Oddments
Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke
Prompt #51: Middle
King Henry the Eighth paused momentarily to once again congratulate himself on his good fortune. He was absolutely marvelous, if he did say so himself, which he did – often. And now it was time for someone else to say it as well, namely Wolsey.
He raised a large hand to knock on the Cardinal's chamber door, in his haste to proclaim his success had forgone a servant to announce him; the Cardinal was properly humble before him, no formality of power needed. But before his perfect knuckles could lay sound to the fine wood of the palace door he was stopped by a voice. A female voice.
"Thomas – it's huge!" Henry knew Wolsey had two children by a woman named Joan, but that was long ago, he'd been sure that if Wolsey still kept her as a mistress it was for companionship and companionship alone. A groan told him he was very much mistaken. He lowered his hand, recoiling in disgust.
"I can't help it Joan." Wolsey replied, "It's not my fault." Henry took a step back from the door.
"It very well can be helped, Thomas, it's not natural, it's not healthy." Henry would never be able to look at his chief minister the same way again. His mouth fell open as a rustle of fabric, a mutter of 'hard as a rock', and a groan reached his regal ears.
"Ahhhh!" Thomas Wolsey raised his head from his folded arms.
"Did you hear something?"
"Don't change the subject." Joan said authoritatively, prodding an extremely tight knot with a not so gentle hand making him wince. She was perched on his hips as he lay face down on their bed his back bare so that her angelic hands could work their miracle on his tense back.
"How in heaven's name can you amass so much tension? I worked on your back just last week!"
"The usual way – insomnia, work, worry, court politics, church politics…" Joan pressed firmly on another knot making him swear.
"God's wounds woman!"
"You need to take better care of yourself Thomas." It was their favorite argument of late.
"You're not my mother Joan." He felt her lay atop him, her breasts pressing to his should blades, lips near his ear.
"No, but I love you."
