The Boleyn Bride by Brandy Purdy Read Free Book Online

and dour in plain and obviously old black velvet trimmed with ratty fur that had clearly seen better days. Apparently he had not deemed this a fit occasion to order new clothes, and one could only hope that he had felt differently about the wedding to come, otherwise the foreign ambassadors would soon be gleefully spreading the word of our monarch’s moth-eaten apparel abroad and making a laughingstock of the English people. I shuddered to think what they would say of him in Paris! He offered the occasional curt nod to the crowd but mostly kept his squinty gray eyes trained straight ahead as he rode past on a horse that would have suited a brewer’s cart better than the sovereign lord of England.
    How can such a beautiful woman bear such an unbecoming old miser? I wondered as I beheld the Queen, the beautiful Elizabeth of York, fair as a white rose, with vivid blue green eyes and red gold hair. She wore a sumptuous gown of rose red velvet, trimmed in gold and black and rubies and pearls to match the trim on her black velvet gable hood. A necklace of gold and enameled red and white roses encircled her throat, and her slender fingers blazed with rubies and diamonds as they delicately gripped the reins of a snowy mare caparisoned in cloth-of-gold and red silk fringe. How we all loved our beautiful Queen! Those who knew her said she had a gentle manner, kind and gracious, and that her husband, the King, could deny her nothing. Looking at her clothes, it must be true—she was too beautifully garbed for the King to enforce his miserly, penny-pinching ways when it came to paying her dressmakers.
    The royal bridegroom came next—Arthur, Prince of Wales. He was mounted on a handsome white steed caparisoned in cloth-of-silver, ropes of pearls, and grass green velvet. Our prince was a handsome lad of fifteen in white fur and sea green silk broidered with swirls of silver, emerald brilliants, and seed pearls. But all the finery in the world could not disguise the fact that he was alarmingly frail of form; one might even go so far as to say that he looked “sickly”—the sort one imagined a gust of wind would knock right off his horse. Like his mother, he was fine-featured and white-rose fair, but even his red gold hair seemed pale, and his washed-out blue eyes peered out of dark, purplish blue circles. Sleep, I guessed, did not come easily to him.
    With a shy, becoming smile and a timidly raised hand, he acknowledged the crowd as he rode past, followed by a cheeky and vibrant ruddy-haired lad, like a fat little rooster preening in gold-embroidered tawny velvet trimmed with the red fur of foxes. The ends of his chin-length red gold hair curled as though they might tickle his plump pink cheeks and be the reason for his smile. A peacock plume jauntily crowned his black velvet cap and seemed a most fitting touch for one so obviously, and with every reason to be, proud and vain. Prince Henry, our fun-loving Duke of York, grinned and waved at the crowd with the greatest gusto as he cantered past on a chestnut gelding caparisoned in green and white velvet emblazoned with red and white roses.
    All around me the cheers grew louder and people pressed closer at the sight of him as though they longed to reach out and touch and hug and kiss him. They clearly adored him.
    Though only ten, Prince Henry had such a way about him; he was so charismatic, like the always-alluring flame that moths could never resist. No witch or wizard could ever cast such a powerful glamour as his smile and eyes did; simply put, he was spellbinding. As his blue-gray eyes swept the crowd, he made each person feel special, as though his smile were a special gift intended solely for that privileged individual and no other. He truly was the people’s prince. He collected hearts and kept them.
    What a pity such a one was destined for the church! Though I did not doubt for a moment that his sermons would be immensely popular and well attended—with his charm they could