The Queen's Gambit (The Tudors)

Chapter 3

Later That Night

The grand hall of the Tudor palace pulsed with opulence and intrigue. Golden light from chandeliers flickered across the lavish tapestries adorning the walls, casting a warm glow over the rich velvet and silk garments of the courtiers. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats and the murmur of conversations. Laughter mingled with the soft strains of music as the court celebrated Eleanor's return.

Eleanor stood at the center of it all, resplendent in her emerald gown. Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she moved gracefully through the crowd, her every step deliberate. She greeted courtiers with a practiced warmth, her voice smooth and calming, though her mind was always calculating. Tonight was hers to command, and everyone present was but a piece on her board.

From across the room, Eleanor spotted Lord Boleyn making his way through the throng with clear frustration. His furrowed brow and tense jaw contrasted sharply with the revelry around him. She suppressed a smile, already sensing the advantage she could gain from his discomfort. He was, after all, desperate to secure his daughters' futures—a weakness Eleanor could exploit.

Lord Boleyn approached King Henry, who was engrossed in conversation with Eleanor and Charles Brandon, his laughter booming through the hall. Boleyn's stern expression darkened the mood.

"Your Majesty," Boleyn began, his voice tight with urgency, "I must speak with you about the matter of my daughters—"

Henry barely glanced at him, making it clear that Boleyn's concerns were not a priority. This slight was precisely what Eleanor had been waiting for. She stepped in, her tone saccharine, yet with an edge that promised danger.

"Lord Boleyn," Eleanor cooed, her voice silken, "I had no idea your daughters were still entangled at the French court. How is Mary faring in her... delicate role? Surely it must be quite the task to maintain her standing in such a fickle environment."

Her words, though couched in innocent curiosity, were a barb. Eleanor knew exactly how to hit Boleyn where it hurt—his ambitions for his daughter, and his pride. Boleyn stiffened, his face paling as a few courtiers nearby turned their attention to the exchange, sensing the tension.

"Her presence at the French court is essential for maintaining our alliance," Boleyn said, his voice tight, trying to salvage his pride.

Eleanor tilted her head slightly, her smile turning colder. "Ah, yes. I've heard the French court can be quite... unpredictable. One day you're favored, and the next? Forgotten." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for those nearby to hear. "I do wonder, Lord Boleyn, if you've placed too much trust in such a... fragile position."

Boleyn opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Charles Brandon chimed in with a grin, feeding off Eleanor's manipulation. "The French are notorious for their shifting loyalties. I wonder if your Mary can navigate such treacherous waters. It's easy to be cast aside in favor of someone new and more... amusing."

Eleanor smiled at Charles' remark, knowing full well she had prompted it. "It would be such a shame if your daughter's efforts were... in vain." Her eyes gleamed as she watched Boleyn struggle to maintain his composure.

The insult was clear, but Boleyn could not openly retaliate without making a scene. He turned to the king, seeking a lifeline. "Your Majesty, the French court is crucial to England's standing. We must maintain strong ties—"

Henry, his eyes twinkling with amusement at Boleyn's discomfort, waved him off with a smile. "Boleyn, tonight is not the night for such concerns. This is a celebration of Eleanor's return, not a place for French politics."