The Tudors: The Swan & The Crow.

Don't Reach Yourself.

Laughter rang above her head as she raised her hand and Annie Cook's above their heads. Playful music play with energy as the women of the court dance with so much happiness; No one barely noticed the sour mood coming from King Henry VIII behind his drunken state.

Wolsey made the mistake to not gain the approval Henry needed to peel away from his ageing wife, Queen Catherine. Instead of allowing his disappointment to bleed his subjects dry, Henry did what he always did. Throw a feast to forget about his troubles.

So, with his eyes glossed over and cheeks flushed, Henry watched his Mistress and her ladies dance in the middle of the room. With no care whatsoever.

Elizabeth spun around, giggling at Anne Boleyn's silly remark as the two women gracefully moved past the other. They seemed to forget about their love-hate relationship. Which wasn't much of an issue with those who surrounded them with gleeful smiles. Less petty glances the better.

Philip Valentine, Duke of Edinburgh, clap merrily until his daughter pulls him into the fun. The older man is embarrassed, used to the old fashioned dances he grew up on. Not this wild jig. Still, he follows his daughter and Annie Cook into the thick of young women.

Thomas Cromwell sat preferably on the sidelines, his hands clap quietly. A smirk forms across his lips here and there as his stare is glued onto Elizabeth Valentine. No other woman there mattered. Just her. Only her. As much as he hates to admit it, Thomas is surely and undoubtedly, falling for the Valentine girl. He had given in to his urges. Realizing that his wife will always be in his heart, but perhaps there is room for another.

"I see how you look at her." A voice spoke suddenly beside Cromwell. The man's face gleamed his own wandering eyes onto Valentine, his pink lips rub together. Thomas snapped his head towards His Majesty's best friend and most loyal subject. A young bright man with the most angelic face and sharp jawline. The Duke of Suffolk. The male whore of all-male whores, Charles Brandon.

Thomas squint's his shocking eyes, pressing his tongue against his cheek. "Excuse me?" Thomas questions roughly, taken aback by Brandon's comment. Brandon barely spoke to Cromwell before this. There wasn't any lack of knowledge as to why Lord Suffolk ignored Cromwell most of the time. If not all the time. Thomas knew very well why.

Brandon is a noble-born whilst Cromwell was nothing more but a commoner. Nothing more, nothing less. How Henry would allow Cardinal Wolsey to attach the title; Principle Secretary to a mere lawyer was beyond him. How disgraceful. What made this worse, Brandon noticed Cromwell's wandering eyes towards the lovely lady Elizabeth. Brandon felt ashamed for the king if the king did not feel that way.

"Lady Valentine. You look at her with -" Brandon flicked his blue eyes onto Cromwell. "With love in your heart."

Cromwell sucked in, placing his hands behind his back to cease his clapping. As much as he wished Brandon would ignore him like before, this time Cromwell might not get his way. "Is that what you came over here to say to me?" Cromwell questions. Usually, he'd be more polite. Keeping his remarks level headed and/or to himself. Tonight was a different story.

"I thought you might appreciate my honesty. Others have been gossiping about your recent alliance with Lady Elizabeth. Men here want her hand in marriage. Others want to take her legendary virginity away. Noblemen. Yet, we see you slithering your way to her. Pulling her in."

Replacing his gaze onto Elizabeth, Thomas felt his heart flutter with excitement. Passion and the ache to be next to her. Elizabeth's hair flow behind her like winter snow. She dances with no care for the harsh reality of this world. Laughter escape from between her lips which cause Thomas' bones to rattle with enlightenment. It wasn't just any sort of laugh, but a heavenly song gifted by God himself. Perhaps he was deeply in love with this woman. Although, at times he questioned why.