Oh, for she was a fool in love. With the stare, with the speech, with the very being that held his name. Resting her back to the stone of the wall, Evelyn sucked in fierce gulps of air. She was a fool to own to that love. In this court, full of lies and deception, you held your inner most feelings close to your breast, hiding them from the world.

But he wrote her poetry! And recited sonnets, proclaiming that “Master Shakespeare had surely been thinking of her fair face when he wrote the verse”. Evelyn clutched a pale hand to her heart. She shuddered to think what would happen if any of the other ladies-in-waiting found out about her indiscretions. She would throw it all away for Thomas. Her titles, her wealth, her powerful place at the queen's side. None of it mattered. Living without him would be unbearable, unthinkable.

Sinking slowly to the bottom of the wall, Evelyn prayed in a low whisper. “Lord, forgive me. But I am in love. I have fallen for a stable boy.” It was almost laughable. Lady Evelyn Carey of Uxbridge, in love with a mere stable boy, of lowly birth and little rank. But he held her heart in the palms of his dirty hands. Raising a hand to her mouth, Evelyn held back a laugh. His hands were exceedingly filthy. To think, he shoveled horse muck with those hands! And yet, when he was with her, those hands were the softest, the gentlest she could ever imagine. The perfect touch.

There was a clip-clop of footsteps on the cold grey floors of the hall and the cooing of women gossiping could be heard. Evelyn stood quickly, brushing of the pale green of her gown. Pushing her shoulders back, she stood straight, perfectly postured. Evelyn was a queen's lady, and they knew how to behave. Setting a serene smile on her face, she turned the corner. Her head dipped in acknowledgement of the maids that walked past her, curtseying furiously.

Here at the Queen's springtime palace of Eltham, Evelyn held a position of power. She was Elizabeth's favourite lady, and she often sat by the Queen, playing cards, sewing, or listening to Her Majesty's delightful wit. The Queen had a sharp tongue, and she wasn't afraid to use it. Evelyn supposed it was what had kept her in power all this time, and what had helped her rise. So what was Evelyn doing now? Throwing away this position for a boy, of little standing?

But he was the most magnificent of men. His handsome, eager face. Bright and open, so unlike the men of court. They all sat around in dirty, dark little privy chambers, flirting with ladies-in-waiting, maids, and even, God Forbid, with each other. They hid their secrets behind dark eyes filled with lust. So unlike her love, her Tom.

The Queen favoured Evelyn, certainly, but would she ever accept her favourite courtier marrying someone so lowly? So poor he made mice look well off. He was handsome, intelligent, clever... but would that ever be enough? Enough for the Queen or her own family? Was Thomas Watt enough for even her own expectations? As a young girl, she had always thought she would marry a prince, live in some far, exotic land. A fairytale. But wasn't this dalliance with Thomas just a fantasy too? A hope. A wish. A longing that made her heart ache.

Evelyn had gotten herself into the most dreadful dilemma. She was setting herself up for a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare. But would they end up like Romeo and Juliet or Lysander and Hermia? Only time would tell the fates of these star crossed lovers, brought together by the court, and yet separated by it too. “Oh cruel fate.” Evelyn thought, almost in despair. “What do you hold in store for me?”