A Seymour and a Howard
Disclaimer: I don't own the Tudors
Howard…
Like all of my family, I initially treated him the way we treat all Seymour: we like to pretend we don't see them. Of course, even if a person is unable to see something, it does not neglect its existence. The Seymour would still be there, whether I wanted him to or not. Still, it was curious, how he gazed on me with eyes lit up in concealed interest. Unsurprisingly, none of my people (nor his own, and that piqued my interest) marked this; they were too focused on gaining the king's favor.
Even though my curiosity was piqued and I would have liked very much to walk up to him and ask—demand?—why he stared at me so, I did not. Instead I did what any proper lady of my stature would have done when it came to men: I waited for him to make the initial approach and contact. I was even setting up a little wager with myself. Should the Seymour actually dare and approach me with the motives I suspect he'd have, I would work on my stitching, a feminine task I abhorred. I had originally considered wearing a hair shirt, such as the ones worn by monks for penance, under my gown, but even I was too vain for that measure.
Right now, a hunting party is being assembled and I have been selected as a member due to my skill at riding a horse. My riding gown is black brocade, with a dark velvet cap lined with tiny pearls and accentuated by a white plume. Not far from where I stand, I can see the groomsmen bringing the mounts, my beautiful gray Andalusian Maerlyn among them. As one of the grooms helps me to mount I notice, with slight interest, that he was also chosen.
Seymour…
There were not many women wearing black in our party, so she stood out, cutting a dignified figure on the saddle. In addition, it surprised me that her mount was no gentle mare as ladies were wont to ride; no this was a stallion. As with most of his breed, he measured fifteen hand-heights. Not a tall horse but he still cut a proud figure among the rest of the mounts, not unlike his mistress. Of the women, I counted Miss Anne Boleyn, Miss Jane Parker, and Mistress Mary Carey (formerly Boleyn), in addition to Miss Howard and one woman of my kin whose name eludes me.
Of the men, it would have been Lord Henry Percy of Northumberland, George Boleyn (soon to become Lord Rochford), the Duke of Suffolk, the King, and I. High above in Greenwich Palace I could see the Queen waving down to us and wishing us luck in the hunt. At the same time, I hear the sound of the horn, being blown by the Hunts master and the dogs being released to seek out a potential target. They start moving towards the forest. As we follow the hounds, out of subconscious reflex I begin studying her.
When it comes to prospective brides, they are scrutinized as closely as horses at the horse fair, perhaps closer still. A bride from a prominent and wealthy family can mean a rise in both social and economic status. It is the norm however, that the bride—groom, if it is the bride's family looking to marry off their daughter—and groom's social status to be equal or near so. In addition, in some way or another, the King and Cardinal Wolsey's approval of the union is required. This sort of thing had already happened with me before, but the negotiations had fallen out, mostly due to dissatisfaction over the bride's dowry.
Howard…
It was not long before we sighted the quarry: a magnificent stag, its body rigid in alertness. Not even an instant had passed before it sprang off into the wood, the greyhounds in hot pursuit. In a rather automatic manner, we too, sprang into action, urging our hunters forward after the hounds in the hopes of catching venison for tonight's feast. It was not long before I found my horse neck-to-neck beside the Seymour's own hunter, a bay-colored mare. As focused as I was on our quarry, I chanced a look at him from the corner of my eye.
Had I not been more focused on making sure I stayed on the saddle, I might have uttered a silent gasp. The Seymour was, for lack of a better description, what seemed to me the epitome of masculine beauty. His hair, styled in a wavy mane that flowed mid-back, was a light brown color accentuated by his eyes, which were a darkish-shade of gray that reminded me of ashes, which sometimes didn't look black at all, but gray. His right ear, to my surprise, was pierced, the decoration being a simple, small hoop of silver.
It was an improvement over other styles other men of the court had chosen. These were usually chandelier-type earrings, which I found to be unflattering on men; they seemed either gaudy in their sense of fashion or vaguely homosexual. All this information was registered in what seemed an instant to me. Suddenly, a shout of triumph; it had been a good chase but the beast was now cornered.
Seymour…
The family business of constant ascendance in the aristocratic hierarchy often makes one a formidable actor. This is especially the case if you have a heated rivalry with another family. I was aware that she was observing me, scrutinizing my looks before her partial focus retreated back to the hunt. Through it all I was also observing her, rather discreetly I may add. I also confess that I regret it not; she was not lacking in beauty or personality, it was only that these things were veiled.
I could not see her hair at the time for she had it pinned under her riding cap. However, it was a rich dark brown that could have been mistaken for black, if not for the auburn tint accentuating it. Her eyes were also a curious dark shade of indigo. In short she resembled Miss Boleyn most strongly, but there were subtle differences between them. The most obvious difference between them was their personality, of course.
My thoughts were pulled down to reality as the King shouted in triumph; we had the beast cornered. However, everyone in the group also ran a mutual risk: cornered beasts fight all the more fiercely to survive, after all. Naturally, the stag gave it his all against the greyhounds but numbers won out and in the end, they bore down on him. When it was over, the carcass was prepared and carried back towards Greenwich Palace, our group following behind. Riding at the rear, I kept my gaze trained on her gray Andalusian and wondered: should I take the initiative?