The sun cast long shadows across the sprawling grounds of Whitehall, where the king's hunting party had gathered. The air was crisp, and the scent of damp earth lingered from the recent rains. King Edward III, a man of regal bearing with a salt-and-pepper beard, sat atop his majestic steed, his piercing blue eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of game.

As the king surveyed the landscape, his discontent with his queen, Eleanor, was palpable. Whispers among the courtiers hinted at the growing rift between them, a chasm that seemed insurmountable. The archbishop, Thomas Cromwell, a shrewd and calculating man with a keen interest in matters of both church and state, saw an opportunity in the king's disquiet.

Sir William Lancaster, the trusted confidant of Archbishop Cromwell, sidled up to him as they observed the royal hunting party from a discreet distance.

"Your Grace," Lancaster murmured, his eyes fixed on the king, "the discontent in His Majesty's heart is evident. A new companion may offer solace."

Cromwell nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tapping lightly against the hilt of his ornate dagger. "Indeed, Sir William. The king's heart may be swayed by the right woman. Find me someone discreet, someone whose loyalties lie with the Church and the Crown."

Sir William Lancaster, a man of average build with graying hair and an air of quiet authority, bowed his head and disappeared into the bustling crowd of courtiers.

Meanwhile, not far from the archbishop and his confidant, a group of nobles plotted beneath the shade of ancient oaks. The Duke of Gloucester, a cunning and ambitious man with a thin mustache, led the conspirators.

"Rumor has it that the archbishop seeks a mistress to curry favor with the king," whispered the Duke of Gloucester to his allies, his eyes glinting with greed. "We must find a woman who despises Cromwell and is willing to play a dangerous game. She will be the key to our fortunes."

Lady Beatrice Wycliffe, a striking woman with a cascade of chestnut curls, stepped forward. "I know of just the woman, your Grace. Lady Catherine Belmont despises the archbishop and would relish the opportunity to undermine him."

The Duke of Gloucester smirked, his mind already calculating the potential advantages. "Lady Catherine it is, then. Let the hunt for the mistress begin."

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