Elizabeth Tudor, the fifth Tudor child and sister to the fearsome and noble King Henry VIII sat in the great grounds of the French palace. She was set to be married to the Dauphin of France, but he had died of consumption two nights before they were due to be wed. Today she should have been a bride, but instead she sat waiting for her escort. Elizabeth was not upset about the ordeal, on the contrary she was most happy to return to her beloved England. The French court was very different; the women were brasher and had a different way to the English. Elizabeth was a true English rose and so she was not sat with a heavy heart as she awaited her escort.

Elizabeth looked down to the letter that was sent by her own brother’s hand. It was addressed to Bessie, the affectionate name that Henry had given her. The Kingdom called her The Tudor Rose, for her exquisite features and being labelled the most beautiful of the Tudors. She was tall for a female, standing at five foot and six inches, and had a feminine figure of plump breasts and curved hips. She had high cheek bones and almond shaped eyes, surrounded by lengthy lashes. Her eyes were a clear blue colour, one of the features many adored about her. She had waist length golden hair that carried a natural wave with it, which was beneath the low, fashioned French hood. Her skin was polished and blemish free, with a natural blush to her cheeks. Today she wore a purple gown; the colour of royalty.

Her ladies sat doing their embroidery and reading, whilst Elizabeth sat on the wall of the fountain. She watched the fish swim beneath the surface, lost in thought. Rumour carried that her brother had taken a liking to Anne Boleyn, and was seeking a divorce from Queen Katherine. Elizabeth did not agree with this, being of Catholic faith, and harbouring a strong love for the Spanish Queen, Elizabeth would not believe any marital union between his majesty and the whore Boleyn. Elizabeth sighed and turned away from the water, and she saw one of the French groomsmen come toward her. “Ladies” Elizabeth said and they stood as she took to her feet, to greet the man.
“Votre altesse royale” Said the man who bowed, and Elizabeth inclined her head. “Sa Grâce le duc de Buckingham est arrivé” He said in French.
“Merci monsieur” She replied before she followed the man from the grounds. Elizabeth had heard distant stories of the Duke of Buckingham, and she had to question why the King would send him. He had a way of taking maids and quite the reputation. He was a treasured friend of her brother, but she knew little else. Elizabeth had not spent much time in court, her age had kept her at Richmond Palace and was betrothed quite young. She was now 18, and was to go back to Court.

Entering the halls, the Duke stood in conversation with King Louis, and Elizabeth bowed before him. She straightened up and looked to the Duke, and was instantly startled by how handsome he was, with an almost dangerous air to him. She did not show this as King Louis spoke. “My dear Elizabeth” He spoke in broken French. “What a daughter you’d have made… and such beautiful heirs” He spoke sadly, still dressed in black. “My fondest farewells” he said kissing her.
“I leave with a heavy heart, Majesty” Elizabeth spoke, although it wasn’t exactly true. She only missed the fact that she would have one day been Queen of France. They bid their farewells, before Elizabeth followed the Duke out to the carriages. She was going home.

It sometimes amused Thomas Stafford, current Duke of Buckingham, as to just how much the king trusted him. That Henry had sent him, alone, to retrieve his sister suggested the monarch held great confidence in him amongst all courtiers, some wolves with sheep's countenances. But men were in fact men - and if he had said his eyes had not been drawn to the youthful blossom of a girl at first glance, then he would have been a most terrible liar. Truly, the timing was most unfortunate, and the entirety of France grieved for the loss of their young dauphin; but the king had ordered his sister returned to England's bosom, and he would be well and truly damned if he did not heed the royal word. It was a careful line the courtiers trod, for fear of being condemned to the tower and next to the executioner's axe. And so the duty of being escort to the 'Tudor Rose' was one that occupied the forefront of the man's worldly considerations.

Dressed in a dark-coloured doublet, the duke's chain of office weighed well on his shoulders, reminding him duly of his place and of his responsibilities to his family. Though considerably young, and barely a decade Elizabeth's senior, he had become saddled with the demands of the court since his father's untimely death. He knew the game well - its delicate nuances, the way words played disguises for knives. Poisoned tongues and quills, hidden beneath rampant pretension.

Thomas bid the carriage drivers halt as they arrived at the palace, stepping out to absorb this atmosphere of a foreign land. The French were curious folk, much unlike the English in behaviour; the women, particularly, were louder and less demure. But then again, women had always been of interest to him, and him to them, for the good lord had blessed him with a handsome face and sturdy frame. Dark copper hair was kept short, a dusting of stubble emphasising the strong cut of his jaw. Above, bow-shaped lips were set firm, striking brown eyes peering forward with intent. His regal attire was enhanced considerably by his height and broad shoulders, and he carried himself with as much propriety as a man of noble blood was expected.

"His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham has arrived." As his presence was announced by one of the French groomsmen, Thomas entered the halls with a quick, confident stride. He knew his purpose well, and did not deign to dance about the subject at hand. Nevertheless, he spoke only with the greatest respect to the king, conveying Henry's request to have his sister escorted back to the English court. As they conversed, the duke saw the lingering regret in Louis's gaze, for it was perhaps true that Elizabeth would have made a most excellent Queen of France. It was only deplorable that God should have other fates in mind. Though occasionally doubtful, Thomas considered himself a man of good faith, a good Catholic. But he knew of Henry's intentions towards Anne Boleyn, and also that a divorce from Katherine of Aragon was forbidden by the Church. No matter; he believed his place in the king's good graces would far supersede religion. The rumors were indeed dire, but he would make preparations should the worst come to pass.

Yet - the image of Elizabeth Tudor did not quite leave his mind. He had had his dalliances with maids before, being a notorious flirt and one whose intentions could never quite be deciphered by outside eyes, but to set his gaze upon the king's own sister - now that would perhaps be toying with one's life. Still, as she bowed before him, he could not help but have the slightest ghost of a smile curl his mouth, a smile which vanished with immediate effect as soon as he resumed his humourless exchange with the French monarch. The duke expressed his great condolences, and how it was truly a tragedy that this alliance could not proceed. After their business had summarily concluded, the party was prepared to return to England, and to the intricacies of the English court. The trip had made him weary, but Elizabeth's radiance certainly provided a welcome distraction.

Once they were enclosed within carriage confines, Thomas readied himself for the journey back. Observing Elizabeth from the seat across, he cleared his throat briefly and raised his gaze to hers. Though his features suggested utmost deference, there was a glint in his eye. When he spoke, it was with a voice low and warm, and as self-assured as the man's calm posture. "Are you well, your Highness? The king has expressed concern over your state."