt in sudden revelation.

Ice.

The Russian representative was ice. Careful steps and it might not break beneath you and swallow you into unforgiving icy water. The wrong kind of pressure though and it would fracture and consume you. Arthur swallowed mouth suddenly dry. Russia frightened him. Russia intimidated him. Russia was incredibly attractive in a way none of the warm passionate Southern Europeans were. Here was a man he could wage war either against, or by the side of.

Woo him she'd said. Open trade routes she'd beseeched.

For one crazy second all Arthur wanted to do was to undo the Russian, spill him across a bed and find out what really would make him writhe. Then the Tsar spoke and the spell was broken.

Business resumed and Arthur played his lute. They spoke of trade and war and Arthur refrained from being caught in those eyes again.

Years later when they sat side by side under the trees, limbs aging and aching she had asked him of his first impression of the Russian nation.

For once Arthur did not answer his Queen, just smiled and let the world wonder at his frequent trips to Russia. There the man with the burning amethyst eyes held court. There his prince made of ice awaited him.