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'tis the season; francesca de medici
Topic Started: Nov 2 2010, 07:49 PM (282 Views)
George Boleyn
Unregistered

December 25, night time

George Boleyn felt as though his once perfect life was slipping slowly through his fingers. He was unable to stop it as it dripped past him. He was losing everything, or so it felt, to fate as he experienced one misfortune after the other. First, he was betrothed then unhappily wed to the cruel and unpleasant Jane Parker. Then, his youngest cousin was to be made a duchess while George was a lowly knight. Now, his mistress, and the current love of his life, was infuriated with him as a result of his miserable wife.

For George, losing never sat well with him. He was a winner, born and raised to come out ahead no matter what. He was a man of Howard lineage, with the backing of the powerful Duke of Norfolk. He was close friends with William Parr and Henry Percy, both wealthy, titled nobles. George had women falling at his feet, dying for a chance at his bed. His looks, wit and charm were famed throughout England, and he was a favorite of the King himself. George was always used to the dice falling in his favor.

As the courtiers danced in their red and green gowns, laughing effortlessly and flirting openly, George felt a heavy wave of nausea overcome him. The merry scene was too much for him. The reds and greens suffocated him, with the fair bodies intertwining. He was no longer a flush faced courtier, pleasant with his rising star. He was a man, a married man who had had enough of England and the selfish citizens that waited on a single man who never had to work a day in his life.

George fled through the doors, exiting the Great Hall into the empty, dimly lit corridors of Hampton Court. He took a deep breath once free from the lavish scene. Normally, George lived for occasions such as this. However, this Christmas was anything but merry. George was miserable, despite the fine suit of red he wore and the smiles that greeted him. Magdalen's anger had controlled him. He was unable to enjoy the night knowing that she would not be coming to his room tonight once the festivities ended.

George felt like screaming at the top of his lungs, desperate to release the anger he felt at how his life was turning upside down. He was losing control. He had let Magdalen Dacre and Jane Parker-no Jane Boleyn- strip him of his manhood. Women were temptresses steering him away from his purpose in life: to live life for himself. George had lost sight of it, but now experiencing the wrath of women and how quickly they could turn, he remembered he was a man, and not the play thing for a lesser gender.

Yes, George remembered who he was now. He was Sir Boleyn, the playboy of court. Neither marriage nor Magdalen Dacre could prevent him from realizing his potential. He was not a man tied down by woman. George Boleyn was a force to be reckoned with, the man who had claimed the hearts of many women, and who would live to claim more. His epiphany was interrupted by the sound of footsteps emerging in the corridor. "Who's there?" George called, slightly annoyed someone would have the audacity to interrupt him during his private moment.
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Francesca de' Medici
Unregistered

Weaving in and out of the rows of columns, the happy evergreens decorated along the corridors of the palace, the Queen made her way down the hall, carelessly holding a goblet of wine in one hand, the other hand outstretched. Merry from the wine, Queen Francesca spun around, her long hair falling out of the gold filigree headpiece that rested so precarious on her head. Even from far, the wickedly abandoned laughter of the Queen could be heard, almost echoing across the hallway.

Her mind was abandoned for enthusiastic rejoicing, the decrepit recesses of fear covered by the warmth of the Corsican liquid. Followed by a train of her Italian ladies, all tipsy from drinks, Francesca led the group in joyous celebration, a rush of woodland nymphs, all darker, more sultry than the godfearing English ladies. They seemed no more like children than true women, giggling amongst themselves, creating mischief around the court.

However, Francesca kept her station in the far corners of her mind, always reaching out with a restricting hand on lewd behaviour. Whatever Francesca was doing, it was never over the line of propriety. She may push the line, bend it slightly, but it never broke.

As she saw a courtier at the hall, Francesca straightened and the laughter quieted. Slowly, in the sombre procession so suited for a Queen, although the hint of wine still clung onto the cheeks of her ladies, Francesca made her way over, surprised that a courtier would be out of the celebrations but in the corridors, and especially alone. She had seen many leave with ladies of the court, ladies she had made sure did not serve her, but a courtier alone was suspicious, and Francesca’s curiosity was piqued. Slowly, she walked over, the regal bearing of her train slightly marred by the tousled hair and sparkling eyes.

It seemed that the courtier had heard her first. Taken aback slightly by the demand, Francesca’s wine-muddled mind not quite comprehending the situation, Francesca’s reply was severe in tone, ”Your Queen.” She circled to face the courtier and was surprised to find George. ”Sir George.”

Of course she would remember him, the man that she flirted licentiously with before her marriage. She had made sure of course, that he would remember her, if not solely for the reason that she had taken his stocking, running down the hall with it hidden in the folds of her skirt. It now served as a reminder of a freedom she now lost, a freedom that only mulled wine and heavy laughter could replace. It was a freedom she longed for.

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George Boleyn
Unregistered

The intruder was the Queen of England, Francesca de' Medici. He was ashamed at how rudely he had spoken to her. He was in no position to call out to a stranger so harshly. He was only a courtier with average wealth and exceptional charm, but none of that was enough to excuse his rudeness. For that brief moment he had forgotten he was a courtier, and it had earned him the cold tone of the Queen herself. He bowed low, hoping to hide the red tinge in his cheeks that marked his embarrassment. "Your Majesty," George addressed the young Queen. "Forgive me, I was lost in thought for a moment," he apologized.

The Queen herself looked slightly disheveled, but beautiful as always. Her dark hair had a messy quality that suited her, complimenting her youth and vitality. Since her marriage to the King George had hardly looked at the Queen, let alone spoken to her. He was too embarrassed of an encounter they had once had this past Summer involving wine, the promise of gambling and heavy flirtation. It had ended with George half naked, with his hose being stolen by the young Italian woman.

Had he known she would have been Queen a few months later, George would have made sure to avoid her that night. Ever since then, a desire had welled up inside of him for her. She was a woman he had never got a chance to sample. Her allure and foreign charm had left him amazed. She had been a mystery then, but now she was his Queen. Thinking back on that day he remembered the things he would have done had she not run away from the table. Things that could have gotten him arrested.

Putting on his courtier smile, George recovered from his initial embarrassment and remembered his job at court. He was a plaything for the King and Queen. Trained to entertain, amuse and remain loyal to the royal couple. "Your Majesty, why are you not out there dancing with your ladies?" George smiled a bit as he asked her, curious as to why the belle of the ball was away from the wine, music and laughter of Christmas.

"You should be out there with your subjects, dancing and enjoying all there is tonight. In that dress you should be out there being admired by all of court," George complimented slowly. Perhaps he was being too bold, but he could not deny telling her how stunning she looked in her gown. He was a flirtatious man, even if it was not always wise to be. He was reminded of her spirit, a spirit he had personally witnessed a few months ago. He could never have pictured her as Queen. Yet, that was the way God worked, always in mysterious ways. Ways that always seemed to deny George, instead torturing him by presenting him with an untouchable beauty.
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Francesca de' Medici
Unregistered

Even from remembering what she so brazenly had done the night that she met George, Francesca could tell that George was one of her. Not one of these high born blue blooded English lords, but a man who made his way into the world on the basis of sheer talent and therefore could rise or fall depending on his own decisions. The fact that he had obtained a knighthood, that he was one of the King’s great friends, was something that spoke for itself in the Francesca’s eyes to his talent. It was also helpful that George was one of the handsomest men in England. His dark looks matched with his magnanimous smile quickened something that was long lost in Francesca’s heart. Especially now, half drunk on wine, Francesca felt herself increasingly drawn to the brooding courtier who could so easily summon the easy charm he commanded the first day they had met. She wanted him in her company instead of her husband’s. She wanted him to stay with her.

A smile then appeared on Francesca’s face, indicating that whatever it was, George was forgiven. How could she not forgive the young pretty man who was the one Englishman she was drawn to. Francesca refused to believe that she was a moth to his flame. She would not become one. It was dangerous to stray too close to the flame, but she wanted to control it. ”May I exchange a penny for your thoughts, George?” She asked in jest, now the regal gravitas stripped away to reveal the half-drunk playful woman underneath, the woman who loved to live and threw herself in everything with wicked abandon.

It was absurd that Francesca had still held his hose. She should perhaps return it one day, lest her husband saw it and wondered, but Francesca knew that she would not. It was a piece of him that was bound to Francesca, as much as symbolism amused her. ”I am tired of endless dancing, George. Will you not entertain your Queen?” She asked, grinning mischievously at the double entendre. While she knew perhaps in the far corners of her mind that she was entering dangerous spheres, Francesca also knew that light courtly flirtation was expected of such courts. No one would reprimand her for her witty words. Her ladies were with her, and although her Italian ladies were not trusted by the English court, she knew that they would provide a barrier for her from the scrutiny of those English nobles that wanted her downfall.

”I could also ask you why you are not in the ballroom admiring your Queen. Are you not my loyal subject, George?” Her light-hearted manner told George that it was not a dangerous test, but a little jest at his expense. They had traded wit when they had met, and Francesca had been free to love then. Perhaps not as free as many other ladies but indeed free enough to flirt openly. Now everything she said had to be cloaked in words of pretty wit, light repartee between a Queen and her subject instead of between a woman and man. Although she detested the limitation, she found it amusing to incense the with of George. If he was truly as skilled as Francesca suspected him of being, then he would prove it to her.
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George Boleyn
Unregistered

George suspected the Queen had a sip too many of the expensive wine provided. However, he said nothing, slightly amused with her red cheeks and familiarity with him. She had dropped the protocol and routine that went along with her title. It seemed as if they were simply a man and a woman engaging in friendly conversation, as opposed to Queen and subject. The effects of wine and dancing on a woman were always amusing to George. He had claimed many victims due to the little inhibitions one had while under the influence of those things.

"My thoughts are far too grim to share," George explained. His face formed a sad smile which was not recognized by most. It seemed as if George Boleyn was unable to have the anguish, pain and depression that others were allowed. He was designed for their amusement. George was trained to make others laugh, as well as provide witty conversation to anyone of mild importance. For ambitious young men like him, sadness was a rare emotion. There was little room for it, yet these days it seemed to occupy his every thought. He could not help but pity his life and the way it had shaped itself. His wife despised him and had yet to show any signs of being with child, the woman he had thought he loved was infuriated with him, and his family still saw him as nothing more than wasted space. How could he share such dark, pitiful things with a bright, vivacious Queen?

George's blue eyes gazed at the young monarch, who seemed a bit flirtatious. Perhaps he was imagining it, George thought to himself. He was arrogant and proud, naturally he would believe the Queen to be flirting with him. However, intuition told George that there was something more beneath her desire for him to entertain her. It was dangerous to be playing such games, especially when the Queen seemed to be intoxicated. George was always wise when it came to such situations. He always knew what would allow him to keep his head, and what would get it lobbed off. Still, there was something to her beautiful face that George could not allow himself to pass over. She seemed so innocent, yet mischievous. Such contradictions enticed George.

He smiled at her boldly. "I am the most loyal, Your Majesty. Which is why I have come out here. I would not wish to bring down your mood with the somber tale of a poor Boleyn. I think your merriness is contagious, however, for I feel you have brightened my mood," he laughed kindly. He was being too forward, and yet he did not think it wrong. Alone in this hallway the lines between a Knight and his Queen seemed blurred.
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Francesca de' Medici
Unregistered

Laughing at the idea that this merry man had any grim thoughts at all, Francesca only presented a front. She too thought things that could wrack her soul with abject misery if she was left alone. She never let those thoughts over take her and instead pushed them away to act as she ever was, the Queen of England, the Medici of Florence and the daughter of the Pope. George Boleyn was also born under this burden, to never show his fears, his miseries, his thoughts, to never have anyone to share them with but himself and to dwell in the darkness of his own misgivings. Francesca’s heart wrung out in pity for him, but on the surface, she laughed still.

If George suspected Francesca of being drunk, then Francesca suspected George of being too sober. Turning to her ladies, she commanded one of them to bring George a goblet of wine. Instead of one, her lady brought two, and Francesca took one of them and took a sip, perhaps ill judged on her part, but she had been sober for too long since her marriage.

”Nonsense, Sir George! You are not allowed to be grim during Christmas. Your Queen simply won’t allow you.” With that, she reached out for his hand, giggling, and drew him up. ”Dance with me. I command you.” The wafting music of the court could be heard even in the corridor as a lively galliard was starting and the voices dimmed in anticipation of the dance. Francesca moved into position opposite George, breaking perhaps every protocol in the book to cheer George up. She did not care if George was touching a person anointed by God. To Francesca, she was still human, and subject to human desires. What harm did it do to cheer a friend or friend-to-be at the Christmas season?

”Know you the steps? I’m told that you are a wondrous dancer by Lady Warwick, but yet perhaps I should find out for myself.” She challenged, stepping up to him to begin the first move of the dance as her ladies hushed into a silence, perhaps horrified or amused by the antics of their Queen. Surely, if His Majesty chanced by this corridor then all hell would perhaps break out, but Francesca didn’t think about the consequences, not tonight. Whether this was influenced by Christmas cheer or by wine she did not care to know. All she wanted was to have fun with this handsome man whose hose she had claimed as hers.
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George Boleyn
Unregistered

George Boleyn was a daring man. His antics with the opposite sex were quite known, and often the subject of gossip at court. However, this display by the Queen threw him off guard. She was married to his sovereign and ruler, the very King he had pledged his loyalty to. Still, he could not bring himself to back away from her. The sensible half warned him to steer clear of the danger such behavior would invite, but the lustful side, the side that dominated him, insisted he remain and enjoy a glass of wine.

George accepted the drink with a smile from one of her ladies. They were close to Francesca, as he had seen. They hardly strayed from her side and talked in elegant Italian. The Queen was a lucky woman to have such friends by her side. They were all a group of foreigners attempting to navigate their way through court. To have allies was a rare gift. George himself had few friends he could trust. The men he thought he had by his side always ended up betraying him. Andrew Dudley was a prime example of this treachery among courtiers. The simple reminder of the man brought George to finish his glass of wine in three gulps.

The music filled the hall they stood in. He knew the dance well, as he knew all dances at court. He was almost relieved that she demanded he dance with her, as if the pressure of resisting a dance was too much for him. He smiled in her direction. "I'm glad Lady Warwick holds my dancing in such high esteem,' he laughed, stepping closer to the young Queen. Gently, he cupped her hands in his, and placed his hands on her back properly. He lead her as they began dancing in the hall. Their only witnesses were her ladies, aside from that they were alone, away from the judgmental eyes of the court which seemed to restrict them both.

"I must say, you put my skills to shame Your Majesty," George complimented. "You are a marvelous dancer. I am glad I have the pleasure of dancing with you, especially away from the eyes of the vultures." He knew she could easily guess whom he was referring to. It was no surprise how cruel and critical the courtiers were. Should they happen to see George and Francesca dancing they would immediately make a scandal of it. Worse yet, they would probably tell the King, whose rage had no limits.

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Queen Francesca de' Medici
Unregistered

Throwing her head back, she laughed, although Francesca’s smile turned wistful. ”Oh George, you flatter me.” She said, lowering her voice to a saccharine whisper. ”We are away from the vultures now. Why do you not speak to me as we did when we met? Has so much changed?” She did not miss a step of the dance, but as soon as the music sped up, Francesca stopped adhering to the simple dance at all and began her own steps, challenging George to match her creativity with his own innovation. It was a Catalan dance she had learned from the court of the Borgias at an early age, and now she remembered it for its raw passion. The coldness of the English winter was forgotten for the beaches of Spain, and the fires flickering in torches around them became the golden sands of Italy. Francesca lost herself in the movements, fluid and graceful.

And then she fell forward.

It was not because of her gracelessness, but rather because of a stone set in the corridor that was not levelled with the rest, perhaps a recent work, or designed to hide a secret. Perhaps Francesca willed herself to fall forward. Perhaps some part of her wanted to know what it would be like to press her body against that of the handsome George Boleyn. She didn’t know. It was not something Francesca would put much thought into. The Queen lost her footing and rather collapsed onto the Knight. The very picture of chivalry, excepting that it was a dangerous game they were playing. Saint George was not slaying the dragon. There was nothing saintly in the way Francesca felt the desire radiating off George to match her own. Quickly, she blushed and straightened up, attempting to assume her regal posture again. ”Well, Sir George, you have saved me from a serious mishap. You should be rewarded.”

Only then did she notice that the song was over and the music had stopped. She decided to tease him. ”You may choose a reward.” She offered confidently, now standing before him as a Queen again. Francesca had no intention of playing Queen and Subject for long in front of him. She much preferred being equals. Knowing how furtive that desire was, Francesca switched back and forth, playing his heart and hers, not quite ever knowing what she will become next.

”I can be a genie and grant you three wishes for your services.” She grinned at him mischievously, ”Three of your deepest desires.” Perhaps pushing the boundaries of courtly flirtation, Francesca’s expression had the effect of a Cheshire cat grin.
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George Boleyn
Unregistered

As the music sped up, George could tell Francesca was working her own steps into the dance. He smiled, grateful for the change of pace. He followed her lead, keeping time with her foreign dance. "You are Queen now, everything has changed," George commented. He remembered that Summer night so vividly. The grins, the flirtations, the comments; all of it piled up in his head and flooded his memory now as they danced her strange dance. She had been a potential conquest then, nothing more than a future romp in the bed. Yet, she defied the usual pattern and ran from him, stealing his hose. Since that day the memory of her enchanted him. He had been so determined to see more of her. Then, she became Queen and those thoughts had ended, replaced by images of other women who frequented his chambers. Now, dancing in the dimly lit corridors, his desire for her welled inside of him. He longed to do what he had been unable to do that night, what she had denied him of.

Without warning she stopped, and tripped into him. She fell into him rather smoothly. She was pressed against him, and George resisted the temptation to take her into his arms. She was his Queen, and he was her knight. They could be nothing more than ruler and subject, yet their time together was defying those set rules. The lines were blurred, the desire was quietly building up. Soon it would erupt and swallow them whole. "And what shall this reward consist of?" he said with a gracious laugh. Immediately he watched her regain composure, putting on the Queenly act once more.

Three wishes.

The idea was almost too much for him to bear. Three of his deepest desires to be granted by her. Dare he speak his deepest desires? Dare he voice what his wishes were? Even George was not that brave. For at this moment he desired nothing more than to carry her to his rooms and explore her magnificent youthful body. She was young, beautiful and flirtatious. In this corridor they could have stood as any other man or women; but, they were Queen and subject. They were not meant to interact beyond courtly phrases of affection. To express his wishes was treasonous. It went against everything he was taught.

George eyed the young Queen and delivered a sad smile. "I dare not voice my desires, Your Majesty," George admitted. Even that was too much to say. One could easily deduce the meaning of his words. It was not hard to see the attraction between the two. They were both young and beautiful, both youthful and filled with vitality. George was a man in the prime of his life, and she was a woman just beginning to cross the thresholds of adulthood. And yet, she was so wise for her age. She knew the games of court as if they were the back of her hand. "I should be going," George said quietly, though he did not bother to move from his position. Some unspeakable force rooted him to the ground. He could not step away from her, and he wished he could take back his words.
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