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.
Henry walked to her chamber rooms, and gently knocked on the door, there was a moan in response and Henry hesitated briefly before walking inside the room. He saw Summer lying upon the bed, a wet cloth upon her head as she lay among the sheets.
He placed the book among the table of her things and took the cloth from her head, replacing it with a cooler one. He turned to leave from the room.
Summer sensed movement about her, and shortly coolth seeped into the heat of her face. She forced her eyes open, confused as to why Bertha did not speak, and her eyes fell on Henry’s broad-shouldered silhouette. “Henry?” she whispered, thinking somehow she must be dreaming. She loved him, and he thought her only greedily ambitious. If ‘twas not a dream, what would he be doing here?