It sometimes amused Thomas Stafford, current Duke of Buckingham, as to just how much the king trusted him. That Henry had sent him, alone, to retrieve his sister suggested the monarch held great confidence in him amongst all courtiers, some wolves with sheep's countenances. But men were in fact men - and if he had said his eyes had not been drawn to the youthful blossom of a girl at first glance, then he would have been a most terrible liar. Truly, the timing was most unfortunate, and the entirety of France grieved for the loss of their young dauphin; but the king had ordered his sister returned to England's bosom, and he would be well and truly damned if he did not heed the royal word. It was a careful line the courtiers trod, for fear of being condemned to the tower and next to the executioner's axe. And so the duty of being escort to the 'Tudor Rose' was one that occupied the forefront of the man's worldly considerations. 

Dressed in a dark-coloured doublet, the duke's chain of office weighed well on his shoulders, reminding him duly of his place and of his responsibilities to his family. Though considerably young, and barely a decade Elizabeth's senior, he had become saddled with the demands of the court since his father's untimely death. He knew the game well - its delicate nuances, the way words played disguises for knives. Poisoned tongues and quills, hidden beneath rampant pretension.

Thomas bid the carriage drivers halt as they arrived at the palace, stepping out to absorb this atmosphere of a foreign land. The French were curious folk, much unlike the English in behaviour; the women, particularly, were louder and less demure. But then again, women had always been of interest to him, and him to them, for the good lord had blessed him with a handsome face and sturdy frame. Dark copper hair was kept short, a dusting of stubble emphasising the strong cut of his jaw. Above, bow-shaped lips were set firm, striking brown eyes peering forward with intent. His regal attire was enhanced considerably by his height and broad shoulders, and he carried himself with as much propriety as a man of noble blood was expected. 

"His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham has arrived." As his presence was announced by one of the French groomsmen, Thomas entered the halls with a quick, confident stride. He knew his purpose well, and did not deign to dance about the subject at hand. Nevertheless, he spoke only with the greatest respect to the king, conveying Henry's request to have his sister escorted back to the English court. As they conversed, the duke saw the lingering regret in Louis's gaze, for it was perhaps true that Elizabeth would have made a most excellent Queen of France. It was only deplorable that God should have other fates in mind. Though occasionally doubtful, Thomas considered himself a man of good faith, a good Catholic. But he knew of Henry's intentions towards Anne Boleyn, and also that a divorce from Katherine of Aragon was forbidden by the Church. No matter; he believed his place in the king's good graces would far supersede religion. The rumors were indeed dire, but he would make preparations should the worst come to pass.

Yet - the image of Elizabeth Tudor did not quite leave his mind. He had had his dalliances with maids before, being a notorious flirt and one whose intentions could never quite be deciphered by outside eyes, but to set his gaze upon the king's own sister - now that would perhaps be toying with one's life. Still, as she bowed before him, he could not help but have the slightest ghost of a smile curl his mouth, a smile which vanished with immediate effect as soon as he resumed his humourless exchange with the French monarch. The duke expressed his great condolences, and how it was truly a tragedy that this alliance could not proceed. After their business had summarily concluded, the party was prepared to return to England, and to the intricacies of the English court. The trip had made him weary, but Elizabeth's radiance certainly provided a welcome distraction.

Once they were enclosed within carriage confines, Thomas readied himself for the journey back. Observing Elizabeth from the seat across, he cleared his throat briefly and raised his gaze to hers. Though his features suggested utmost deference, there was a glint in his eye. When he spoke, it was with a voice low and warm, and as self-assured as the man's calm posture. "Are you well, your Highness? The king has expressed concern over your state."