Summer had finally cried herself into exhausted sleep. When she finally woke, late the next morning, the first thing she did was test her ankle, for she was determined to escape the confines of the palace. After some consideration, she bound it tightly within her boot and marched — well, hobbled, really — out to the archery targets.
The men there kindly ceded her a target after she demonstrated her skill, and one young fellow appointed himself her arrow-fetcher. But even archery wasn’t distracting enough.
Henry sat in his room, the book still in his hand – he flung it on the table and it landed with a loud thud.
The day had passed and he wondered – yet again – what should be made of this situation. For he did enjoy her company, and he – admittedly – did think her attentions only for the crown, for brief moments at time, but he also knew she was unlike any of the court.
Standing up, he thought he would give her the book and act upon her as if he had not heard any of her thoughts – for she would not wish to know that either.
She’d not seen the King all day. Not that she was looking for him, exactly; rather the opposite, really. She shot until her arm bore a mark even through the archer’s guard, until her shoulders ached more than her ankle, until even the men were weary and departed. She avoided both supper and dinner, drinking until she had a violent headache.