Read Online Secrets of the Tudor Court by D. L. Bogdan - Free Book Online
Authors: D. L. Bogdan
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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My legs hurt and I am grateful to be dismissed. Gambling bores me, to be truthful, and I am quite cautious with what money I am allowed, so do not wish to squander it foolishly.
As I quit the room the young musician who had been strumming his lute approaches me. He is a short man, but well made; lean of muscle, with fine musician’s hands. He bows, and upon righting himself I am struck by his eyes. They are the most unusual strain of gray-violet, like an unquiet sea beneath the ensuing purple dawn. Never have I seen such eyes. His dark hair curls about his strong shoulders and his smile reveals straight white teeth.
“I hope I’m not being too forward, Mistress Howard, but I must tell you that I was moved by your poem,” he says in a low voice boasting a Cornish accent.
My cheeks burn. I am certain he sees them reddening. I bow my head. He must be at least fifteen. I cannot believe he deigns to talk to such as me!
“Thank you, sir,” I say, shuffling a little awkwardly from foot to foot.
“You are as humble as you appeared!” he cries then, slapping his thigh with his fine hand as though he had just won a bet. “I thought to meet you just to find that out. Most ladies of the court, you know…well, humility doesn’t run high in noble blood.”
“True enough,” I admit with a little laugh before realizing I should be defending my set—a group, it is clear, to which he does not belong.
“Do you write songs as well?” he asks.
“Oh, yes!” I cry with enthusiasm, forgetting I vowed to keep it to myself. “But I couldn’t play them for anyone. They’re so silly and childish—”
“Oh, then I wouldn’t want to hear them,” he says, cocking his brow.
I screw up my face in disappointment, my heart sinking at once.
“Did you expect me to beg your favor, that my ears might be treated to something you, the composer, find unsuitable?” he asks with a warm chuckle. “Always be proud of your work, Mistress Howard. Everything in this life is an illusion; everything can be taken away. Except our talent, our intrinsic gifts from God.” He shrugs. “Given, there are times we compose things that are less than worthy. What do we do with those? Scrap them. And start over. That’s the best part. You can always start over.”
I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.
I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”
“I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”
It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.
“My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a…fascinating place.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It is that.”
“Well,” he says, doffing his feathered cap, “the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions—only the best ones, of course.”
“I shall make certain of it!” I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.
I leave Anne’s apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king’s great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle
As I quit the room the young musician who had been strumming his lute approaches me. He is a short man, but well made; lean of muscle, with fine musician’s hands. He bows, and upon righting himself I am struck by his eyes. They are the most unusual strain of gray-violet, like an unquiet sea beneath the ensuing purple dawn. Never have I seen such eyes. His dark hair curls about his strong shoulders and his smile reveals straight white teeth.
“I hope I’m not being too forward, Mistress Howard, but I must tell you that I was moved by your poem,” he says in a low voice boasting a Cornish accent.
My cheeks burn. I am certain he sees them reddening. I bow my head. He must be at least fifteen. I cannot believe he deigns to talk to such as me!
“Thank you, sir,” I say, shuffling a little awkwardly from foot to foot.
“You are as humble as you appeared!” he cries then, slapping his thigh with his fine hand as though he had just won a bet. “I thought to meet you just to find that out. Most ladies of the court, you know…well, humility doesn’t run high in noble blood.”
“True enough,” I admit with a little laugh before realizing I should be defending my set—a group, it is clear, to which he does not belong.
“Do you write songs as well?” he asks.
“Oh, yes!” I cry with enthusiasm, forgetting I vowed to keep it to myself. “But I couldn’t play them for anyone. They’re so silly and childish—”
“Oh, then I wouldn’t want to hear them,” he says, cocking his brow.
I screw up my face in disappointment, my heart sinking at once.
“Did you expect me to beg your favor, that my ears might be treated to something you, the composer, find unsuitable?” he asks with a warm chuckle. “Always be proud of your work, Mistress Howard. Everything in this life is an illusion; everything can be taken away. Except our talent, our intrinsic gifts from God.” He shrugs. “Given, there are times we compose things that are less than worthy. What do we do with those? Scrap them. And start over. That’s the best part. You can always start over.”
I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.
I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”
“I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”
It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.
“My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a…fascinating place.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It is that.”
“Well,” he says, doffing his feathered cap, “the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions—only the best ones, of course.”
“I shall make certain of it!” I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.
I leave Anne’s apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king’s great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle
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