The Boleyn Bride by Brandy Purdy Read Free Book Online Page B

their stout, matronly waists, clasping dark-beaded rosaries with dangling golden crucifixes replete with the suffering Christ frozen forever in mute agony. All of them were clad in dark, dour opulence. They marched past without acknowledging us, in high-collared, somber-hued Spanish and Genoese velvets trimmed with discreet daubs of muted gold, wearing headdresses that looked like rotten dark brown or black pumpkins that had been cut in half, hollowed out, and studded with pearls and shimmering, winking, and faceted jet, garnet, smoky- and honey-hued topaz, and antique gold beads before being crammed onto their heads to hide each and every hair of their severely pinned tresses. By the look of them, they followed the old fashion of shaving back their hairlines to make their foreheads appear even higher, which had the effect of making them all look bald beneath those ludicrous beaded pumpkins. In the crowd around me, some poor and ignorant people wondered if it was indeed the fashion for Spanish women to shave their pates after the wedding.
    As the procession wended past on its way to St. Paul’s Cathedral, to celebrate a special mass of thanksgiving for Princess Catherine’s safe arrival, the crowd about me began to disperse with much talk of alehouses. It was then that I realized my predicament.
    How was I to make my way back to Baynard’s Castle for the banquet that was to follow the mass? I hadn’t spared a thought for that. A proper conveyance—a coach, barge, litter, or horse—had always been provided for me. I had never had to ask or arrange such things myself. I took it for granted that it would always be there when I wanted or had need of it, and it always had been.
    Where was Matilda when I needed her? I stamped my foot and wished my maid would miraculously materialize standing right beside me so I could slap her. I would be sure to tell my father that she had abandoned me, deserted me when I needed her most, and left his young and beautiful only daughter entirely unchaperoned, all alone on a public thoroughfare where I had, only by some miracle, escaped being ravished at the hands of some crude and uncouth stranger. I might have been raped by a rat catcher or one of those foul ruffians who collected manure from the city streets! He’d have her lashed for this! I was sure of it. And I would be right there, standing beside him, smiling up at him adoringly with my hand on his velvet sleeve, listening to the annoying music of her screams as her back was being flayed open. My father always took care of me; “naught but the best for my Bess,” he always said, even though I detested being called by any diminutive of my Christian name.
    Fuming and frustrated by my sudden, and unexpected, helplessness, I spun around, anxiously searching the street, hoping to spy some passing conveyance that I might hail or some familiar face I might prevail upon for some chivalrous assistance. It was then that I noticed him . A rather rotund—or fat as a cruder, more plainspoken, and less refined individual might have said—young man, tall, dark-eyed and -haired, and with a light growth of beard adorning his big, round as a pie face, slumped casually against a wall in his humble rusty black doublet and hose, both well-worn and oft-mended. He was like a great big baby—so soft, lovely, pink, white, and fat—yet at the same time unmistakably, undeniably a man, but I still wanted to hold and play with him. He looked delicious, and my hot blood gave a mighty sizzle. I suddenly wished with all my heart that I had a bouquet of sweet and spicy pinks so I might invite him to play a rather naughty game peasant girls played in which they secreted the blossoms in their clothes and invited the young men they favored to search and find them, then trade them all for kisses.
    A stray lock of unruly dark hair fell like an upside-down question mark over his brow as his intense, warm brown eyes pierced me like Cupid’s arrow. It was the most