Read Online The Boleyn Bride by Brandy Purdy - Free Book Online Page A

thank me for this honor, he whispered poetic compliments about my bosom and stuck his tongue in my ear, making me lose my composure for a moment and giggle like a common milkmaid.
    Later, when the wine was flowing freely at the banquet tables, he doffed his crown of laurels and donned a coronet his own nimble fingers had fashioned from humble garden vegetables, playing the clown and poking fun at his own reputation. He asked me to dance. I readily agreed. I was flattered to have caught the attention of a poet, and dreams of becoming his muse fluttered and whirled like giddy dancers through my girlish mind. When he begged me for one look at my unclad body, to inspire his verse to greater glories, I instantly agreed. Why ever should I not? His verses would make my beauty famous and immortal! Even when my bones had crumbled into dust, I would live on eternally, immortally beautiful in his words. He was giving me the gift of immortal life! Only a fool would refuse that!
    He hurriedly whispered directions to his chamber. I made my excuses, whispering some vague and hasty words hinting at the onset of my courses in my stepmother’s ear, and left the Great Hall, and a little time later, he followed.
    As I stood naked, the first time in all my stark-fleshed glory before any man, he knelt worshipfully at my feet, reciting impetuous verses to me, until I grew bored, and lay down on his bed with my legs splayed wantonly wide to show the secret pink heart of me and beckoned for him to join me and “See what inspiration awaits you here, Sir Poet.”
    I never would share his passion for poetry. Though it was flattering at first being his muse, the novelty soon paled. I already knew I was beautiful—my mirror and men’s admiring eyes and women’s jealous ones told me so every day—and those looks told me more than all the poetry in the world ever could. And I think, upon reflection, it was my nature to prefer things more straightforward and simpler. Plain speech and perfect understanding were, to my mind, always better than a whole bouquet of flowery words with the meanings all hidden beneath pretty petals and ribbons.
    I was often bored and greatly annoyed when, suddenly inspired by our lovemaking—such as it was with my frustratingly intact maidenhead being avoided like a leper despite my urgent pleas that he relieve my agony and pierce it—he sat up, snatched a quill, and rolled me onto my belly to use my back as a makeshift desk for his impulsive scribbling, ignoring the annoyed little shrieks I uttered whenever the point pricked me through the paper and left black ink spots on my snowy skin. These writing sessions frequently lasted longer than our pleasure, and while John’s pen scratched across page after infernal page, often for hours, I consoled myself with the plate of raisin-studded saffron buns or gilt-iced marzipan cakes he always left on the bedside table as a treat for me, “his beautiful muse.”
    But that afternoon, as he covered my body with blazing kisses, I kept seeing the doll maker’s face, as though Remi Jouet’s likeness were painted in vivid colors on the insides of my eyelids. I could not stop thinking about him!
    How curious that I should think of him. I had always before yearned for hard bodies, lean and muscular; those were the kind of men who figured in my dreams, partnering me in the most intimate dance of all, when the finery of the ballroom was doffed, and it was only skin against skin, perfume, heat, and sweat, and yet . . . I wanted him as I had never wanted anyone before, and I knew I would never rest content until I had him.
    I moaned and groaned and caught at Master Skelton, trying to pull him onto me, into me, as I begged him to come inside and ease me; I was in such torment. But, as always, he demurred. I wanted to pound him with my fists and scream, He wouldn’t be afraid to do it! He may be a doll maker, but he is more man than you are! I never intended the words to be the rather obvious