Playful Endeavour

Earlier that day...

Elizabeth woke with a gasp, her body slick with sweat despite the February chill pervading her bedchamber at Woodstock. The dream—the fourth such vision in a week—had been more vivid than any previous one, leaving her trembling with unfulfilled desire as her consciousness returned to waking reality.

She could still feel the phantom sensations—Bobby's hands gripping her hips with bruising force, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered crude commands in her ear, his cock stretching her beyond what should have been physically possible as he took her from behind like a common tavern wench rather than England's future queen.

"God's wounds," Elizabeth muttered, pressing her face into her pillow as though to smother these unwelcome thoughts. The dreams had grown progressively more explicit, each one carrying her deeper into a future where she apparently shared both her bed and her throne with Robert Kestrel.

This latest vision had been set in her private chambers at Hampton Court, with Bobby bent over a table of maps and documents, discussing naval strategy against the Spanish. The discussion had transformed into heated coupling against that same table, state papers scattering across the floor as he hiked her skirts up and entered her from behind without preamble or gentleness.

Elizabeth could still hear the echo of her dream-self's response—enthusiastic encouragement punctuated by blasphemous oaths that would have horrified her Protestant tutors. "Fuck me harder," she had demanded, bracing herself against the table edge. "Make me feel it, Bobby. Make me remember who truly rules England's queen."

"Enough," Elizabeth whispered harshly to herself, throwing back the bedcovers and rising despite the chamber's cold air. She couldn't lie abed with these images tormenting her. Better to face the day's duties than wallow in inappropriate fantasies about a being who viewed her primarily as a strategic alliance.

Her ladies responded promptly to her summoning bell, helping her wash and dress with practiced efficiency. Elizabeth selected a gown of deep burgundy—a color that complemented her pale complexion and reddish-gold hair while projecting appropriate royal dignity. She needed every advantage of presentation today, particularly with these unseemly thoughts continuing to intrude upon her concentration.

"Is Master Cecil arrived yet?" she inquired as Catherine Ashley supervised the final adjustments to her attire.

"Yes, Your Highness," Kat replied. "He awaits your pleasure in the small council chamber, along with your morning correspondence."

Elizabeth nodded, gathering her composure as she prepared to face her shrewd advisor. Cecil missed nothing—his observational skills had helped him survive the treacherous currents of Tudor court politics where many others had floundered. She could not afford to reveal any hint of distraction or impropriety, particularly regarding Robert Kestrel.

"You seem flushed, child," Kat observed with the familiarity of a longtime governess. "Are you unwell?"

"Merely warm from sleep," Elizabeth replied smoothly, though she felt her cheeks heat further at the question. "The winter chill has fled, I think. Spring approaches earlier than usual."

Kat didn't appear entirely convinced, but knew better than to press her royal charge on matters of health. Elizabeth had always detested fussing, particularly as she grew into adulthood with its accompanying need for greater privacy and dignity.

After a light breakfast of bread, honey, and small beer, Elizabeth made her way to the council chamber where Cecil awaited. He rose immediately upon her entrance, bowing with the practiced deference that managed to convey both respect for her position and paternal concern for her wellbeing.

"Your Highness," he greeted her. "I trust you rested well?"

"Well enough," Elizabeth replied, taking her seat at the small table. "What news from London?"

Cecil seated himself across from her, arranging several documents in the precise order of their importance—a habit Elizabeth had come to appreciate for its efficiency.

"Your brother's condition continues to deteriorate," he began with appropriate solemnity. "Though the German medicines have eased his immediate suffering, the physicians report continued decline in overall strength."

Elizabeth nodded, genuine sadness tempering her political assessment of this news. Poor Edward—not yet fourteen and suffering a painful, lingering death that even his exalted position couldn't prevent.

"Northumberland grows increasingly bold in his plans," Cecil continued. "He has secured additional military resources near London and initiated private communications with several key fortress commanders."

"Preparing to enforce Jane Grey's succession," Elizabeth observed.

"Indeed. Though he maintains public appearance of concern for the King's recovery, his private arrangements suggest expectation of imminent death."

Cecil proceeded through various intelligence reports—troop movements, diplomatic communications, financial transactions suggesting preparation for potential conflict. Elizabeth listened with appropriate attention, asking relevant questions and noting important details for future consideration.

Yet beneath this outward focus, her mind continued returning to that dream table at Hampton Court, to Bobby's hands gripping her waist, to the shameful pleasure she had experienced being taken like a common whore while state papers scattered around them...

"Your Highness?" Cecil's voice broke through her unwelcome reverie. "Have I said something amiss?"

Elizabeth blinked, suddenly aware that Cecil had asked her a direct question that she had completely failed to register. This lapse in attention—so uncharacteristic for her normally disciplined mind—was deeply troubling.

"Forgive me, Cecil," she replied, maintaining composure despite her embarrassment. "My thoughts momentarily wandered to related considerations. Please repeat your question."

Cecil's expression revealed nothing beyond mild concern, though Elizabeth suspected his observational skills had registered her momentary distraction. "I inquired whether Your Highness wished to proceed with preparations for relocation to the Kent property should circumstances require it."

"Yes," Elizabeth confirmed decisively. "Those arrangements should continue as planned. Though I still believe our primary strategy of careful neutrality offers the best immediate protection."

Cecil nodded, making a brief notation on one of his documents. "As you wish. Though I continue to harbor concerns about Northumberland's ultimate intentions regardless of your public position."

He looked up, his gaze sharpening slightly as he studied her face. "Are you quite well, Your Highness? You seem somewhat... distracted this morning."

"I am perfectly well," Elizabeth replied with perhaps excessive firmness. "And I assure you, Master Cecil, I am always paying attention, even when my mind considers multiple aspects of a situation simultaneously."

Cecil accepted this assertion with a slight inclination of his head, though his expression suggested he remained unconvinced. "Of course, Your Highness. I would never suggest otherwise."

He returned to his documents, continuing with a detailed assessment of court politics. Elizabeth forced herself to focus with determined concentration, though her mind continued to drift traitorously toward inappropriate recollections of her dream.

"Regarding another matter of significance," Cecil continued, "Master Kestrel's activities continue to expand beyond what might reasonably be expected for a foreign merchant, however wealthy."

Elizabeth's pulse quickened slightly at the mention of Bobby's name. "In what specific aspects?" she inquired, striving for a tone of detached interest.

"Multiple domains simultaneously," Cecil replied, consulting a separate document. "Most notably, his involvement with charitable endeavors has generated considerable public goodwill across factional lines."

"Charitable endeavors?" Elizabeth echoed, this genuinely capturing her interest beyond unwelcome physical attraction.

"Indeed. The Act for the Provision and Relief of the Poor, which has languished without implementation since your father's time, has suddenly gained remarkable traction throughout London and surrounding counties."

"I was unaware of Master Kestrel's interest in poor relief," Elizabeth remarked, genuinely surprised by this development. Bobby had never mentioned such activities during their meetings.

Cecil's expression suggested mild discomfort with what he was about to report. "Master Kestrel apparently addressed an assembly of parish officials last week, declaring that he would personally match every donation toward poor relief and 'ensure the funds reach those truly in need, as is God's will.'"

Elizabeth couldn't completely hide her surprise at this explicit religious framing. "Those were his exact words? 'God's will'?"

"According to multiple witnesses," Cecil confirmed. "Most notably, his declaration has attracted support from both Protestant and Catholic parish leaders—an unusual alignment in these fractious times."

Elizabeth considered this development with growing interest. "One might almost suspect deliberate cultivation of support across religious divisions."

"One might indeed," Cecil agreed dryly. "Particularly when considered alongside his other public activities." He consulted another document. "My agents report he held private meetings with Bishop Gardiner last Tuesday, discussing implementation of poor relief in Winchester diocese. The following day, he engaged in similar consultation with several notable Reformed clergy regarding the same initiatives in London parishes."

"Maintaining connections across factional lines," Elizabeth observed, echoing Bobby's own explanation for his diverse associations. "Though public charity represents a new dimension to these activities."

"A particularly effective one," Cecil acknowledged reluctantly. "Common people speak of him with remarkable enthusiasm in taverns and markets. One of my informants overheard a butcher in Cheapside declaring that 'Master Kestrel understands the common man's struggles better than any lord or bishop.'"

Elizabeth absorbed this information with growing concern. Bobby's cultivation of popular support—particularly across religious divides—represented a potentially significant political development beyond their private arrangement. A merchant commanding public affection independent of crown or church could represent either valuable ally or dangerous rival, depending on his ultimate intentions.

Cecil continued his report, moving to commercial matters. "His business ventures expand at an equally remarkable pace. The shipyards at Deptford now work exclusively on vessels commissioned by his trading company. Three new merchantmen launched last month alone, bound for Mediterranean ports with English wool and returning with unprecedented quantities of eastern luxuries."

"His commercial acumen appears considerable," Elizabeth observed cautiously.

"Beyond considerable," Cecil replied, a note of something almost like envy coloring his normally measured tone. "No merchant in living memory has established such extensive operations in so brief a period. From Baltic timber to Venetian glass, French wines to Ottoman spices—his trading network now spans territories that traditionally require generations to develop."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. "And his domestic investments?"

"Equally diverse and successful," Cecil confirmed, consulting yet another document—evidence of how extensively he had investigated Bobby's activities. "He has acquired controlling interests in three London clothmakers, five major breweries, numerous smaller workshops producing everything from saddles to silverware, and most recently, innovative manufacturing of printed books and pamphlets."

"The printing endeavors certainly align with his expressed interest in advancing learning," Elizabeth noted, recalling their original bargain. When she took the throne, she would foster scientific advancement—precisely the kind of knowledge dissemination that printing technology facilitated.

"Perhaps most remarkably," Cecil continued, "he has initiated what appears to be entirely new industries unknown in England previously. My agents report workshops near Southwark producing what workers call 'spring-driven mechanisms' for timekeeping and other purposes, with precision supposedly surpassing anything available from European craftsmen."

Elizabeth's interest sharpened further. This technological innovation aligned perfectly with Bobby's stated objectives regarding scientific advancement. "These new industries—how substantial are their operations?"

"Expanding rapidly," Cecil replied. "The initial workshop employed twelve craftsmen three months ago. Now over fifty workers labor there, with similar operations reportedly established in Bristol and Norwich."

Cecil hesitated momentarily before adding, "What troubles me most, Your Highness, is not the scope of these activities, impressive though they may be, but rather the impossible schedule they suggest."

"Explain your meaning," Elizabeth prompted.

"My intelligence network tracks Master Kestrel's movements with considerable detail," Cecil replied, his expression revealing genuine perplexity. "The activities reported would require him to be present in multiple locations simultaneously, or to function without sleep for days at a stretch."

He consulted his notes again. "For example, last Wednesday he reportedly conducted morning business at the Royal Exchange, inspected his shipyards at Deptford at midday, attended a lengthy meeting with cloth merchants in Westminster during early afternoon, dined with the Muscovy Company directors at four, and hosted a gathering of Continental bankers at his residence until well past midnight."

Cecil looked up with rare bewilderment. "The following morning at dawn, my agents observed him personally supervising cargo loading at the docks—showing no signs of fatigue despite the previous day's exhausting schedule. It defies natural explanation."

Elizabeth felt a small shock of understanding, though she carefully concealed it. Of course Bobby could accomplish what appeared humanly impossible—he wasn't human. The limitations of sleep, travel time, and physical endurance that constrained ordinary men simply didn't apply to him.

"Perhaps he employs particularly effective assistants who sometimes represent him," she suggested, offering the rational explanation Cecil clearly sought.

"That seems most likely," Cecil agreed, though his tone suggested continued skepticism. "Though witnesses consistently describe personal interactions with Master Kestrel himself, not representatives."

Elizabeth recognized the dangerous territory this line of inquiry approached. If Cecil continued investigating Bobby's impossible schedule and capabilities, he might eventually stumble upon truths that would challenge his entire worldview—with potentially disastrous consequences for both Cecil himself and their broader political objectives.

"What of his financial resources?" she asked, deliberately redirecting the conversation. "Such extensive commercial and charitable activities must require substantial capital."

"That represents another mystery," Cecil acknowledged. "When he first appeared after Your Highness's... encounter... in the forest, his resources seemed significant but not extraordinary. Within months, he now commands capital that rivals or exceeds England's wealthiest nobles."

"Through trading profits?" Elizabeth suggested.

"Partially," Cecil conceded. "Though even the most successful commercial ventures couldn't generate such wealth in this timeframe. However, he appears to have implemented banking innovations that multiply his available capital beyond conventional methods."

Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, genuinely intrigued. "Explain these innovations."

"They involve what he apparently calls 'investment banking,'" Cecil replied, consulting another document. "Rather than simply accepting deposits and providing safekeeping as traditional banking houses do, his financial operation actively solicits funds from wealthy individuals, promising returns exceeding traditional arrangements."

"And people provide funds on such promises?" Elizabeth asked.

"In remarkable quantities," Cecil confirmed. "According to my sources, numerous nobles have committed substantial portions of their liquid assets to his banking operation in exchange for written agreements promising specific returns over designated periods."

"This seems... unconventional," Elizabeth observed cautiously.

"Highly unconventional," Cecil agreed. "Yet apparently effective. The Earl of Pembroke reportedly committed five thousand pounds last month—an extraordinary sum to entrust to relatively unproven financial arrangements."

Elizabeth considered this with growing appreciation for Bobby's strategic approach. Given their discussion about wealth as the foundation of power, these banking innovations represented logical extension of his methodology—creating financial mechanisms that would generate capital far beyond conventional arrangements.

"Most curiously," Cecil continued, "these funds appear to circulate continuously through various commercial ventures rather than remaining static as in traditional banking. The Earl's five thousand pounds doesn't simply sit in Master Kestrel's strongbox awaiting withdrawal—it finances shipbuilding, cloth production, and other enterprises, generating returns that satisfy the promised payments while maintaining the original capital."

Elizabeth recognized the ingenious efficiency of this approach. Traditional wealth often remained unproductive—gold and silver sitting in coffers or valuable plate displayed merely for status. Bobby's system apparently kept money constantly active, generating more wealth through continuous circulation.

"When I questioned how he finances his charitable activities alongside commercial expansion," Cecil added, "one of his banking associates explained that 'money properly managed creates more money.' An unusual concept, though evidently effective in practice."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, genuinely impressed despite her determination to maintain emotional distance. Bobby's financial innovations could potentially transform England's economic capacity if implemented broadly—exactly the kind of advancement she had glimpsed in her prophetic dreams of England's future golden age.

"And what do you make of these extensive activities, Cecil?" she asked, curious about her advisor's assessment.

Cecil considered his response carefully before answering. "They suggest ambition beyond ordinary commercial success, Your Highness. No mere merchant invests so strategically in popular goodwill, technological innovation, and financial restructuring simultaneously. Such comprehensive approach suggests broader objectives."

"Political objectives, you mean," Elizabeth clarified.

"Potentially," Cecil acknowledged. "Though whether aligned with specific factions remains deliberately obscure. He continues maintaining connections across all major political alignments—Northumberland's supporters, Princess Mary's Catholic associates, moderate Protestants who might eventually favor your position."

He hesitated briefly before adding, "Most concerning, perhaps, is his cultivation of independent support based on popular goodwill rather than traditional power structures. The common people's affection represents unusual political capital outside established channels."

Elizabeth understood Cecil's unstated implication. Traditional power flowed through inherited titles, land ownership, church authority, or royal appointment. Bobby appeared to be building influence through direct appeal to common sentiment, economic innovation, and practical benefits visible to ordinary citizens—a potentially powerful alternative base that crossed traditional factional lines.

"I begin to wonder," Cecil continued cautiously, "whether Master Kestrel's ultimate objectives align completely with any existing faction, including our own interests."

"You question his loyalty?" Elizabeth asked, maintaining neutral tone despite the uncomfortable tightening in her chest at this suggestion.

"Not precisely," Cecil clarified. "Rather, I wonder whether his assistance to your cause represents his primary objective or merely one element in a more complex strategy."

Elizabeth couldn't refute this assessment, given what she knew of Bobby's true nature. Of course his agenda extended beyond Tudor succession politics—a being who had witnessed countless civilizations rise and fall across billions of years undoubtedly maintained perspective far beyond immediate political concerns.

Yet her dreams consistently showed them ruling England together, suggesting their paths remained entwined regardless of his broader objectives. Whether that shared rule would manifest as the explicit partnership her visions depicted remained uncertain, but their destinies appeared fundamentally connected.

"What would you suggest regarding Master Kestrel's activities?" Elizabeth asked, valuing Cecil's political judgment despite his limited understanding of Bobby's true nature.

"Closer monitoring certainly," Cecil replied promptly. "Perhaps more direct engagement regarding his intentions and methods. His resources and connections could prove invaluable to your interests if properly aligned, or problematic if directed elsewhere."

He hesitated before adding his final recommendation. "It might be prudent to request his presence for detailed discussion of these matters. An opportunity to assess his current position regarding your interests while demonstrating appropriate authority in your relationship."

Elizabeth's heart quickened at this suggestion, though she maintained perfect outward composure. The prospect of facing Bobby so soon after these explicit dreams filled her with equal parts anticipation and dread. Could she maintain appropriate royal dignity when her mind now contained such vivid images of their potential intimacy?

Yet avoiding him served no strategic purpose and might suggest weakness or uncertainty unbecoming a Tudor princess. Better to confront these unwelcome feelings directly while advancing their political alliance through necessary consultation.

"A reasonable suggestion," she agreed after brief consideration. "Please dispatch a message requesting Master Kestrel's presence tomorrow, or at his earliest convenience thereafter."

"As you wish," Cecil replied, making a notation in his documents. "Shall I include specific matters for discussion in the summons?"

"Simply indicate that recent developments require consultation regarding our mutual interests," Elizabeth directed. "No need for greater specificity that might reach unwelcome observers."

Cecil nodded his understanding. "I'll have the message dispatched immediately after we conclude our current discussion."

He proceeded through several additional matters requiring attention—correspondence from supportive nobles, arrangements for potential emergency relocation, financial concerns regarding Elizabeth's limited household budget. Throughout, Elizabeth maintained appropriate focus, pushing thoughts of Robert Kestrel and her troubling dreams firmly aside whenever they threatened to intrude.

When their meeting concluded nearly two hours later, Elizabeth returned to her private chambers, dismissing her ladies to achieve rare solitude. She moved to the window, gazing out at Woodstock's winter-brown gardens as she contemplated the complex situation developing around her.

Bobby's activities as described by Cecil confirmed both his extraordinary capabilities and his strategic approach to establishing influence. The poor relief initiatives, diverse commercial ventures, banking innovations, and technological advancements all aligned with the future England she had glimpsed in her dreams—prosperous, innovative, increasingly powerful on the world stage.

Yet the independence of these activities from her direct knowledge or involvement raised troubling questions. If Bobby merely sought to fulfill their agreement—helping secure her eventual coronation in exchange for scientific advancement during her reign—why develop such extensive operations without keeping her fully informed?

The answer seemed uncomfortably clear: his agenda extended beyond their specific agreement, encompassing objectives she could only partly comprehend given the vast disparity in their respective perspectives.

More personally disturbing were her increasingly explicit dreams and their implication that their relationship would eventually extend far beyond political alliance. The pleasure her dream-self had experienced in Bobby's arms—submitting to his dominance despite her royal status—troubled her awake-self's sense of propriety and independence.

Elizabeth Tudor had never intended to share power, let alone her bed, with anyone. Her father's marital history had vividly demonstrated the dangers of allowing personal desires to influence royal authority. Her own mother's execution had resulted directly from Henry's transferrence of affection to Jane Seymour. Such vulnerabilities represented unacceptable risk for a female monarch in a world dominated by male authority.

Yet her dreams consistently showed her not only accepting but embracing such partnership—finding liberation rather than constraint in sharing both crown and bed with Robert Kestrel.

"This is madness," Elizabeth whispered to herself, echoing her thoughts from nights before. She was a princess of England, destined for sovereignty according to both birth and prophecy. Surrendering even partial authority to another—regardless of his extraordinary capabilities—contradicted everything she had worked toward since childhood.

Even so, she couldn't dismiss the prosperity and power her dream-England had clearly achieved under their joint governance. The golden age her visions depicted—with English ships dominating distant seas, scientific advancement flourishing where medieval superstition had once prevailed, and Elizabeth herself celebrated as history's greatest monarch—appeared inextricably linked to Bobby's influence.

Could she achieve such glorious reign independently, without the partnership her dreams depicted? Or was that future's brilliance contingent upon their joint rule, their complementary strengths creating something greater than either could accomplish alone?

More troubling still was the possibility that Bobby himself had deliberately orchestrated these dreams somehow—using his extraordinary abilities to influence her unconscious mind toward accepting their eventual partnership. The thought sent a chill through her despite the chamber's adequate warmth. If he could manipulate her dreams, what other subtle influences might he exert without her knowledge?

Yet this suspicion contradicted her intuitive understanding of their connection. The dreams had begun before she ever encountered Bobby in waking life—she had recognized him instantly in that abandoned church precisely because he matched the figure from her prophetic visions. Unless his influence somehow transcended conventional temporal boundaries—a disturbing possibility given his mysterious nature—the dreams represented genuine prophecy rather than external manipulation.

Elizabeth sighed, pressing her forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window. Tomorrow she would face him again, needing to maintain perfect royal composure while her mind harbored explicit images of their potential future intimacy. The challenge seemed almost insurmountable, yet she had survived far worse trials through Tudor determination and disciplined self-control.

Whatever these dreams might portend, whatever broader agenda Bobby might pursue beyond their specific agreement, Elizabeth remained daughter to Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn—heir to England's throne and architect of her own destiny. She would master these unwelcome feelings as she had mastered previous challenges, bending circumstance to her will rather than allowing herself to be directed by forces beyond her control.

With renewed determination, Elizabeth turned from the window and rang for her ladies. The remainder of the day offered ample duties requiring attention—correspondence, household matters, religious observation. She would focus on these immediate responsibilities, pushing thoughts of Robert Kestrel firmly aside until their scheduled meeting tomorrow.

Yet as she resumed her royal duties with outward composure, Elizabeth couldn't completely suppress the treacherous anticipation that fluttered beneath her breastbone at the thought of seeing him again—or the lingering sensations from that dream table at Hampton Court, where she had surrendered both body and authority with such shameful enthusiasm.

--------

The early morning light filtering through leaded glass windows cast long shadows across Elizabeth's private study as she reviewed correspondence one final time before Bobby's anticipated arrival. Her sleep had been mercifully dreamless—perhaps exhaustion had finally overcome her troublesome subconscious—leaving her mind clearer than it had been for days.

She had chosen her attire with particular care—a gown of deep forest green that complemented her coloring while projecting appropriate regal dignity. The high collar and modest cut maintained proper decorum, though the fitted bodice accentuated her slender figure to subtle advantage. Her hair had been arranged in an elegant style that balanced maturity with the natural beauty of its reddish-gold color, adorned with a single pearl pin that had once belonged to her mother.

Elizabeth recognized these careful preparations for what they were—armor against her own inappropriate feelings, external dignity to compensate for internal confusion. She had learned early in life to present whatever face circumstances required regardless of her true emotions, a skill that had preserved her through numerous political dangers throughout her precarious childhood.

A knock at the door interrupted her preparations. Catherine Ashley entered with a slight curtsy. "Master Kestrel has arrived, Your Highness. He awaits your pleasure in the antechamber."

Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken despite her best efforts at royal composure. "Has Master Cecil joined him?"

"Not yet, Your Highness. Master Cecil sends word that he will be slightly delayed—perhaps a quarter hour—due to an urgent message that arrived from London this morning."

Elizabeth nodded, momentarily uncertain whether to meet Bobby alone given her recent dreams. Propriety suggested waiting for Cecil's arrival to ensure appropriately chaperoned interaction, particularly given her unsettled feelings.

Yet delaying would suggest weakness—an admission that she required protection from her own emotions. As a Tudor princess and England's future queen, such vulnerability remained unacceptable.

"Show Master Kestrel in," she directed with calm authority that belied her inner uncertainty. "And inform Master Cecil I expect him promptly when his urgent business concludes."

Kat withdrew with another curtsy, leaving Elizabeth a final moment to compose herself. She remained seated behind her writing table, arranging documents with deliberate precision—a minor demonstration of control that steadied her nerves.

When the door opened again, Elizabeth maintained her focus on the papers before her, deliberately creating the impression of a sovereign princess too engaged with important matters to immediately acknowledge a visitor's arrival. Only after she heard the door close did she look up, her expression schooled to reveal nothing beyond appropriate royal welcome.

Bobby stood just inside the chamber, his appearance as impeccable as ever despite reported activities that would have exhausted any ordinary man. He wore a merchant's attire of exceptional quality—deep blue doublet with subtle silver embroidery, black velvet breeches, and a short cape that suggested recent travel. His dark hair remained perfectly groomed, his clean-shaven face showing no signs of fatigue or stress.

"Your Highness," he greeted her with a formal bow that somehow managed to convey both appropriate deference and private amusement simultaneously. "You honor me with this summons."

"Master Kestrel," Elizabeth acknowledged, gesturing toward the chair opposite hers. "Please be seated. Master Cecil joins us shortly."

Bobby took the indicated seat with fluid grace that reminded Elizabeth uncomfortably of his physical perfection in her dreams. She pushed the thought firmly aside, maintaining professional focus.

"I trust your journey from London was uneventful?" she inquired, beginning with conventional pleasantries.

"Quite boring, actually," Bobby replied, his tone shifting to something more casual now that they were alone. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he relaxed in the chair. "Though I did pass a merchant's wagon that overturned in a mud puddle. The poor man's fine silks won't be so fine anymore."

The casual shift in his demeanor—so different from the formal merchant persona he maintained in public—caught Elizabeth slightly off guard despite their previous private interactions.

"You find our era's limitations amusing?" Elizabeth asked, attempting to maintain her royal dignity.

"Sometimes hilarious," Bobby replied with an easy smile. "Though the smell is definitely worse than future historians ever mention. Everyone stinks, the streets stink, even the palaces stink. Future museum curators try so hard to recreate 'authentic Tudor experiences' while leaving out the most authentic part."

Though she tried to maintain her composure, Elizabeth couldn't help the small quirk of her lips at his irreverent observation. "We do bathe, Master Kestrel. Contrary to what you might believe."

"Oh, I know," he replied with a grin that suggested dangerous familiarity. "Once a month whether needed or not, right? Quite progressive for this century."

Before Elizabeth could formulate a suitably dignified response to this impertinence, Bobby leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more perceptive.

"Something's bothering you, Elizabeth," he said, dropping formal address entirely now they were alone. "You've got that pinched look around your eyes—the same one you get when dealing with particularly tiresome ambassadors."

The directness of this observation—cutting through formal pretense to her actual emotional state—momentarily unbalanced her carefully maintained composure. Had her disquiet been so obvious despite her best efforts at royal dignity?

"You forget yourself, Master Kestrel," she replied coolly, reverting to formal address as psychological defense.

Bobby's smile widened, his eyes dancing with undisguised amusement. "Back to 'Master Kestrel,' is it? Now I'm certain something's wrong." He tilted his head, studying her with an expression of exaggerated concentration. "Let me guess... Cecil's been particularly fussy? Your ladies gossiping too much? Or..." his eyes widened in mock realization, "...you've been having interesting dreams again?"

Elizabeth felt heat rush to her face before she could control her reaction, and Bobby's delighted expression told her she'd given herself away completely.

"Ah! Dreams it is," he said with evident satisfaction. "Must have been quite something to have Tudor composure slipping so dramatically."

"This is highly inappropriate," Elizabeth managed, fighting to regain her royal dignity.

"Most entertaining things are," Bobby replied cheerfully. "I'm flattered, though. Truly."

"Flattered?" Elizabeth repeated, mortified by the implication that he understood exactly what kind of dreams had been plaguing her.

Bobby leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. "Your dreams typically manifest around things you desire—potential futures that address your deepest concerns or... needs." He emphasized the last word with deliberate suggestiveness. "First you dreamed of a powerful ally when you needed protection, then of future glory when you needed reassurance about your destiny. Now..." he gestured vaguely with one hand, "...well, you are a grown woman with certain biological imperatives."

Elizabeth stared at him in stunned silence, unable to believe he was speaking so casually about such matters.

"Sexual frustration is perfectly natural," he continued conversationally, as though discussing the weather. "Especially for someone in your position who can't exactly visit the local tavern for a quick tumble like the rest of us."

"Master Kestrel!" Elizabeth finally found her voice, scandalized beyond measure.

Bobby had the audacity to laugh—a warm, genuine sound that somehow made the situation both better and worse simultaneously. "You're adorable when you're flustered," he said, his expression softening into something almost affectionate. "The mighty Tudor mask slips, and suddenly I can see the woman beneath all that royal conditioning."

"This conversation is entirely inappropriate," Elizabeth declared, struggling to reassemble her dignity. "We have matters of state to discuss."

"We do," Bobby agreed easily, though his eyes still danced with amusement. "But Cecil isn't here yet, and watching you squirm is far too enjoyable to pass up."

Elizabeth drew herself up, calling on every ounce of her royal heritage. "I am a princess of England—"

"—who's been having naughty dreams about me," Bobby finished for her, completely unintimidated. "Which, again, is perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of. Though I am curious about the details..."

"There will be no discussion of details," Elizabeth declared firmly, though her flaming cheeks undermined her attempt at authority.

Bobby raised his hands in mock surrender, though his expression remained thoroughly entertained. "As you wish, Your Highness. Though I should mention—" he leaned forward as if sharing a confidence, "—reality rarely matches fantasy, especially with someone who's had billions of years to practice."

Elizabeth's mouth fell open at the outrageous implication, and Bobby burst into genuine laughter at her expression.

"Your face!" he exclaimed, clearly delighted by her shock. "Worth traveling across five galaxies just to see that look."

Before Elizabeth could formulate a suitably scathing response, a knock at the door announced Cecil's arrival, and Bobby's demeanor transformed instantly. His posture straightened, his expression shifted to respectful attentiveness, and all traces of playful familiarity vanished as though they had never existed.

"Enter," Elizabeth called, grateful for the interruption despite her lingering mortification.

William Cecil entered with a slight bow. "Your Highness, Master Kestrel—forgive my delayed arrival. Urgent correspondence from London required immediate attention."

"You're most timely, Master Cecil," Elizabeth replied, struggling to maintain composed expression after Bobby's outrageous teasing. "Master Kestrel and I were discussing his various commercial and charitable initiatives."

If Cecil noticed anything amiss in her demeanor, he gave no indication as he took the empty chair to Elizabeth's right, positioning himself where he could observe both his princess and their mysterious guest simultaneously.

"Indeed? I hope Master Kestrel might elaborate on certain aspects that remain somewhat opaque despite my investigations."

"I'm happy to provide whatever clarity I can," Bobby replied with perfect formal courtesy, though Elizabeth caught the briefest flash of mischief in his eyes as they met hers.

"Your banking operations particularly interest me," Cecil began, removing a folded document from his sleeve. "The concept of 'interest-bearing investment' represents significant departure from traditional financial arrangements."

"A necessary evolution," Bobby replied smoothly, his tone now completely professional and measured. "Static capital serves neither its owners nor the broader economy effectively. Activating wealth through continuous circulation maximizes utility for all participants—the original investors receive regular returns, commercial ventures access necessary funding, and general prosperity increases through expanded economic activity."

"Yet such arrangements resemble usury, which both Protestant and Catholic authorities consider sinful," Cecil observed cautiously.

Bobby's expression turned appropriately serious. "Religious authorities naturally interpret scripture according to existing social structures rather than objective economic principles. My banking operations charge reasonable fees for genuine service—facilitating productive capital deployment rather than simply exploiting financial desperation."

He leaned forward slightly, warming to the subject with scholarly enthusiasm. "Consider the Earl of Pembroke's investment, for example. His five thousand pounds now finances shipbuilding that employs sixty craftsmen, timber operations supporting another forty workers, and subsequent trading voyages that generate profits exceeding thirty percent on invested capital. Everyone benefits—the Earl receives quarterly returns exceeding traditional arrangements, workers gain stable employment, consumers access goods previously unavailable in England, and the crown collects increased customs duties from expanded trade."

"A compelling economic argument," Cecil acknowledged. "Though the rapid expansion of your financial resources raises questions about overall system stability. If your operations collapsed suddenly, the impact might extend beyond immediate investors to broader economic disruption."

"A theoretical concern addressed through prudent structural safeguards," Bobby replied. "Each investment maintains appropriate reserves against potential losses, diversified across multiple commercial sectors to minimize concentrated risk."

The discussion continued in this vein for some time—Cecil probing for potential vulnerabilities or hidden agenda behind Bobby's various initiatives, while Bobby provided detailed explanations that somehow managed to be simultaneously informative and strategically incomplete.

Throughout, Elizabeth observed the stark contrast between Bobby's current formal demeanor and the playful, irreverent manner he had displayed when they were alone. His ability to shift personas so completely—from teasing confidant to respectful merchant—reminded her once again of his fundamentally inhuman nature despite his perfect human appearance.

When Cecil eventually turned the discussion toward Bobby's technological innovations—particularly the "spring-driven mechanisms" being produced in his Southwark workshops—Elizabeth noted subtle shift in Bobby's demeanor. His explanations became more precise, his enthusiasm more genuine, suggesting personal interest beyond strategic calculation.

"These devices represent modest beginning rather than ultimate objective," he explained. "Precision timekeeping enables numerous subsequent innovations in navigation, manufacturing, and scientific measurement. The workshops currently produce relatively simple mechanisms, with complexity increasing as craftsmen master fundamental principles."

"To what practical purpose?" Cecil inquired. "Beyond expensive curiosities for wealthy collectors?"

"Maritime navigation primarily," Bobby replied. "Accurate timekeeping enables precise determination of longitude at sea—a capability that would give English vessels significant advantage in both commercial and military applications."

Elizabeth recognized the strategic implication immediately. Her father had attempted establishing naval supremacy through brute force—building great warships like the Mary Rose that ultimately proved vulnerable despite their impressive appearance. Bobby apparently sought more fundamental advantage through technological superiority that would extend across both military and commercial domains.

Her dreams had consistently shown English ships dominating distant seas during her reign—the foundation of imperial power extending far beyond Europe. These mechanical innovations apparently represented early steps toward that eventual maritine supremacy.

As their conversation continued through various additional topics—poor relief administration, commercial shipping expansion, relationships with Continental trading partners—Elizabeth found herself increasingly convinced of Bobby's genuine commitment to their alliance despite his independent operations and irreverent private manner. Every initiative he described ultimately connected to strengthening England's position under her eventual rule, creating foundations for the golden age her dreams had depicted.

When their formal discussion concluded nearly three hours later, Cecil gathered his documents with clear reluctance to leave Elizabeth alone with their enigmatic visitor.

"If I might have a brief private word with Your Highness before departing?" he requested, making his protective intentions transparent.

"Of course," Elizabeth agreed, understanding his concern while finding it simultaneously touching and slightly irritating. "Master Kestrel, would you grant us a moment?"

"Certainly," Bobby replied with perfect courtesy, though his eyes held that spark of mischief that suggested he understood perfectly Cecil's protective impulse and found it amusingly inadequate. "I'll await your convenience in the antechamber."

Once he had departed, Cecil immediately moved closer, lowering his voice despite the closed door. "Your Highness, I must counsel caution in private dealings with Master Kestrel. His explanations, while superficially persuasive, leave fundamental questions unanswered regarding his true nature and ultimate objectives."

"I'm well aware of the mysteries surrounding our unusual ally, Cecil," Elizabeth replied with gentle patience. "Yet his practical assistance remains valuable regardless of those unanswered questions."

After several more minutes of cautious counsel from Cecil and appropriate reassurances from Elizabeth, her advisor finally departed, leaving her with the prospect of facing Bobby alone again after their earlier uncomfortable exchange.

When Bobby reentered at her summons, Elizabeth remained firmly behind her writing table, maintaining physical distance as psychological barrier against both his teasing and her own inappropriate thoughts.

"Poor Cecil," Bobby said immediately, his formal demeanor vanishing the instant the door closed. "So worried about the mysterious foreigner corrupting his precious princess. If he only knew the half of it."

"Master Cecil's concerns are entirely reasonable given the extraordinary nature of our arrangement," Elizabeth replied with deliberate formality.

Bobby dropped into the chair with casual ease, stretching his legs out before him in a decidedly non-deferential posture. "And we're back to formality again. You know, it's exhausting watching you constantly battle yourself, Elizabeth."

"I do not battle myself," she replied stiffly.

"You absolutely do," he countered with a grin. "Half of you is desperate to maintain perfect Tudor composure at all times, and the other half is a living, breathing woman with normal human desires and curiosities." He tilted his head, studying her with amused affection. "I find the second half far more interesting, personally."

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warming again despite her determination to maintain composure. "You take liberties that no one else would dare."

"That's why you like me," Bobby replied with complete confidence. "Everyone else treats you like you're made of glass—afraid to speak honestly or acknowledge you're a woman rather than just a royal symbol."

"Is that what you think I desire? To be treated with disrespect?" Elizabeth challenged.

Bobby's expression softened slightly. "There's a difference between disrespect and honest interaction, Elizabeth. I respect your intelligence, your determination, and your vision for England's future enormously. But I don't pretend you're not also a flesh-and-blood woman with all the normal human complexities that entails."

He leaned forward, his expression turning more serious. "Including desires you've been conditioned to consider inappropriate for your station. Hence those dreams that have you so flustered."

Elizabeth couldn't help asking, "How can you possibly know about the dreams if you don't somehow cause them?"

"I don't know their specific content," Bobby replied, surprisingly candid. "Though your reaction makes the general theme fairly obvious. As for how they occur—you have natural quantum sensitivity that manifests through prophetic dreams. I suspect our connection simply creates particular resonance patterns your subconscious interprets in ways relevant to your... current state."

"And what state would that be?" Elizabeth asked, immediately regretting the question.

Bobby's slow smile was entirely too knowing. "Sexual frustration, among other things. You're almost eighteen, Elizabeth. At your age, most women have usually experienced physical intimacy or at least have some outlet for those natural urges. You've been denied that normal human development because of your position."

Elizabeth stared at him, mortified yet unable to formulate a suitably dignified response.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he continued, his tone gentler. "Sexuality is normal human functioning. Your subconscious is simply exploring possibilities that your conscious mind considers forbidden."

"This conversation is entirely inappropriate," Elizabeth managed, though with less conviction than she intended.

"Most important conversations are," Bobby replied with a shrug. "Look, I'm not suggesting you act on these dreams. I'm just pointing out that having them doesn't make you weak or somehow diminished. It makes you human."

Elizabeth looked away, uncomfortable with both the conversation and the unexpected kindness in his tone. "You find my discomfort amusing."

"I find your struggle with yourself fascinating," he corrected. "You've built such elaborate defenses around your innermost self that even experiencing normal human feelings creates crisis for you."

He leaned forward, his expression surprisingly gentle. "For what it's worth, I admire the woman beneath all that royal conditioning far more than the perfect princess facade you present to the world."

Something in his tone—a sincerity that cut through her defenses more effectively than his teasing had done—made Elizabeth meet his gaze directly. For a moment, neither spoke, and she had the disorienting sensation that his ancient eyes saw directly into her soul, recognizing parts of herself she worked so diligently to conceal.

"Your continued existence must be terribly lonely," she said suddenly, surprising herself with the observation.

Bobby's expression shifted to something more complex, a momentary vulnerability that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. "Occasionally," he acknowledged. "Though I've learned to appreciate temporary connections for what they are."

The implications of his words—that she, too, was merely a "temporary connection" in his incomprehensibly long existence—created an unexpected pang that Elizabeth quickly suppressed.

"I suspect we should return to matters of actual significance," she said, intentionally redirecting the conversation away from dangerous personal territory.

Bobby's smile returned, though it held a different quality now. "As you wish, Princess. Though I maintain that understanding oneself constitutes quite significant matter."

Their conversation shifted to more conventional topics—Northumberland's preparations, potential security arrangements, contingency plans for various scenarios following Edward's death. Throughout, Bobby maintained the less formal demeanor he adopted when they were alone, though he refrained from further personal teasing that might deepen her discomfort.

When their consultation finally concluded, Bobby rose with that fluid grace that had featured so prominently in her visions. "Is there anything else you require before I return to London?" he inquired.

"Regular updates regarding Northumberland's preparations would be valuable," Elizabeth replied, maintaining composed expression despite her relief at their meeting's conclusion. "And perhaps more detailed information about your banking operations—they present interesting possibilities for royal finance once I eventually take the throne."

"Of course," Bobby agreed easily. "I'll have comprehensive documentation prepared." He moved toward the door before pausing, his expression turning mischievous once more. "One last thing about those dreams..."

Elizabeth tensed immediately. "Yes?"

His grin turned positively wicked. "When they continue—and they will continue—perhaps take notes? I'm curious what your subconscious thinks I'd be like as a lover."

"Master Kestrel!" Elizabeth exclaimed, torn between outrage and reluctant amusement at his audacity.

Bobby laughed, the sound warm and genuinely delighted. "There she is—the real Elizabeth Tudor. Much more interesting than the perfect princess, don't you think?"

Before she could formulate a response, he executed a bow that somehow managed to be simultaneously proper and ironic. "Until our next meeting, Your Highness. Sweet dreams." With a final mischievous wink that no courtier would ever dare direct at a royal princess, he departed, leaving Elizabeth staring after him in a complex mixture of embarrassment, irritation, and something far more dangerous that she refused to acknowledge even to herself.

After his departure, Elizabeth moved to the window, watching as he crossed the courtyard below with confident stride that conveyed none of the fatigue normal men would experience after such lengthy journey and intense consultation.

His extraordinary capabilities had been repeatedly confirmed through Cecil's reports and his own explanations—wealth accumulation, technological innovation, intelligence gathering, institutional development far beyond what any conventional Tudor-era figure could accomplish.

These capabilities aligned perfectly with the future England her dreams had depicted—prosperous, innovative, increasingly powerful on world stage under her forty-five year reign. If achieving that glorious future required certain unconventional arrangements regarding governance and personal relationship, would such compromise truly represent unacceptable sacrifice?

Elizabeth pushed the dangerous thought firmly aside. She was a Tudor princess—daughter to Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, rightful heir to England's throne after her siblings. Whatever her prophetic dreams might suggest regarding potential futures with Robert Kestrel, she would chart her own course based on royal prerogative and personal determination rather than predetermined destiny.

Yet as she turned from the window to resume her daily duties, Elizabeth couldn't completely suppress the treacherous thought that Bobby's irreverent honesty—seeing her as both woman and princess rather than merely royal symbol—offered refreshing contrast to the careful deference that had surrounded her since childhood.

And if his parting words about her dreams brought unwelcome heat to her cheeks hours after his departure... well, that was a weakness she would simply have to overcome through proper Tudor discipline.