AN: SO SORRY. A million times, SO SORRY. I got caught up in midterms and then finals, and then my B-Day (which in here is still today, so Happy Birthday to me!) and I got horribly uninspired. Till this idea popped up, with some gentle nagging from SSLE (this chapter is for you, for your concern and your wonderful encouragement) and suddenly this chapter had a purpose, and was not merely a filler.
Warning: Chapuys and Mary might be extremely OOC. I struggled with that all through the writing process, second-guessing myself all the way. The idea I had for this chapter was so great I could not help but feeling the execution fell a little short. But either way, I hope you enjoy it! Also, this is the longest chapter so far. That's a guilty bonus.
As always, suggestions and gentle criticism (it's my Birthday, for Goodness's sake, be gentle!) are always welcome. Reviews are practically worshipped.
London had been, as always, alight with deceit, plotting and death. The whore had been pregnant, the lawful and beloved Queen Katherine had already begun to be forgotten and Brereton had started to annoy him. He had never met such a cowardly would-be assassin, and he had come to accept Brereton was more afraid of seeing blood than eager to rid England of the pernicious influence of the Boleyn Witch. The talk of an alliance between his Majesty the King of England and his own master had been, as far as he was concerned, just talk at the moment, and he had forced himself not to feel encouraged by it. Henry VIII was nothing if not fickle, and also quick to turn on his word. Besides the issue touched an ongoing power struggle between the Boleyns and the ever-growing influence of Thomas Cromwell, a man who was in so many ways so like him it made him uncomfortable, for it exposed to his Excellence all of his flaws as a good Christian. Politics were making him into a man he had no wish to be.
Even the good tidings coming from Spain had done little to lift his spirits. The threat of the Turks had been lifted, however temporally, and it meant his master was going to have enough time and peace to, hopefully, begin addressing the issue of the widespread of heresy throughout the Empire. However, Rome, his would be ally in such an endeavour, was proving to be more of a hindrance than anything else. Charles's pleas for a Council, a dreaded thing for any Pope, to settle the issues of dogma, which he refused to resolve, only dealing with the political issues of the Reformist movement. He knew his master to be on the right, but he also knew that Councils and Popes rarely mixed well together and the decision to call one was more a political struggle than a spiritual debate.
But he had stayed at Court, nevertheless, because his presence was vital at such a defining time. He was needed to put the right amount of pressure in Cromwell, and to defend the pre-conditions so dear to his master's heart, thought he suspected a little ruefully that they were dearer to his own, as his latest reunion with Cromwell had shown him. The unease- actually outright panic, but unease sounded so much better in his ears- he had felt when he had caught the first glimpse of doubt and hesitation in the eyes of his interlocutor had left him uneasy and worried.
It had been then that the dream had first appeared.
It had at first left him confused. He had been trapped in a dark room, with no door. There had been no torches lit, no fireplace roaring, no tiny window in sight. Yet he had been able to see the faint outline of his arms, and the unwashed stonewalls. Looking around the room he had spotted the largest gilded mirror he had ever seen. It was a full-length monstrosity with a heavy golden frame carved into twisted vines and ominous shapes, and it was glowing, casting an unfavourable ice blue light into the room, too faint to hurt his eyes.
He had stepped closer to the mirror, his dreamy reasoning being that he wanted to see if he was unharmed. Yet the light, as he had come closer and closer to the mirror, had become more of a nuisance, pulsating and blurring his sight. When he had finally been close enough to grasp the mirror frame, to steady himself and focus his sight, he had seen, reflected upon the glassy looking-glass, a sickening sight. It was himself, there was no doubt about it, the same posture, the same amazement in his eyes as he felt in his face, the same disgusted expression...
Yet the man in the mirror was Master Cromwell.
As his hands shot to his hair and face, so did the hands of the man in the mirror. As his tremulous fingers grazed his nose and lips, tracing the familiar shape of his face with relief, so did Cromwell's. Breathing heavily, in a state of near-panic that he was not accustomed to, he laid his left palm flat against the cold glass in front of him, horrified when he saw his movements mimicked by the Lord Privy Seal.
"No!" he shouted, and to his horror his voice was echoed by Cromwell's "This is not right!"
He had woken up right after that, sweaty and gasping for air and unable to get any rest for the remainder of the night. He had not dwelt on the nightmare much, it was not unusual for him to be a little restless and anxious from time to time. After all, anxiety practically came with the job.
He had almost forgotten about the room with the mirror when he dreamt about it again. It had gone exactly as the first time, down to the mellifluous voice of the Lord Privy Seal echoing his denial. Fleming had given him funny looks the day after and it had taken a very flustered Rafael to explain that they had both heard him scream bloody murder during the night, and were understandably curious.
He had dismissed it once again, but this time not in the same cavalier manner. He had started to worry weeks later, when he had realized, while perusing some documents late at night, that he was dreading going to sleep. As time went on he found that he counted himself lucky if he was able to get a full night of uninterrupted sleep. It became almost impossible to deal with his work in the professional manner he was accustomed to, he was so tired. Fleming had begun to give him attitude, in a desperate attempt to get the Ambassador to either rely more on him or confide in him a little. It did not work, and it merely made the Ambassador all the more irritable. His long, frequent meetings with the Lord Privy Seal were certainly not helping, though they were necessary for the discussion on how to best remove "their great obstacle".
He paused to remember recent events. He had seen the past following weeks, that the King's eye had wondered away from the marriage bed again, yet it seemed this time it was to be more serious. The lady in question had been quickly appointed as a Lady-In-Waiting to her unhappy Majesty, the Witch Queen, yet this new girl, a blonde, did not seem to be interested in following her predecessor's footsteps. As amazing as it sounded, apparently there was a demure virgin left in England. Two, of course, if he counted the princess, whose purity no one would there question, not even the Boleyns.
Yet, as the days wore on, he had found himself annoyed with Jane Seymour, for her reluctance to distract the King. She was a simple girl, stupid enough to let the opportunity to gain a King's favour pass. He had casually mentioned this to Fleming in passing, mostly venting out loud, but the valet had replied nevertheless, a bit shocked:
"Surely His Excellency is not implying that choosing virtue over political gain is foolish behaviour"
Chapuys had been quick to deny that, implying Fleming had misunderstood him. Yet, when he had found himself alone, he had dropped his head in his hands, acknowledging Fleming had been right. That had been exactly what he had been thinking, and it had taken his valet pointing it out for him to realize how wrong it was.
"Who am I becoming?" he had wondered aloud, one of his hands running through his hair in a nervous gesture while the other had moved to grip a gold crucifix he always carried, muttering prayers that had not felt as comforting as they had always been.
The dream had struck again that night, simple yet downright terrifying. He had snapped at Rafael the following morning, making him cower behind Fleming more than usual. His valet, now beyond feeling compassionate about his plight and now being downright aggravated, had snidely reminded him he had an audience with his "good friend the Lord Privy Seal".
It had almost undone him, that meeting. He had not known himself, he had felt like a stranger was speaking with his voice and exchanging conspiratorial smirks with the right hand of the King while gleefully discussing the downfall of the current Queen.
"Inestimable services he has done to the King?" he had screamed while looking at himself in the only mirror he had in his private quarters "Yes, those services were inestimable indeed... Almost as much as infamous!"
Yet he had gone to court, and he had taken more pleasure than a Christian man should watching Wiltshire and Rochford practically grovel at his feet while he made a show of dismissing some rather questionable oysters. It had all been for naught, however, because what had happened later, his altercation with the King, had robbed him of what little joy he had gotten from coldly dismissing those who had done him and those whose wishes he promoted.
Later on Fleming and Rafael had found him fuming in private, a sight not as unusual as it had once been. The lack of sleep, his tortuous doubts over his more recent behaviour... It was all eating away at him, making him explode in the Embassy in a way very few would expect. And it had been for naught. All of his dealings with Cromwell, with Brereton, all of the manipulating and the lying, the compromising of his morals... It had been for nothing.
"I am afraid I do not understand, Excellency" Fleming's ironic comments had also been making more of an appearance as of late "Are you upset over your questionable behaviour or over the fact that it did not bear fruit?"
And the Ambassador had wished Fleming would stop being so right. That night had found him avoiding his sleeping chambers and arranging his papers. It had been then that he had found the princess's letter, opened but unread as it had been lost among the sea of reports and diplomatic documents, informing him of her recent removal to Hunsdon, entreating him to visit whenever he could.
Hunsdon felt warmer than Hatfield House, as it was smaller and, rather than stately furnished, it sported a more sensible look, since the money for the upkeep of the state was low. But, fortunately, there was no judgmental Lady Bryan, who he knew to be fighting to keep Hatfield House afloat as the sun of the Boleyns' started to finally set on the political horizon. The Ambassador felt no pity for the Lady Governess or the remaining members of the brat's household, as they had felt no pity in the past for the plight of the true princess. The house was also located slightly closer to London, another small point in its favour. It had been left to gather dust for a long time, however, and Lady Mary had warned him it might shock him at first the rather unfortunate state of the gardens and the outside of the manor, though it still had surprised him the dirt on the brick walls overrun with ivy and the rotting trunks of dead or dying trees.
Those grim thoughts where cut short when Rafael, having grown tired of contemplating Hunsdon at a distance, cleared his throat loudly enough to scare the Ambassador's horse, forcing Eustace to snap into action lest he fall off.
"Smooth, Rafael" he muttered under his breath as he spurred his horse to cover the small distance to the house. Inside, as he had been told, things looked a little better. It was not just the good cleaning the house had obviously received, or the homely feeling the more personal and less ornamental furniture and sparse decoration gave... In a way, it was like finally being on friendly territory. London, Hatfield, Kimbolton... The shadow of the Boleyns and of His Majesty's temper had been present everywhere he had gone, including the home of friends like the late Fisher. He had not realized how much it seemed to suffocate him, to drain him of energy and spirits. Yet Hunsdon seemed to be devoid of such leech-like characteristics. It was a quiet house, but much more friendly than what he was used to.
A young maid, a little girl no older than thirteen, greeted them at the door full of awkwardness and timidity. She was a local girl, no doubt, and had gotten the post on account of how little the princess could afford to pay the help. Yet she seemed friendly and, when she mentioned her mistress was reading in the drawing room her eyes lit up with undisguised admiration.
'Good' Chapuys thought almost despite himself 'The princess could use some unwavering loyalty'. Besides, it was good to know that the people of England thought as highly of the princess as they did of her mother.
Casting aside the little, annoying voice inside that berated him for seeing political gain everywhere he went Eustace allowed himself a moment of friendly concern when his gaze fell on Mary Tudor, hemming a shirt by the fireplace. A Lady-In-Waiting was discreetly doing the same in the far corner of the room, a new addition that pleased the Ambassador as much as it worried him. It befitted the princess's true status to have Ladies-In-Waiting, but he worried about their loyalties. He made a mental note to find out as soon as possible who this new additions to the princess's retinue were and where her families stood at court. Though he doubted the Boleyn Witch, pregnant or not, would have had the influence, as things stood nowadays, to implant spies at Hunsdon, he knew Master Cromwell was more than capable.
'And' the snide little voice inside his head taunted 'It's just what you would have done, isn't it, if you were in Cromwell's shoes?'
"Excellency" the whisper-soft voice of Mary Tudor pulled the Ambassador away from his dark thoughts. She was looking at him with a concerned expression on her face which quite mirrored his own. His eyes quickly scanned her from head to toe in the ever-so-discreet way diplomats seemed to be so good at. She was thinner than before, the black of the dress accentuating her poor condition, but there was an air of peace around her which had seldom been present at Hatfield. Looking at her made every self-doubt he had had and every awful comparison he had made between himself and the conniving Cromwell worth it, even for a little while. Surely such a promising English bud was worth protecting, even if it meant giving up a bit of his high morale every now and then.
"I apologize, my Lady, I got distracted" he smiled and bent to kiss her hand with more reverence, he was sure, than what she was used to, since she ducked her head demurely and squeezed his hand to make the gesture more friendly and personal.
"It is so seldom that I get the opportunity to catch you chasing daydreams, Excellency" her smile was a clear indicator of her teasing, and Eustace wondered briefly when he had last been teased. It seemed to be a lifetime ago, back when he lived surrounded by friends or family, before he had given up his post with Charles of Burgundy to serve the new King of Castile, who was at that moment gathering the necessary funds to acquire the votes that would make him Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. He had never had a peaceful moment in Spain, a land who was foreign and unwelcoming not only to him but also to his new master. England, after the frosty reception he had had in Seville and Madrid, had not seemed as dauntingly uninviting.
He politely refused any refreshments, even though he had been riding for quite some time and he had hardly eaten in the morning. His dishevelled appearance, the result of his recent restless state, made him more self-conscious than he had ever been, particularly since he found himself unable to pretend like he did in Hampton Court, where deceit was a necessary tool for survival. For some unexplainable reason, it felt wrong and insulting to pretend in front of the princess.
"Excellency" Lady Mary's voice, hesitant, made him lift his eyes from the roaring fire and turn them towards her. She looked uncertain, cautious, yet determined at the same time. She had offered him a seat next to him, in the most comfortable armchair he had ever encountered, and he realized with embarrassment that he had been close to dozing off. He straightened up almost immediately.
"Yes, my lady?" his attempt at a smile, as tired as he was, did little to reassure the princess, who carefully set her needlework down by a nearby table and folded her hands gently on her lap, looking at them for a while before lifting her gaze to his.
"I know it's usually me who comes to you with a problem, but I had hoped that you would find yourself comfortable enough with me to do the same, if there was ever the need"
Chapuys, taken aback by the princess's direct approach, turned again towards the fire, a denial on his lips before he could even realize it.
"I will certainly not force a confession out of you, Excellency, but I will ask you not to lie to me"
Lady's Mary's tone was at once reproachful and tender, understanding as it was chiding. A silence fell over the room and Eustace felt torn between the need to unburden himself and his knowledge that it was not his place to ask for comfort from the princess of England.
"You must understand, my Lady, that it is not my place to come to you with my problems"
"Yet it is your duty to hear mine? To comfort me? To wash the blood from my hands and the tears from my eyes when no one else would?" her voice sounded tremulous, and Chapuys hated himself for reminding her in any way to the death of her mother and her subsequent breakdown "I am sorry if I am making you uncomfortable with the mention of the night in the chapel, Excellency, but I could not let this meeting past without thanking you. You often go above and beyond your duty to your Master my cousin in order to visit me and keep me amused, and I've never even acknowledged you kindness, although I've always known you take upon yourself much more than your position demands from you, especially where it concerned my mother and me"
When Esutace chanced a look at her he saw she was staring at the fire as he had been a moment ago, struggling for the right words. After so much time alone, the princess seemed to have a problem connecting on a more personal level with another human being, and he was not making it any easier for her. Shame quickly overtook him.
"There is no need for gratitude, my Lady, I am happy to have been of assistance to you in any way" he took a deep breath and decided, for once, to allow himself a moment of weakness, knowing it would make the princess happy "To tell you the truth, my Lady, I find myself full of doubts. My position demands of me difficult choices, and lately I have made decisions that have gone against what my Catholic upbringing has ingrained in me. What makes me a good diplomat, seldom makes me a good Christian, I'm afraid"
"And you are questioning whether it is worth it to make such a sacrifice" she finished for him "To lose yourself in order to succeed in your endeavours"
"I've seen people, noble people, people I admire, hold onto their morals and their convictions against all odds. I've seen them untainted by courtly politics, able to keep clean hands and a clean conscience. And though I've always known that in order to do my job I could never be like that, I have found myself, as of late, envying them"
"I confess I remember little about life at court. I remember the kind Thomas More, who always used to complement me on my Latin, and Cardinal Wolsey, who used to look at everything and everyone with calculating eyes. I always marveled at the fact they were friends, yet as I grew up I came to realize they complemented each other in a strange way. Thomas More could afford to be so kind, and so moralistic, because Wolsey wasn't. He was a practical man, who sometimes had goodness in his mind, but was not averse to using questionable means to attain his goals. I believe in the end he lost sight of the goodness and it was his undoing. I think Sir Thomas saw that, for I caught him more than once gazing sadly at Cardinal Wolsey, as if looking for someone lost to him"
She paused and smiled sadly, lost in memories of a time gone by, where she had been the pearl of his father's eye and the centre of her mother's world.
"I know it is a bit forward of me to say so, but I believe I know you enough, Excellency, to be sure you will always strive for goodness, not your own, but that of those you admire or hold dear to you. You may dirty your hands from time to time, or struggle against your conscience but you will do it so other don't have to, without looking for rewards or acknowledgement. I find that to be very commendable"
"You are a being of extraordinary compassion and goodness, Lady Mary" this time Eustace smile was genuine, and it brought a peace to his face that erased the furrowed brow that had become a constant in his expression "I believe one day you shall be rewarded with great happiness for it"
"I must confess I sometimes doubt the existence of happiness, Excellency. It seems to me, at times, like some sort of childhood imaginary wonder, a sort of make believe I am now too old for" she paused, deep in thought "I know it is not very Christian of me to say so, but I cannot help the doubts that plague me from time to time. As you see, we all have our moments of weakness"
Tentatively the Ambassador brushed a hand against the princess's folded ones, a brief touch that served mostly to catch her attention.
"You will have the happiness you deserve one day, my Lady. I may doubt many things, but I've never doubted that God, in his infinite wisdom and love, would one day repay you for all your sufferings and your good heart. If not, then I do not know what to believe in anymore"
The princess smiled at him in a way that lit up her whole face, gratitude pouring out of her. Afterwards, seeing him rather drained, she moved to a more neutral topic, and they exchanged pleasantries for a while over dinner before he remarked upon the lateness of the hour and took his leave.
As he rode back to London, he felt somewhat invigorated, like he had felt often after visiting Queen Katherine during the earlier times of her banishment from court before she had gotten terribly sick and had always showered him with words of kindness and encouragement, a source of strength even amidst her wretched situation.
He knew he was getting too attached. He was unused to such feelings of fierce protectiveness towards another person. He had never entertained thoughts of marriage or of a family. He had never particularly liked children or animals, and there were even times when he could barely stand the people that surrounded him. His relationships were all mostly intellectual, his closest friends all men of education, wit and learning, though some warmer and more affectionate than others. Yet in the span of a few months two women, two amazing women, had managed to crawl under his skin and make him care. Catherine of Aragon had been the greatest Queen in Christendom, and her daughter Mary had the potential to outshine her. It was that potential he wished to guard, to treasure and nurture in any way he could.
For her, he thought, he would become like Cromwell, if it came to that. For her and for his Master, the two people that gave him hope in the survival and flourishing of the true Faith in Europe and beyond. He'd be the man in the mirror, he'd walk a fine line between righteousness and sin and never look back, never regret. He'd never be a Thomas More, he realized with a twinge of envy. He played the game of politics, he compromised his morals and his religious views for causes he believed in. Though he had been taught that nothing good could ever come from bad means, his experience had showed him otherwise. If it all came to that, so be it. He had come to realize the price was well worth it.
He had also realized he'd better make peace with Fleming before Rafael worried himself to death.