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She kissed him back, a low chuckle escaping her throat, then sighed happily and cuddled into her pillow, dropping into true sleep.

Summer woke the next morning still thinking the evening had been a dream. The weight of it lay heavily on her shoulders. She snapped at Bertha, shouted at the chambermaid until the girl cried, and finally stalked off in bristling anger and despair toward the stables. She flung herself ahorse as soon as she decently could, goading the animal into a gallop the moment they emerged from the castle gates. Surely no one would bother her out here.

She’d neglected to take into account Henry’s morning ride, though.

Henry was riding through the glens, thinking about how she had kissed him previously, he stopped by the lake and looked across the ocean deep in thought of it. He had felt so strange when she had kissed him back, not a strangeness that was unwelcoming – in fact, he enjoyed her lips against his.

He had not expected it, for he thought she was asleep and would not feel it. And that made him worry now, for what if she woke and wondered and knew if she had kissed him – though she had already betrayed her thoughts and he knew of them he did not know of his own thoughts.

Stepping off Poiters he made his way to the side of the lake and knelt down to take a drink, running some water through his hair as well.

Summer felt guilty when she came in sight of the lake. Petal wasn’t used to wild and fast rambles through the countryside the way Fireheart was. There was someone else there, she noticed, but if she didn’t speak to them, maybe they’d just dismiss her as a traveller and let her alone.

Dismounting, with care to her ankle, she led Petal to the verge to drink, pressing her face into the mare’s mane while she waited. “What am I going to do, my girl?” she murmured. “I can’t go back to Kent alone. Father’s determined to stay the season, so long as the King is here.”

Summer stepped away, keeping the reins looped in one hand, arms wrapped tight about herself. “I can’t bear to see him every day, feeling like this. Surely God is punishing me somehow,” she told the sky. “Sweet Henry, kind Henry, wise Henry, why must you hurt my heart so? To see you every day, and yet keep my heart a secret …”

Henry heard another come upon the lakeside, and he turned to look at Summer, he looked back down to the water and thought of how to leave without allowing her to see that it was him – and then she began to speak.

Once more she betrayed herself with her words, and he cursed the heavens to wonder how she could say such things so easily, when he could not even admit a simple thought to himself.

He stood up and went to Poiters, hopeful that she had not seen his face, but Poiters would be easy to recognise if she saw him in the stables.

Involuntarily she looked up, hearing the movement of the other, and actually looked for the first time.

Poiters. The King’s favourite mount. And Henry the King.

A choked cry emerged from her mouth. Summer dropped to her knees, utterly heedless of anything else, and ducked her head. “Your Grace, I — ” Her throat closed up and words failed her. All she could do was wait for his wrath to descend on her, for her temerity in not recognising him immediately and in confessing such an unseemly emotion.

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Summer shifted around until there was space for him to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. One hand crept out to loop over his arm. ”Thank you,” she whispered. She watched Henry pick up the book, watched his mouth shape the words, drowned in his voice until her eyes slipped closed again. “Love you,” she sighed, almost inaudible in the edges of sleep.

Henry could see that she was falling asleep, so his voice lowered as he read the book in his hand, when her eyes closed he heard it, that which he had thought he would not hear so soon from her – though he had already known of it.

He turned to her, her eyes closed, and seemingly asleep.

All conscious thought told him that he should leave, that he should leave the room and let her rest, but his body told him otherwise and he leaned over and gently kissed her on the lips.

She kissed him back, a low chuckle escaping her throat, then sighed happily and cuddled into her pillow, dropping into true sleep.

Summer woke the next morning still thinking the evening had been a dream. The weight of it lay heavily on her shoulders. She snapped at Bertha, shouted at the chambermaid until the girl cried, and finally stalked off in bristling anger and despair toward the stables. She flung herself ahorse as soon as she decently could, goading the animal into a gallop the moment they emerged from the castle gates. Surely no one would bother her out here.

She’d neglected to take into account Henry’s morning ride, though.

Henry was riding through the glens, thinking about how she had kissed him previously, he stopped by the lake and looked across the ocean deep in thought of it. He had felt so strange when she had kissed him back, not a strangeness that was unwelcoming – in fact, he enjoyed her lips against his.

He had not expected it, for he thought she was asleep and would not feel it. And that made him worry now, for what if she woke and wondered and knew if she had kissed him – though she had already betrayed her thoughts and he knew of them he did not know of his own thoughts.

Stepping off Poiters he made his way to the side of the lake and knelt down to take a drink, running some water through his hair as well.

Summer felt guilty when she came in sight of the lake. Petal wasn’t used to wild and fast rambles through the countryside the way Fireheart was. There was someone else there, she noticed, but if she didn’t speak to them, maybe they’d just dismiss her as a traveller and let her alone.

Dismounting, with care to her ankle, she led Petal to the verge to drink, pressing her face into the mare’s mane while she waited. “What am I going to do, my girl?” she murmured. “I can’t go back to Kent alone. Father’s determined to stay the season, so long as the King is here.”

Summer stepped away, keeping the reins looped in one hand, arms wrapped tight about herself. “I can’t bear to see him every day, feeling like this. Surely God is punishing me somehow,” she told the sky. “Sweet Henry, kind Henry, wise Henry, why must you hurt my heart so? To see you every day, and yet keep my heart a secret … “

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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?

He turned as he heard the voice and looked at her, suddenly exposed and caught in her room. He could not fight the thoughts of what she had said to him and he looked to the ground.

“Forgive me, I had not been told you were unwell these days.” he said to her and he motioned to the book on the counter, “I brought you your book.”

She smiled slowly, certain it was a dream then. “Of course you are forgiven. Will you not read to me?” Only in a dream would the King care enough to bring a book to her, to change the cloth on her forehead. Summer reached out a hand toward him.

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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?

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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.

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He looked at how cold she had suddenly become, but he said nothing as he turned away from her, bowing slightly and murmuring a slight goodbye before he left. He called upon the nurse to see to her, and saw the slight questioning look in her eye – as if she would never expect the King to be interested in the girl.

It was later in the evening that he was in the library and he saw the book on the table, the one she spoke of having read, and he wondered if he should take it to her. He resolved to do so, but as he walked past her room, he stopped, hearing voices.

Summer had tried to resist, tried to pass it off as merely the effect of pain, but Bertha had known her far too long and refused to leave her charge alone without prying the whole story from her. Slyly, the maid avoided the topic at first, spending a long time brushing Summer’s hair, before broaching the subject.

“Willna tell what ails tha, lamb?” she coaxed, running the brush over the already smooth hair.

“I’m a fool of a girl, is all,” Summer mumbled, knotting her hands in her lap.

“Nay, could never be. Tell now, honest truth, pet. Hast hurt thee?”

Summer crumbled, turning to bury her face against Bertha’s lap. “He could never hurt me,” she cried. “‘Tis only myself to blame. I think I love him, Bertha, I’ve fallen in love with the King.”

“‘E’s a fine figure of a man, my lady, though I do say so. Why cry for it?”

“Because,” she sobbed, quieter now, “he’ll not see it. He thinks I’m only after his crown, his power, some ambitious chit of a girl who wants only to be Queen. It’s not, truly, not. I’d love him if he were, if he were the lowest in the kingdom, for his strength, for his kindness … he’s so terribly kind, Bertha, so very so. I wish he were not the King, for then I /could/ love him freely, but he could never see me, the daughter of a Kentish baron, as fit for him. But oh! Bertha, his hands are so gentle, he carried me like I was something to be treasured.”

“Tha art, pet, a treasure and a jewel.”

Summer lifted her head, tears running down her face. “I’m not, truly. Hopelessly wild and unruly and not fit for courtly society. Not fit for the King, not at all. So kind where he doesn’t have to be … “

Henry stopped as he neared the door, his hand on the doorknob as he wished to enter but then he heard his name. He was never one for prying and so that he should hear them talking about him – he would rather leave.

But the words stopped him, they held him captive and he could not help but listen.

She loved him.

She loved him.

It was something that he did not to think from her and for a moment he was shocked, stepping away from the door he began to walk away, not knowing what to do with the knowledge that she had spoken of.

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.