Henry was the King of England, monarch by the divine right bestowed upon his bloodline, and as King, the implication was that his will and pleasure were the absolute law anywhere within his Kingdom. So how, Henry wondered that afternoon, was the rest of the Kingdom so perfectly willing and able to interfere with his will and pleasure and keep him away from that which he wanted so badly that day?
The days prior had been torture. A proclamation had been presented to the Parliament, and the Houses had been battering it back and forth between them like a tennis match. Meanwhile, in Henry's own study, More and Woolsey had been arguing over the proclamation with as much polite animosity as the King had ever witnessed. And there had been nothing in the hours away from the ruling of the country that could provide Henry any respite, for Anne Boleyn was visiting her sister for those days.
And now, on the day she had returned to Court, Henry would have been perfectly happy to declare a national holiday and shut himself into his bedchambers with his beloved mistress. But the Tournament had been planned for weeks, and Henry could not disappoint.
"His Majesty, King Henry VIII of England has entered the lists!"came the shout, and Henry nudged his spurs into his mount's flank and slowly rode into place. His visor up, he waved at the stands. Henry's eyes locked with the endless blue of Anne's, and he immediately felt his mind filled with images of what they would do, of the things that would at last relieve him of the tension of the past days.
He would throw her onto the back of his horse at that moment, and ride back to the palace.
Henry rode toward the Royal Box and extended his lance in Katherine's direction, requesting her favour, which she slipped onto the weapon.
He would use that garter to bind Anne's wrists together above her head, and lay her out upon his bed... or behind her back and order her to her knees and please him with her mouth.
Slipping the silken cloth into his gauntlet, Henry pulled his mount into place on his side of the tiltyard, trying to keep his focus on the armoured noble a distance away, now readying to meet him in the middle when his mind returned again and again to Anne.
He would summon her to his chambers and have her clean him after his exertions, then give him a second bath with only her tongue on every inch of his body.
Henry lowered his visor and settled his lance into position. This one tilt, he reminded himself, and he would be finished, and Anne could be his.
He would sit on his throne and bar the door to his audience chamber, and have Anne lower herself onto him, riding him as hard as he rode a destrier.
A sharp spur, and the horse burst into a gallop, with Henry leaning forward, bracing himself. Just a little further, and he'd be done.
He would find her in some dark corner of the palace and push her against a wall, lifting her skirt and taking her then and there.
With a great shout that echoed inside his helm, Henry's lance struck home, shattering against his opponent's buckler and throwing the amoured man to the ground. As soon as the man was pronounced well, Henry all but leapt from his mount and disappeared into his tent. Even after being divested of his armour, Henry was still panting with pent-up energy and lust.
He was too far gone to question it when Anne slipped into the tent and buckled the flap closed. Henry wasted no time on any of the fantasies he'd had and pushed her to the tiny, straw-covered cot, pushed away her skirts, thrust himself forward and struck home with a great shout.
(652)
The days prior had been torture. A proclamation had been presented to the Parliament, and the Houses had been battering it back and forth between them like a tennis match. Meanwhile, in Henry's own study, More and Woolsey had been arguing over the proclamation with as much polite animosity as the King had ever witnessed. And there had been nothing in the hours away from the ruling of the country that could provide Henry any respite, for Anne Boleyn was visiting her sister for those days.
And now, on the day she had returned to Court, Henry would have been perfectly happy to declare a national holiday and shut himself into his bedchambers with his beloved mistress. But the Tournament had been planned for weeks, and Henry could not disappoint.
"His Majesty, King Henry VIII of England has entered the lists!"came the shout, and Henry nudged his spurs into his mount's flank and slowly rode into place. His visor up, he waved at the stands. Henry's eyes locked with the endless blue of Anne's, and he immediately felt his mind filled with images of what they would do, of the things that would at last relieve him of the tension of the past days.
He would throw her onto the back of his horse at that moment, and ride back to the palace.
Henry rode toward the Royal Box and extended his lance in Katherine's direction, requesting her favour, which she slipped onto the weapon.
He would use that garter to bind Anne's wrists together above her head, and lay her out upon his bed... or behind her back and order her to her knees and please him with her mouth.
Slipping the silken cloth into his gauntlet, Henry pulled his mount into place on his side of the tiltyard, trying to keep his focus on the armoured noble a distance away, now readying to meet him in the middle when his mind returned again and again to Anne.
He would summon her to his chambers and have her clean him after his exertions, then give him a second bath with only her tongue on every inch of his body.
Henry lowered his visor and settled his lance into position. This one tilt, he reminded himself, and he would be finished, and Anne could be his.
He would sit on his throne and bar the door to his audience chamber, and have Anne lower herself onto him, riding him as hard as he rode a destrier.
A sharp spur, and the horse burst into a gallop, with Henry leaning forward, bracing himself. Just a little further, and he'd be done.
He would find her in some dark corner of the palace and push her against a wall, lifting her skirt and taking her then and there.
With a great shout that echoed inside his helm, Henry's lance struck home, shattering against his opponent's buckler and throwing the amoured man to the ground. As soon as the man was pronounced well, Henry all but leapt from his mount and disappeared into his tent. Even after being divested of his armour, Henry was still panting with pent-up energy and lust.
He was too far gone to question it when Anne slipped into the tent and buckled the flap closed. Henry wasted no time on any of the fantasies he'd had and pushed her to the tiny, straw-covered cot, pushed away her skirts, thrust himself forward and struck home with a great shout.
(652)