She ambled towards me, a good couple of paces ahead of her guards, who were catching up. Hands placed sensibly in front of her, she looked at me expectantly while I quickly took in the sight of the chestnut brown strands which framed her face and her vibrant crimson gown, accented with gold. Princess Isobel stood out like a rose in the meadow of her courtiers. She was striking.
"Good day, Thomas Raleigh, I trust that you have been at work on our play?"
"Precisely, your Highness", I smiled.
"I am eager to read it."
"I have seen to it that it will be reserved for your perusal upon completion. You must know that I value your input as much as I do my own men."
She lifted her lips in a warm, knowing smile and winked.
"Keep at it."
My company, the King's Men, had been commissioned to write and perform a play to commemorate the English victory under the leadership of King Robert at the Battle of the Channel. Despite holding drastically different stations, Princess Isobel and I maintained a cordial relationship due to our shared fascination in the theatre. Being commissioned by the crown only brought us closer: we frequently consulted each other on the play, although publicly she preferred to put on a front of ignorance. I often wondered: if she hadn't been born to the family in which she had been, would she have pursued a career in the performing arts, like I did? Nonsense, I reminded myself, women couldn't do that.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed consulting her opinion on my work as she offered a unique perspective I wouldn't have been able to receive from the men I worked with. Her understanding of my characters was compassionate and tactful. She emphasized a subtle, adroit unfolding of events over the borderline crude approach often favoured by some of my fellow writers. She was one of few who appreciated my use of theatre as a platform to satirise society. It was hardly orthodox considering her sex, but her critiques were invaluable to my professional work, then again, much of my work was considered unorthodox by the obstinate nobility.
I couldn't bring myself to care much.
Being a playwright meant I carried the burden of having to represent the treasured values of English society faithfully and accurately in my work. It was a burden I carried reluctantly, and this was evident in the criticisms my work attracted. Truth be told, I wanted nothing more than to lash out against the nobles I was currently standing amongst, not through an elusive subtext but directly and with all the disrespect I could muster. I despised them.
I should have despised the Princess but, just like me, she was no conformist. It was something I had caught on to from the moment I had begun periodically attending the King's court as a guest. For one, she never kept to herself in the demure fashion she was expected to keep, instead, she circled the court, striking up a conversation with practically anyone she took interest in. At 22, it was public knowledge that she was expected to be on the search for a husband, but from observing her, you would have never noticed that was the case. She was as free as a bird, and I couldn't help but pity her. She deserved better.
I was Sir Thomas Raleigh, the renowned 24-year-old prodigy of the theatre. I had my own company, which had been one of the very few to receive royal patronage. As well as my aforementioned reluctance to stay true to the values of the nobility, my age, both contentious and impressive, attracted a lot of attention, some of which was less than virtuous. It was a known fact at the court what kind of attention men of my profession received: the term 'bard' was practically an insult. Admittedly, many men in my position did embrace the vices that came with their level of fame and wealth but, as a rule, my art took precedence. I had seen too many warp into a ugly distortion of their previous selves and squander away their wealth and reputations through incessant gambling and philandering. I didn't want that for myself.
The court itself was both magnificent and formidable due to its sheer size. The walls were uniformly painted with the royal crest and regal red and gold banners hung from the ceiling at intervals. All around me nobles, politicians and guests of the court like myself were feasting, conversing and drinking rowdily. It was particularly busy tonight as guests from Wales and Scotland had recently arrived in anticipation of the royal jubilee at which my company were to perform in a couple months.
My attention turn back to the princess standing patiently in front of me.
"The court has been a bore without your presence" she declares.
"I am grateful that your Highness appreciates my presence so." I reply politely.
A hint of disappointment colours her face as she seems to remember who and where we are. I take a step forward and catch her eyes: enchanting pools of brown gold winged with long lashes. With a lowered voice I add:
"Although, I am relying on a will of magnificent determination to not hatch a plan of escape as we speak."
She giggles. Success.
And suddenly I'm overwhelmed. I want to sweep her away from these people who want to use her like a doll to be paraded about and gifted to the highest bidder. The truth? Somewhere along the line, she became my friend and not just another overzealous royal, eager to have me play tricks like a circus act. Our letters I began to cherish just as much as any Senecan tragedy, and our reunions, like the one we were having now, exhilarated me.
Then a wave of self-consciousness whips me back into reality and I realise what a strange sight we must be: the virtuous princess engaged in conversation with the playwright, a stark anomaly in this ocean of regality and exuberant wealth passed down from one insufferable generation to the next. If only they knew that none of it was true, that they knew nothing about her. That Isobel was sharp, quick and perceptive, sweet and elegant when she wanted to be and could talk her pretty face off. That she was the embodiment of sincerity because she was completely, utterly and unapologetically true to herself. That I was the only one who really knew her.
