The time of a ruler

[gwenchan]

Personaggi: APH Inghilterra, Elisabetta I
Prompt: Fate
Additional tags: Historical figures
Rating: Teen and up audiences

“Do you have a wife, Sir Arthur?"

 

When England looks down, following the input given by the small hand tugging at his doublet, Elizabeth is staring back up at him. Her eyes are serious and the posture rigid in the elaborate gown Miss Champernowne made her wear today. Part of him still believes it's way too elaborate for a five years old kid, even if royalty

 

"I don't, actually" he replies, repressing the impulse to crouch to be at eye-level with the kid. She looks like her mother, he considers. Same face shape and same eyes. Elizabeth's hair is her father's however and her personality a strange clash of her parents.

 

"Why? Nanny Katherine told me a man needs a wife to be happy."

 

 

England stills, pursuing his lips in what he intends to be a thoughtful, maybe even a bit sad smile. She takes her by the hand and nods with gravity as they walk down the empty corridors of Hatfield palace.

 

“Maybe I still haven’t find the right person“ he concedes, setting aside for a moment that love and being compatible are rarely qualities deemed necessary in political unions.

 

 

 

"When I grow up, I could be your wife then“ Elizabeth considers after a moment, small alabaster forehead all wrinkled in concentration. "Would you like that?”

 

“I am certain you will be an exquisite companion.”

 

 

 

Elizabeth’s little hand is warm in his. Part of him even believes what he’s just said; If the blossom is ever an indication of the plant that'll grow, Elizabeth is bound to be a wonderful woman.

 

 

 

“However I am afraid it would be impossible.”

 

It’s cruel to shatter a kid dreams, but better do it at the start than leave someone to dwell in illusions until truth will be inevitably slammed in their face. The wrinkles deepen.

 

"Why?”

 

 

 

Little Elizabeth doesn't belong anymore in the royal court now and and members outside the king entourage, save for a few exception, are not meant to know about him. Even in case, she’s still a child, no matter how smart and precocious. Moreover, she may regain the title of princess one day and be destined to better matches.

 

 

 

“You must marry some of your status. I am not, I am afraid. I am but a humble servant.”

 

 

 

After that conversation, five whole months pass. England spend half of them away in foreign courts to maintain diplomatic relationships. The other half, he stays at Hampton Court, at least untile he can sustain Henry's gloomy mood after Jane's death. That's when he saddles the first horse and ride to visit little Elizabeth.

 

She's grabs his hand the instant he has jumped of his horse and practically drags him around, an iron grip, with Miss Champernowne with a couple of maids rushing after them, the complicate gowns limiting their movements.

 

Of course England could easily slip free. Instead he lets little Elizabeth to conduct him to the little private chapel in the palace.

 

 

Looking from above his shoulder, he glances apologetically at the maids, shaking a bit his head as to assure them that the kid is not bothering him. He actually loves the days when he can visit the kid. At home Henry's temperament is often insufferable, when it doesn't clashes with his own for disastrous effect; and poor Mary walks the corridor with the gloom that follows those who fell in disgrace once and are afraid their power will be stripped again from them.

 

Elizabeth's shenanigans, albeit rare if he has to be honest, are a blessing.

 

 

"Would milady explain to me what is this about?" England pants, face sweaty and checkered with the sun filtering from the glass-colored window that decorates the chapel.

 

"I believe it was obvious. I want to marry you" Elizabeth explains, hands on her hips. "Oh, right on time" she adds with gravity at the sound of footsteps. Now, on the threshold a chubby priest stands, his face reddened by the effort.

 

 

Not allowing him but a couple of steps inside the chapel, England grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside, ignoring for once Elizabeth's protests. A couple of words whispered in the ear, a quick discussion, the assurance it will only be a children game with no value whatsoever.

 

 

 

Only then, Englands nods. He doubts the priest will ever pull out the story of a pretend marriage between a kid and a member of the household, even if done with the proper formula as Elizabeth pretended.

 

She smiles, radiant and so, so young. 

 

She smiles less and less the following years, always so busy with the studies to which she dedicates herself body and soul. 

 

Looking at her now, almost nine years old, it's strange to believe that child ever existed

 

Because Elizabeth is in a bad mood today, an awful mood actually. Head buried into some kind of Latin poems she already read with the same facility she does with English, she answers all attempt at conversation with polite but cold monosyllables.

 

"You aren't wearing your ring this morning milady" England attempts again, his own attention captured by documents he need to revise before sunset.

 

 

“I won’t anymore. It was too small and frankly quite childish”

 

Elizabeth doesn’t even lift her head from the table, red curls held by a complicate headset. “Besides, marriages are foolish. I’ll never marry.”

 

 

 

And the last sentence has the tone of a conclusion. She's growing up, growing up so fast. 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow Elizabeth will be sixteen, nine years since she’s been allowed again into the royal court, most of her days spent in reading and studying more than the average woman - or man, do in a lifetime. Growing has only accentuated the sharpness she already had as a kid and England feels it's the time for some revelations. The King agreed, not without some fuss, and he himself would be a fool to believe Elizabeth won't discover things about his person, if she hasn't already.

 

 

"May I have a word, your highness?" he asks, lightly tapping on the door to have her attention. She always engaged in some reading, whether poems or philosophical or political treaties, and there's a certain grimace on her face for having being disturbed. Once Elizabeth doted on him like on an older brother. Now he's barely a servant who for some reasons can sit at the right of the King. 

"Will it take much?" 

"I would hope not."

 

Taking a seat without waiting for the princess's permission, England surely hopes to risolve the question swift and painless. She's a smart, open-minded woman. She will understand.

 

And understand she does, almost immediately submerging England with philosophical questions, his presence a blessing for her continuous thirst for knowledge. She asks him to read some poems in old English, which England does, though his pronunciation is still a bit rusty.

 

More often than not, instead, they talk about what will become of her. Though daughter of the king, she's only third in line and England has learnt better than to sugar coat things with the princess. 

 

"You'll probably marry a young and noble fellow" he tells her. "But one day you may as well be crowned Queen."

 

Given the alternatives, he dearly hopes for it. Hopes while seeing a teen, often bed-ridden Edward sitting on a throne he has no strength to control. Hopes while Mary's wedding with the king of Spain makes the whole country fear to lose freedom. 

 

Hopes as Elizabeth is crowned Queen that she'll bring if not prosperity at least some year of peace. He bows at her passage, as a servant is supposed to do.

 

“Don’t look at me like that," she says, instead, some time after the coronations. "I'm always the same."

 

She repeats the same sentence again in the following years, though not always in a light mood. Often her eyes are icy with the coldness that derives from conducting a kingdom. Her face is stern with reprimand, feather pen held white-knuckled between index and thumb and an abandoned plate of half-eaten vegetables next to her elbow.

 

“Like what?” England wonders.

 

“Like I’m still a child.”

 

“My apologies. I do not want to disrespect. I suppose I am just a nostalgic man, in the end.”

 

She will turn thirty years in a couple weeks, she's been Queen for already five, but the more he looks at her, the more he sees the kid that once pretended to marry him to make him smile. Sometimes he still expects to hear her cry in the middle of the night for a nightmare or to have to help her study.

 

 

He closes his fists, digging nails into the skin. Get a grip on yourself, he mutters. She’ll grow old and by the time he realizes it, she’ll already be dead, if sickness or attempts at her life doesn’t do the job first.

 

 

Sometimes, following Elizabeth from a short distance, a bundle of books and papers under his arm, England can feel the gazes of the courtiers on his person, as they pass by. He hear murmurations too.

 

 

 

He knows how in the various rooms of the palace, during the continuous chatting that delivers men from one day to the other, courtiers spread around the rumors he must be a bastard of the queen for how close she acts toward him and how she dotes on him. Other snicker at the sheer stupidity, cackling loudly and without shame so that can hear. They scream with drunken mouths about how the Queen must have good taste, to bed such a young, obedient fellow.

 

"Good taste? You must be out of your mind. Like, have you seen him?"

 

"I don’t even think she’s a good fuck, that frigid bitch "

 

 

A footman says to a fellowman, down the way to the palace kitchens.

 

 

Moments later his back hit the cold pavement, hard, as England’s pins him down with the whole strength of his nation. His head reels with anger as his fist connects with the footman’s nose, jaw and cheekbones. Short, erratic blows, in a litany of terrified pleads and “i’ll kill you, i’ll kill you, I'll kill you.”

 

 

There’s blood on the floor when a couple guards finally manages to drag him away from the fool footman, who’s just but a crying mess, his face all butchered

 

 

Blood on England’s hand and his tunic and his hair. Blood all over and his knuckles hurt. He feels lightheaded, letting the guards guide him to the throne room. 

 

 

Elizabeth is furious, livid, so much the red of her flushed angry cheeks peers from underneath all the layers of white lead. Her nails dig into the armrests of the throne, posture all rigid with power.

 

“Unacceptable. It’s unacceptable" she repeats, shaking her crowned head, not even looking at him. "I can expect a similar behavior from urchins on the streets. But you!" she goes on, filling each each word with all her disappointment.

 

 

It makes England realise. In one second, he realises it all. It feels like having the floor dragged from underneath his feet. She's treating him like a exasperated mother with a rebellious child. She's treating him like a Queen, not any different from all the Kings and Queens that came before him.

 

He doesn't like it.

 

When did it happen? When did the daughter become a mother? She was a child, smart, precocious, but still a child, doting on him like a sister does with an older brother. 

 

Of course, he has always knows all this was bound to change, how she would grow up, become a woman and get old, as he would instead stay the same, a strange creature trapped in between adolescence and maturity. 

 

"He had it coming" he forces his voice out, nails digging into his palms, trying his best to not act like apparently she's seeing him now. "He crossed the line."

"If we were to execute everyone to cross the line at the palace, we'll be executing half the court."

"Maybe we'd live better, then."

 

This she doesn't answer, just sinking imperceptibly into her throne and dismissing him with a wave of her hand, refusing to look at him until England gets the message and walks backwards toward the door, performing the stiffed bow he can manage. 

 

 

He leaves in the evening, taking his horse for the South, claiming some private business he needs to fix as soon as possible. He knows too well this will make Elizabeth even more furious. He doesn't care a bit. She may be the Queen, but he's the living Nation and he knows who will still be around in some years. 

 

 

 

 

The salty wind tangles his hair. England hasn't planned to set at sea after his impromptu escape from the court, but one thing led to the other and soon he found himself at the harbor where his ship lie in wait. It had been a gift from Elizabeth, belonging directly to him, not to the Queen, not to England the nation, but to Arthur Kirkland himself.

 

 

 

 

She's big enough to sustain a travel across the Atlantic, but yet quite small and manageable with an handful of faithful men, who have been sailing the oceans up and downs at his side for years. Some he has employed as sailors, and watched them climb to the top. They have by long learnt their Captain is not a simple human.

 

 

 

He doesn't need anymore a second-in-command to act as façade for his orders for men do not easily obey a boy who looks like seventeen and can't even grow a beard.

 

 

 

"Spanish ship at straighboard" the lookout announces. Soon a telescope is in England's hands, ready to be pointed to the face of the nation that has been rivaling at sea in the lasts ten years. Oh, how his blood boils at the idea of engaging in battle, finally a vent for all the anger and frustration that had been accumulating in his guts for years, really.

 

England's ship however is not prepared to sustain a direct attack with even only one ship of the Spanish fleet. England may be ruthless at sea, but he cares for his crew.

 

 

England puts away his telescope. Today must be Spai's  lucky day. Still, no one prevents him from still following Spain's ship for a while more, being attentive to stay at a safe distance. Then, he'll go to American lands and back if needed. 

 

 

 

He stays at sea for a couple years, the blink of an eye for the way his kind perceives times, keeping update with the court politics with the letters that seem to reach him even in the middle of the Ocean. Elizabeth demands by virtue of her power for his return to the palace, but she also knows too well his presence his also needed to keep the Spain fleet in check. It's a compromise she detests, as England can read in her missives, and has to accept nonetheless. 

 

She treats him with the cold shoulder for months when finally he sets back foot in the palace and it doesn't help he does it still dressed in his sailor garments, hair ruffled and dried for the sea wind, with a swagger he's welcomed to have with everyone, but the Queen. 

 

"Once you told me I could do as I pleased" he mutters one day, arms crossed over a pile of document he is supposed to revise for the his own sake. He's already missing the days at sea. He'd one hundred time exchange boring treaties and countless lies of supposed allies with  storms and weeks of bad wind. 

"That regarded your faith" Elizabeth reminds, not even looking up at him, her wrist moving at the rhythm of a new signature. "Do as you please within the boundaries of common sense."

"And who decided what's common sense?"

 

Rulers just keep changing and with them the set boundaries of what he is and is not supposed to do. First there was Henry and his decision to broke from the Church and England had agreed, because actually it was nice to not having to continuously listen to that old fart of Vatican. Then Mary came, poor and strict catholic Mary, and once again England had to reconsider his faith to not being killed by his own ruler. Freedom wasn't a luxury nations could have, after all.

 

With Elizabeth and her overall tolerance, it had been heaven, finally a moment of peace after years of civil war but the instant she dies, the moment the war will start again. 

 

"Besides," he continues "Common sense should dictate you find a suitor and provides the kingdom with an heir."

 

She doesn't need to speak to make him know he has done a terrible faux-pas. After a moment, however, she simply huffs. 

 

"Why do you always wear that ring?" she asks, nodding at the simple band England wear around his ring finger, so long he often forgets its there. She had once a twin ring, but it got lost with all his childhood. 

"It is just an old habit my Lady" England answers, absentmindedly brushing the metal of the ring with the pad of his thumb, waiting for Elizabeth to comment anything. When she does, it's not what he had expected. 

"A gift from a beloved?" 

 

It shouldn't be surprising, really, that she doesn't remember something happened so many years ago. In perspectives, it should be like pretending he knew the day by day routine of when he was still a toddler. It hurts nonetheless. Though it was only a joke, a kids game, it gave them some sort of complicity. 

It doesn't matter now. 

 

Not when there are more pressing subject, deciding an heir above all.

 

 

Suitors pass, arrive and go, but they never stays. "I belong to my people" Elizabeth often says. More often than not any discussions about heirs and marriages leave her in a terrible mood. It doesn't help she's recovering from smallpox.

 

"Do you realize what will happen when you die if you don't nominate an heir" England insists, pacing nervously around the room, still sleep deprived from the days when Elizabeth's illness was at its peak. The Lords of the Parliament has prayed him to try and make her reason. 

Of course he can try, but, as he reminded them, she's the Queen of England and so he must obey.

 

 

"Don't worry, I don't plan to die anytime soon," Elizabeth is tired from her convalescence, but there is still iron in her voice. 

"You will die, though" England mutters to himself. 

 

It has always been like this and that will be for the end of times. It's in moment like this, when his boss is walking on the edge of death, that England understands it the most, the Fate of his life now and forever. At the same time, he wants to trust his Queen a little bit more, trust the moment  of her - and his - demise is still far from coming. He bows, not knowing anymore what he is, if a father, a brother or a son.

 

"Fine. I'll leave you now."

 

As he's about to walk his way back to the door, Elizabeth calls him back. There's nothing sentimental in it, just the need to start revising some treaties that she was forced to ignore while sick. Yet, it's something.

 

He takes chair and takes a seat. ELizabeth's Fate is to rule and one day die, England's is to obey and survive, but for a while he can set the tought aside. He gathers some more papers. "Very well. I'm at your service, my Queen."