A single event. A feast that called together all important persons of loyalty to the new queen. It was suppose to be a celebration of sorts, one that honor Queen Anne of Britain and Scots. Yet the queen couldn't help but feel it was more of her own personal battle ground. Her husband was a only four weeks passed and the air was thick with unrest. Now not only were her subjects divided in religion, but they were also divided in certainty. Should they trust her? She was a woman after all, merely the wife to their former king, a young and handsome hero who had died for his country.

Oh, what did they know? Their king had been no great hero. Anne knew her former husband inside and out, as her father and uncle had trained her to seduce and wed him. She knew all his secrets, all his lies, all his flaws, and he had most certainly not been any great hero. More like a cowardly child with a taste for sin and fame. And he had been a danger. Her had been falling out of love with her, or lust rather, for quiet a while. It had been quiet a relief when news of his passing had come. Relief in that it had been his head rolling and not hers. She knew her husbands taste for her blood had seemed oddly increased in their last moments together.

A witch, they called her. A seductive witch. The dark hair queen sat on her throne biting her thumb and glaring at the pale stone that seemed to cage in the musty darkness of the vast hall. She was newly out of her black mourning clothes, a washed in a brilliant and lush red, as if to flaunt her cheat of death. Yes, it was good he had died. He would of killed her, she just knew it. Her black hair was now in cascading tresses over her shoulders, a sign of youthful maidenhood, even for her widowed state. Some might call her flashy and bold, but she enjoyed presenting herself in certain ways. She wanted to show these venomous blue-bloods just how strong she really was. She didn't have to hide from them any longer! She was Anne and she was strong! Stronger than they'd ever know.

Her piercing eyes flashed up at the approaching servant. The vast hall was well lit and decorated in vibrant reds and golds. Colors of power. Her power. She straightened her back and looked down at him with a slight smirk. The servant was noticeably uncomfortable. Anne gripped the arms of her throne and stood. Standing regally above him with her hands folded over one another, the robe of a queen draped over her shoulders even though she wore the crown of a king, she smiled her bewitching smile.
"Everything seems to be readied smoothly, so why are you fidgeting?" she asked in her warm sultry way, her eyes gleaming with interest.

"N-Nobles have started to arrive and the roast is not nearly finished," the servant stumbled over his words, shifting from one foot to another.

"Then have the kitchen staff present other delicacy," she waved him off, muttering under her breath, "As if anyone will be attending for the food anyway." With a sweep of her arm, her robe flung behind her, the queen moved with a grace and poise of any natural creature of great power. But like any beautiful rose, she hid the throne of immense pain. Pursing her red lips in a smile, she entered the waiting hall. The murmur of the crowd silenced when she stood, looking down at them even though she was rather petite in height. Yet she held this presence, something was great warmth and elegance laced with an untold power. Like a predator awaiting the hunters. Her white teeth flashed in the candle light.

"We are pleased you all have joined us in this celebratory occasion," she gestured to the Great Hall, speaking in third person as royalty usually did when addressing a crowd, "Let us celebrate on this night to wash away our past sorrows and usher in a new and joyous beginning! We welcome our friends with the highest and warmest of hearts. Let us feast!" And with her short cheerful speech she turned on her heel and led in the arriving nobles who funneled into the Great Hall with excited murmurs. Many had taken to mourning clothes in the honor of their king.

This was to be the first joyous event since His Highness was laid to rest and Queen Anne had been named all ruler. Many nobles of the Court had become a bit antsy and welcomed the event, even if they protested to her being on the throne. It would be an interesting event indeed, even with the numerous dancers and jugglers and contortionists. Though usual Anne delighted in these things, she wasn't quiet in the most festive of moods. But she sat on the throne, accepting greeting and small conversations with gracious smiles and only slight attention to her hand maidens. It was a boisterous occasion indeed and many seemed to already be enjoying themselves.

Her fingers traced over the letters, she sighed as she looked to the miniature. Her beloved Thomas Culpepper, the man she had hoped to spend her life with and bare children too, gone. The King, who himself had become infatuated with Catherine, had stolen the Courtier along in his personal entourage in the campaign in France, and Thomas had died along with his Majesty. The news had crushed her and she adorned herself in black ever since. Of course, everyone believed the Queens cousin to be in mourning for the King, but it was more personal. Catherine opened the drawer of the table and placed the letters inside, but not before pressing them to her lips. Pushing the drawer closed, Catherine stood and turned to her ladies who held a black gown up. “I think today… the blue” She said, and that infectious smile spread itself across her porcelain face. The ladies smiled and applauded, happy to have their old Mistress back. They rushed forwards to dress her in the periwinkle blue gown with ivory embroidery and beading, a colour that matched her colourings so well.

She left the rooms she occupied at Court, having not returned to her own residence, and walked down to the large halls. Catherine had been made Duchess of Cambridge, lands bestowed on her by the King. She had also been given rights to lands in Norfolk, a gift her uncle strongly disliked. She still found it so odd to think herself a Duchess, she had not long been at Court, and now had gifts, land and a Duchy, simply because the King took a fancy to her and strived to make her his, and because she was a cousin to the Queen, a member of the family who was yet to bring shame against the Howards. Hadn’t George Boelyn been rumoured to lay with Mark Smeaton? The Queens favoured musician? And dear Mary, a rumoured bastard child and ridden by Kings, both English and French. There was a lot of scandal around the Boleyn and Howard name, but the families were powerful enough to rise above it.

She walked down accompanied by her retinue of Ladies, her golden hair in curls beneath the small, fashioned French hood at the back of her head. She looked her finest and had her smile upon her face, and she neared the halls she inclined her head. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Cambridge” Called the male and Catherine entered the already noisy hall. She made straight for her cousin and she paused before the royal table. “Your majesty” Catherine said in her crystal tone, lowering down into a courtesy. “Cousin” She added as she straightened up. “I offer sincerest gratitude to you, for allowing my extended stay at Court” She said to her cousin as someone offered her a cup of wine. She raised the cup to the queen and took a sip before moving away. She would not dine at the royal table; she had little appetite as it was, but preferred to be at a more social stand point. She drank deeply from her cup as she spoke with her ladies, laughing and observing the men within the hall. Another cup was handed to her and she sipped from it, before the ladies turned giggling.

“Your Grace” came a voice, and Catherine turned and her fingers moved to wipe away the wine that spilled from her lips. A silky broken French voice had purred to her, and she smiled to the courtier. He offered his hand as music began and Catherine giggled and gave her cup to one of her ladies.
“My lord” she said placing her hand into his palm and followed him to the centre of the room. She stood opposite him and into his handsome features and she curtseyed as he bowed, before walking forwards and twirling round him. The dull ache of losing her precious Culpepper still throbbed in her chest, but as she slipped into the merry court life, and the happiness that dance gave her, the ache subdued. She placed her thin hand upon his shoulder as he placed his on hers. They stepped forwards and then back, side and then to the other, moving as the dance called for it. In a swirl of curls and skirts, she spun around, being the accomplished and fluid dancer, many had stood and clapped their hands to the dance.

"Non, je ne veux pas l'autre." He said with a calm voice as he inspected his clothing in the mirror. He never really liked the life of a courtier much, and fancy clothing never interested him beyond being able to mingle with his fellow nobles in them. Inspecting his rather simple blue clothing for any irregularities before putting on a black overcloth signifying his grief for the fallen King Henry VIII, who ironically bore the same name as himself, albeit with a different numeral. He realized that his position in this court would be destabilized by the King's recent death in a campaign against the French, a campaign in which he had been called to fight on the French side. As a result his blue clothing might be seen as provocative, but he did not care. He was proud to be French, proud of his House in Montpellier, despite that his family had no love for him, nor his fellow countrymen. He would wear his family's colours with pride, and he would not let himself be intimidated into an even worse position. With the old and stubborn king dead, he would have a chance to aim his words of reform to ears who might show interest in his words, and noone would stop him from that. He could even reason that his obvious French roots would only prove that he did not wish to insult the English court, as his Protestant faith was obviously unwanted in France, and he would represent the repressed Huguenot Protestants in the English Court, signifying their support to the young Queen.

Nodding at his servants he made his way to the Great Hall, which was already being filled by all kinds of nobles, some of which offered him friendly nods, some of which offered him angry glares. Most of them however ignored his arrival, as he had suspected. He had not entered the foreground eversince his rather unspectacular arrival at the court, and unless he required to do so, he was content as a rather unknown factor here. Seeking out a similar-minded English noble, he began a short banter with the lan as they mobed to the sides of the Hall. Henri was no dancer, despite that he was able to, and didn't feel the need to join the celebratory festivities going on in the middle of the Hall.