The boy sought for his princess under a tree - suspecting this the place he would find her. For, when their morning lesson time was over, she often took her books out to the old oak tree growing close to the palace walls. In the space between wall and tree, sheltered too by a canopy of branches, his princess had found a place to be away from prying eyes. A secret place shared only with the boy.
At nine, even though very bright, the boy was not an especially studious child; he preferred horses or weapon practice to the reading of books. But the boy's father expected much of all his children, especially his five sons; one expectation brought about classic languages taught to them at the earliest possible ages.
One day, six weeks ago, the tutor lost all patience with the boy because of his slowness in learning ancient Greek, striking down his rod upon the boy's knuckles three times. The blows so hard, the boy felt tears smart his eyes and shame drenching him - his apparent lacks witnessed by the other young scholars - two of them children of the King; the boy's princess, for a time, back at her father's court and sharing the same tutor and lesson with her brother. Standing there, unable to do more than take rasping breaths, the boy saw the girl busy herself with a writing task. But, by the next day, the boy's princess then took as her duty to ensure the tutor had no cause to ever beat him again.
That day was the first time of many he came to be in his princess's secret hideaway, found in a garden of Whitehall, one of the many palaces of her father, the King. His princess found amongst her old books a copy of an ancient Greek book, written, many centuries ago, by a man who knew a great deal about the boy's favourite subject: horses. Together, they scoured the book's contents, deciphering the Greek text into their English common tongue, laughing together at the mistakes they made, enjoying the beginning of a rich friendship. Both of them great lovers of horses, this was the first thing they found in common.
The boy's father, a Lord and servant to the princess's father, didn't call her princess. Rather, it was 'the Lady Elizabeth' in public, or 'Anne Boleyn's bastard brat' when speaking privately at home to the boy's mother, in the family's solar. Hearing his father call her such made the boy cringe. But the boy, possessing proper respect towards his sire, didn't dare tell his father how he spoke of the girl he claimed for his very own princess. For, with all her cleverness, long red-gold hair, pale complexion, and, especially, tapering fingers she so enjoyed showing off and bedecking with rings, she perfectly fitted his mind's image of what a princess should be. She was also a year younger than him, that combined with her 'femaleness' made him feel as if elected her knight - a knight with a princess to protect. Especially now - so urgent was his need to reach her.
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