May 12th, 1593.

The dawn is crisp as the fog rolls out over the English countryside. He hears footsteps entering.

He is lying on his back on a wide, pillowed bench, balancing a lyre on his stomach. Idly, he plucked at it. He did not hear her enter, or he did not choose to look. She frowned at the cold shock of his beauty, deep-brown eyes, features fine as a girl's. It struck from her a sudden, springing dislike. Then as her feet scuffed, his head lolled to the side to regard her.

“Happily to wive and thrive, as best I may.” She tosses a stool at him, and misses as he swiftly rolls off the couch.