Bridget Littleton is thrown back in time to the court of Henry VIII:
a fascinating tale of love and betrayal.
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Excerpt:
Torches nested in brackets along the wall and did a surprisingly
good job of lighting the hallway. Bridge followed meekly, terror half closing
her throat. She noticed the way Jane walked and corrected her own, fighting the
desire to mimic her guide in an exaggerated manner. Fear often brought out the
clown in Bridge, but she suppressed the impulse and mirrored Jane’s demeanor as
precisely as she could. Shoulders back, head high, hands folded in front, she
walked slowly and with as much dignity as she could muster under the terrifying
circumstances.
Jane Seymour – destined to be the
king’s third wife, came to court to attend Catherine of Aragon and was now one
of Anne’s ladies. Talk about a front row seat! Bridge concluded. This
could turn into such a mess if I’m not careful! Knowing what she knew,
Bridge would have to walk on proverbial eggshells. One misstep and she could be
in serious trouble and possibly face the stake, or the chopping block. She
tried to clear her mind and focus on what was happening at that exact moment.
Bridge decided to concentrate on the
sounds of the swish of silk fabric against brocade, the report of their wooden
heels against the floor, the play of light on the jewels of Jane’s cap.
Eventually, she heard music, very lively and accompanied by laughter. The
hallway brightened, and she was there. Jane promptly deserted her.
She couldn’t believe her eyes! Here
she was, little Bridget Littleton, standing in the great hall of Hampton Court,
and there before her eyes was none other than Henry VIII. He was magnificent!
Resplendent in cloth of gold and ermine, jewels flashing as he moved his hands
to eat, drink or in conversation, the first thing she noticed was how extremely
handsome he was. He reminded her of someone, but in her present state of
agitation, she couldn’t bring to mind who it was. His portraits did not do him
justice. Perhaps the painter’s goal was to accentuate his stance, robes and
jewels. Or maybe his mouth was made to look smaller because he was supposed to
look stern, and his painted eyes, bereft of eyelashes and brows pencil thin,
made his face look rather plain and porcine-like. From where she stood, she
could see a well-formed mouth, the lips pink with health; she wondered what
they would feel like upon hers.
Shaking herself inwardly, appalled
that such a thought should speed through her mind like a bolt of electricity,
she failed to see that the king was looking at her.
Leaning forward and signaling to a
tall courtier with dark hair, he spoke to him abruptly. The young man turned,
pinpointed Bridge, and strode over.
Watching him approach, Bridge felt a
moment of panic. Her heart bouncing against her rib cage like a captured bird
trying to escape, made her feel giddy. Her breathing became labored, encased as
it was in stiffened cloth and whale bone, as the frantic organ’s beats hit her
esophagus, causing her to gasp and choke. Her blood, akin to a river of ice
water, ran through her veins as frantic fear settled upon her, and she was
suddenly very cold.
A dream-like quality settled over
her, like a mantle of thick cloth, muffling the music and laughter. The young
gentleman stepped before her. Offering his hand, he simply said,
“M’Lady,
the king awaits.”
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