La Chasse (A Tudors fic) Ch.1: fait accompli
Title: La Chasse
Verse: BBC2/Showtime The Tudors
Pairings: Henry VIII/Thomas Cromwell
Genre: Alt. History
Rating: PG-13 at the beginning to NC-17 at the end
Word Count (in total): ~10.5K
Summary: A king never asks. He just takes.
AO3
[Notes and Disclaimer:
Set during the reign of Henry VIII, indirect aftermath of Anne Boleyn’s first miscarriage.
A kind of mash-up-verse of BBC2’s The Tudors and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. Basically, I borrowed some phrases from the book and softened the characterisations used in the TV show.
As far as physical appearance is concerned, however, the Henry and Thomas in this fic are the incarnations provided by the excellent Jonathon Rhys Meyers and the beautiful James Frain from the television series. Neither the show nor the book belongs to me. I greatly encourage you to watch & read both.
Also a disclaimer about historical accuracy: I took some liberties in changing people’s ages and ascent to certain offices, as well as in the interpretation of social/political context. To any historians out there - forgive me.
A birthday fic forepistolic, who saw me safe up into this fandom, whereby I shall now shift for myself coming down (to earth about my abilities in writing historical fiction). If any readers got that reference, you are awesome.]
Prologue: England, 1535.
It is one of those days when almost everything seems a distraction. The grandeur of the palace is dingy, artificial, in comparison to the butter-yellow sunlight on the gardens beyond the walls. He could hear women’s laughter from yonder, and the breeze that sweeps through the leaves, and in his mind’s eye he could see the scattering petals everywhere, landing in the porphyry fountain and making ripples in the reflected sky. It is always the same petals, always the same scudding clouds. It’s a scene he has seen again and again, every Spring since boyhood.
“- Your Majesty?”
Henry heaves a little jolt. The Lords of the Privy Council are all staring at him in consternation.
“Is Your Majesty feeling unwell? Shall I send for a physician?” Cromwell’s eyes, pale and sombre, glint at him. His eye-lashes are a dusty brown in natural light. Henry files this information away in his brain, for reasons he knows not what.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just - stuffy in this goddamned room,” he snaps, flustered.
But Cromwell is already opening the windows. The scent of the last of the bergamot drifts in, mixed with the smell of freshly-sprung grass and dew-soaked soil, and it’s like his entire body breathes a collective sigh.
“Thank you,” he says unconsciously, a little mortified, and not a little irritated that he is mortified.
The secretary inclines his head in acknowledgment, and turns around to address the rest of the Council, “Since His Majesty has now returned to us, shall we turn our attention to the next Bill upon the agenda -“
Cromwell has his back turned towards him. The loss of his attention is suddenly unbearable; Henry cannot condone those eyes fixing upon the doddering idiots of his Council, dismissing his presence as if he were merely a misbehaving school-boy.
Inexplicably, he is seized by the image of his own hand fisting in the dark curls and pulling violently, to see the muscles of that throat pulled taut. Something dark and irrefutable unfurls at the pit of his stomach. He wants to shatter the man’s composure and restraint; wants to utterly ruin the unflappability of his demeanour; wants to see that glib mouth speechless, gasping. And those eyes, those eyes, attending only to him.
He wants it the way he wanted to destroy Arthur’s prize for winning the joust between them; he wants it as he wants the first blood of a wild hunt. The yearning is in the tide of his breath and the marrow of this thoughts. It is wrong. It is perverse. It is all he can think of. He must have it.
Cromwell chooses to look towards the king the exact moment a grimace plasters itself over his face. The Master Secretary frowns. Nevertheless the passion recedes a little, and Henry realises his fists are clenched and his mouth dry. He wills himself into better control.
“Your Majes -“
Henry licks his lips; it’s more of a threat than a hint.
Cromwell stutters to halt, then swallows visibly, and clears his throat.
“Your Majesty,” his secretary says warily, “If I may, I have heard that sometimes, when one finds it difficult to apply oneself, it is beneficial to engage in some exercise. In the meantime there is very little to be gained by forcing oneself onto a task, when the mind is being... uncooperative.”
His hands, struggling to relax, twitch of their own accord, but he manages to force his expression to open. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Cromwell. Gentlemen, we shall adjourn our meeting until next week. Mr. Cromwell, I would have you stay behind. We have other matters to discuss in private.”
The Lords scrape their chairs on the floorboard as they bow and trundle towards the door.
“Mr. Cromwell.”
“Your Majesty?”
He is gratified to see Cromwell perspiring slightly. “May I address you - Thomas?”
Cromwell blinks and shuffles in his robes a little, his ruffled curls shifting with his bow. “As it pleases Your Majesty, Sir.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Do you love me, Thomas?”
He answers with unerring precision, as if he’s practised it to a mirror every morning, after his prayers. “Yes, Your Majesty. As your loyal and humble servant, wholeheartedly and without question. As I love England Herself.”
“Apparently,” Henry says slowly, grappling with the voice urging him to shove his secretary against a wall, “Since your appointment, you have anticipated my every wish, sometimes even before I am aware of them myself, and advanced them with every gesture.”
“Your Majesty is too kind. I have merely done my job to the best of my ability.” More formality. Oh, how he craves to break him.
“Tell me, Thomas. Would you submit to my every wish?”
“As a matter of course -“
“Even if it may compromise your own comfort?”
“Physical comfort means very little to me, Your Majesty. It is the comfort of the spirit that one such as myself yearns for.”
The king hums pensively, a bejewelled finger tracing his lips, shards of red from the rubies reflecting in his eyes. He could almost see the well-oiled contraptions of Cromwell’s mind churning, trying to gauge Henry’s purpose. This was new; the man was usually unsettling perceptive. Henry had expected him to be cognizant of his intention three questions into this conversation.
Thomas’ face is impassive as always, courteous, careful. But beneath that schooled expression there is a hint of unguarded bewilderment, like a girl being flattered by a man for the first time. No, the debrief can wait. This has potential be far better sport than that.
At last Henry smiles, all teeth. “Thank-you, Mr. Cromwell. I have detained you past dinner-time; you may leave now, and inform the groom to ready the horses in an hour.”
Thomas bows again, sweeps out the door, and almost walks bodily into a lady-in-waiting outside, apparently expecting the king’s audience.
“Sir, I’m sorry, sir,” he hears her stammer. Thomas gives her a curt nod and walks, robes billowing.
“What is it?” he pulls on his gloves, impatient for a ride.
The maid’s eyes are bright and her body tremulous. “It’s the Queen Anne, Your Majesty.”
He is only half attending to the woman’s speech; his mind is still fixed upon a dark and distant fantasy.
Then his world trembles.
Verse: BBC2/Showtime The Tudors
Pairings: Henry VIII/Thomas Cromwell
Genre: Alt. History
Rating: PG-13 at the beginning to NC-17 at the end
Word Count (in total): ~10.5K
Summary: A king never asks. He just takes.
AO3
[Notes and Disclaimer:
Set during the reign of Henry VIII, indirect aftermath of Anne Boleyn’s first miscarriage.
A kind of mash-up-verse of BBC2’s The Tudors and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. Basically, I borrowed some phrases from the book and softened the characterisations used in the TV show.
As far as physical appearance is concerned, however, the Henry and Thomas in this fic are the incarnations provided by the excellent Jonathon Rhys Meyers and the beautiful James Frain from the television series. Neither the show nor the book belongs to me. I greatly encourage you to watch & read both.
Also a disclaimer about historical accuracy: I took some liberties in changing people’s ages and ascent to certain offices, as well as in the interpretation of social/political context. To any historians out there - forgive me.
A birthday fic forepistolic, who saw me safe up into this fandom, whereby I shall now shift for myself coming down (to earth about my abilities in writing historical fiction). If any readers got that reference, you are awesome.]
Prologue: England, 1535.
It is one of those days when almost everything seems a distraction. The grandeur of the palace is dingy, artificial, in comparison to the butter-yellow sunlight on the gardens beyond the walls. He could hear women’s laughter from yonder, and the breeze that sweeps through the leaves, and in his mind’s eye he could see the scattering petals everywhere, landing in the porphyry fountain and making ripples in the reflected sky. It is always the same petals, always the same scudding clouds. It’s a scene he has seen again and again, every Spring since boyhood.
“- Your Majesty?”
Henry heaves a little jolt. The Lords of the Privy Council are all staring at him in consternation.
“Is Your Majesty feeling unwell? Shall I send for a physician?” Cromwell’s eyes, pale and sombre, glint at him. His eye-lashes are a dusty brown in natural light. Henry files this information away in his brain, for reasons he knows not what.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just - stuffy in this goddamned room,” he snaps, flustered.
But Cromwell is already opening the windows. The scent of the last of the bergamot drifts in, mixed with the smell of freshly-sprung grass and dew-soaked soil, and it’s like his entire body breathes a collective sigh.
“Thank you,” he says unconsciously, a little mortified, and not a little irritated that he is mortified.
The secretary inclines his head in acknowledgment, and turns around to address the rest of the Council, “Since His Majesty has now returned to us, shall we turn our attention to the next Bill upon the agenda -“
Cromwell has his back turned towards him. The loss of his attention is suddenly unbearable; Henry cannot condone those eyes fixing upon the doddering idiots of his Council, dismissing his presence as if he were merely a misbehaving school-boy.
Inexplicably, he is seized by the image of his own hand fisting in the dark curls and pulling violently, to see the muscles of that throat pulled taut. Something dark and irrefutable unfurls at the pit of his stomach. He wants to shatter the man’s composure and restraint; wants to utterly ruin the unflappability of his demeanour; wants to see that glib mouth speechless, gasping. And those eyes, those eyes, attending only to him.
He wants it the way he wanted to destroy Arthur’s prize for winning the joust between them; he wants it as he wants the first blood of a wild hunt. The yearning is in the tide of his breath and the marrow of this thoughts. It is wrong. It is perverse. It is all he can think of. He must have it.
Cromwell chooses to look towards the king the exact moment a grimace plasters itself over his face. The Master Secretary frowns. Nevertheless the passion recedes a little, and Henry realises his fists are clenched and his mouth dry. He wills himself into better control.
“Your Majes -“
Henry licks his lips; it’s more of a threat than a hint.
Cromwell stutters to halt, then swallows visibly, and clears his throat.
“Your Majesty,” his secretary says warily, “If I may, I have heard that sometimes, when one finds it difficult to apply oneself, it is beneficial to engage in some exercise. In the meantime there is very little to be gained by forcing oneself onto a task, when the mind is being... uncooperative.”
His hands, struggling to relax, twitch of their own accord, but he manages to force his expression to open. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Cromwell. Gentlemen, we shall adjourn our meeting until next week. Mr. Cromwell, I would have you stay behind. We have other matters to discuss in private.”
The Lords scrape their chairs on the floorboard as they bow and trundle towards the door.
“Mr. Cromwell.”
“Your Majesty?”
He is gratified to see Cromwell perspiring slightly. “May I address you - Thomas?”
Cromwell blinks and shuffles in his robes a little, his ruffled curls shifting with his bow. “As it pleases Your Majesty, Sir.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Do you love me, Thomas?”
He answers with unerring precision, as if he’s practised it to a mirror every morning, after his prayers. “Yes, Your Majesty. As your loyal and humble servant, wholeheartedly and without question. As I love England Herself.”
“Apparently,” Henry says slowly, grappling with the voice urging him to shove his secretary against a wall, “Since your appointment, you have anticipated my every wish, sometimes even before I am aware of them myself, and advanced them with every gesture.”
“Your Majesty is too kind. I have merely done my job to the best of my ability.” More formality. Oh, how he craves to break him.
“Tell me, Thomas. Would you submit to my every wish?”
“As a matter of course -“
“Even if it may compromise your own comfort?”
“Physical comfort means very little to me, Your Majesty. It is the comfort of the spirit that one such as myself yearns for.”
The king hums pensively, a bejewelled finger tracing his lips, shards of red from the rubies reflecting in his eyes. He could almost see the well-oiled contraptions of Cromwell’s mind churning, trying to gauge Henry’s purpose. This was new; the man was usually unsettling perceptive. Henry had expected him to be cognizant of his intention three questions into this conversation.
Thomas’ face is impassive as always, courteous, careful. But beneath that schooled expression there is a hint of unguarded bewilderment, like a girl being flattered by a man for the first time. No, the debrief can wait. This has potential be far better sport than that.
At last Henry smiles, all teeth. “Thank-you, Mr. Cromwell. I have detained you past dinner-time; you may leave now, and inform the groom to ready the horses in an hour.”
Thomas bows again, sweeps out the door, and almost walks bodily into a lady-in-waiting outside, apparently expecting the king’s audience.
“Sir, I’m sorry, sir,” he hears her stammer. Thomas gives her a curt nod and walks, robes billowing.
“What is it?” he pulls on his gloves, impatient for a ride.
The maid’s eyes are bright and her body tremulous. “It’s the Queen Anne, Your Majesty.”
He is only half attending to the woman’s speech; his mind is still fixed upon a dark and distant fantasy.
Then his world trembles.