that she looked striking in
white, and that the gold bonnet she wore was jewel encrusted, which made her
black hair shine like jet against the sparkle.
Oddly enough, it didn’t matter to her that the other seven
ladies would be wearing similar outfits. Anne knew she looked even more
striking than the King’s sister, knew that pale beauty could not outshine her
tonight. But it was a shame Mary Suffolk couldn't have played one of the enemies
of love—they were dressed like savages.
"Is this thing on straight?" she asked Bounty
whose label for the evening matched her image perfectly. Bountiful breasts
jiggled each time she fidgeted. Her flax-colored hair dipped into the well
between those bosoms frequently, only to be pulled out with annoyance by the
girl’s plump fingers. Her given name she told Anne, was Elizabeth Blount.
"But call me Bess." The whisper broke the silence
which pervaded the area where they stood, masked from view by a large musty
curtain. Anne wondered if this was the woman who had borne Henry his only
living son nine years past.
"Cursed Banner," Bounty mumbled. Her voice sounded
as dust-laden as the curtain. She was pretty in a fetching way, with a full,
plump face. Her barely suppressed laughter rang in Anne’s ear, so she found
herself giggling in return, propriety and nervousness forgotten...
"Shh. Someone is lighting the torches," Bounty
whispered, quieting her restless limbs as she struck her pose.
Anne followed suit, awaiting her rescue from the
battlements. She imagined what the scene must look like to the envoys that sat
in plush chairs. She’d peeked into the room an hour before while the room had
been dimly lit by two torches. The faux castle where she now stood, had loomed
green and shimmering at one end of the hallway like a specter shining through a
mist. Upon its high battlements stood towers and walls pierced with
crenellations and swathed all over with green paper and liquid verdigris. It
borrowed mythical imagery, and lent a ghostly air to the room.
The three towers each flew a banner; one, a broken heart,
another a lady's hand turning a man's heart, and the last a lady's hand holding
a man's heart. Large waxen torches hung on every wall of the room. As they were
lit she held her breath. Their glow flickered through the rents in the curtain
making the room ethereal and dim. No sound came from the other side of the
curtain—the envoys and courtiers must be ready. Suddenly, the curtain tumbled
into a neat heap at the foot of the castle. The entire cast gasped with
surprise, and the full crowd of spectators' intake of breath accompanied a
startling blare of trumpets.
In rushed eight masked lords, all dressed in cloth-of-gold
and cloaks of blue satin, save one—Ardent Desire. He was obviously the leader;
his crimson cloak was scored by a motif of burning golden flames. Anne struck
what she thought to be a fitting frightened look, widened her eyes to their
maximum.
She tried her best to contain a chuckle when Bessie hissed through
clenched teeth, "You look like a fish!"
From below, Ardent Desire demanded the ladies give up the
castle.
"Never. We shall defend!" Both Scorn and Disdain
yelled back in unison.
"Then the ladies must be won," Desire instructed
his accompaniment.
"Attack!" The eight lords rushed the castle with a
concentrated effort. The realism of the assault made Anne shiver, but only for
a moment. Dates made flumping noises as they hit the poor ladies. Oranges sent
a citrus scent to the air.
"Which is the King?" she dared ask Bess, who
halted her pitiful wail long enough to nod in the direction of Ardent Desire.
Anne should have known. The combined screech of the
defenders accompanied their parry of rosewater and comfits. Gunfire thundered
through the room. It combined with the screeches of a frightened audience. Anne
expected it, but squealed when the lady next to her did. Foolish woman, she
should have known the audience would holler. The last of the
white, and that the gold bonnet she wore was jewel encrusted, which made her
black hair shine like jet against the sparkle.
Oddly enough, it didn’t matter to her that the other seven
ladies would be wearing similar outfits. Anne knew she looked even more
striking than the King’s sister, knew that pale beauty could not outshine her
tonight. But it was a shame Mary Suffolk couldn't have played one of the enemies
of love—they were dressed like savages.
"Is this thing on straight?" she asked Bounty
whose label for the evening matched her image perfectly. Bountiful breasts
jiggled each time she fidgeted. Her flax-colored hair dipped into the well
between those bosoms frequently, only to be pulled out with annoyance by the
girl’s plump fingers. Her given name she told Anne, was Elizabeth Blount.
"But call me Bess." The whisper broke the silence
which pervaded the area where they stood, masked from view by a large musty
curtain. Anne wondered if this was the woman who had borne Henry his only
living son nine years past.
"Cursed Banner," Bounty mumbled. Her voice sounded
as dust-laden as the curtain. She was pretty in a fetching way, with a full,
plump face. Her barely suppressed laughter rang in Anne’s ear, so she found
herself giggling in return, propriety and nervousness forgotten...
"Shh. Someone is lighting the torches," Bounty
whispered, quieting her restless limbs as she struck her pose.
Anne followed suit, awaiting her rescue from the
battlements. She imagined what the scene must look like to the envoys that sat
in plush chairs. She’d peeked into the room an hour before while the room had
been dimly lit by two torches. The faux castle where she now stood, had loomed
green and shimmering at one end of the hallway like a specter shining through a
mist. Upon its high battlements stood towers and walls pierced with
crenellations and swathed all over with green paper and liquid verdigris. It
borrowed mythical imagery, and lent a ghostly air to the room.
The three towers each flew a banner; one, a broken heart,
another a lady's hand turning a man's heart, and the last a lady's hand holding
a man's heart. Large waxen torches hung on every wall of the room. As they were
lit she held her breath. Their glow flickered through the rents in the curtain
making the room ethereal and dim. No sound came from the other side of the
curtain—the envoys and courtiers must be ready. Suddenly, the curtain tumbled
into a neat heap at the foot of the castle. The entire cast gasped with
surprise, and the full crowd of spectators' intake of breath accompanied a
startling blare of trumpets.
In rushed eight masked lords, all dressed in cloth-of-gold
and cloaks of blue satin, save one—Ardent Desire. He was obviously the leader;
his crimson cloak was scored by a motif of burning golden flames. Anne struck
what she thought to be a fitting frightened look, widened her eyes to their
maximum.
She tried her best to contain a chuckle when Bessie hissed through
clenched teeth, "You look like a fish!"
From below, Ardent Desire demanded the ladies give up the
castle.
"Never. We shall defend!" Both Scorn and Disdain
yelled back in unison.
"Then the ladies must be won," Desire instructed
his accompaniment.
"Attack!" The eight lords rushed the castle with a
concentrated effort. The realism of the assault made Anne shiver, but only for
a moment. Dates made flumping noises as they hit the poor ladies. Oranges sent
a citrus scent to the air.
"Which is the King?" she dared ask Bess, who
halted her pitiful wail long enough to nod in the direction of Ardent Desire.
Anne should have known. The combined screech of the
defenders accompanied their parry of rosewater and comfits. Gunfire thundered
through the room. It combined with the screeches of a frightened audience. Anne
expected it, but squealed when the lady next to her did. Foolish woman, she
should have known the audience would holler. The last of the
Similar Books
