Chapter SixRichmond Palace, 1527
“Sire, I simply adore being your personal musician,” Amethyst declared, her fingers poised over the keyboard in Henry's conservatory while he tuned his lute. “But…” She hesitated, turning to him.
He looked up and held her gaze, urging her on. “Yes…but what?”
“I believe the other minstrels are a bit slighted. I do not want them resenting me, too, for they are my closest companions…apart from you.”
“Oh, is that all?” He chuckled, his voice touched with relief. “The other minstrels aren't as gifted as you, dear lady. They cannot sing like you, they cannot pour their hearts into the strains of my own compositions as you can. You have what they do not—a feel for my music, an understanding of why I wrote it, the emotion behind the busy runs up and down the sc
