Brushing my hair out is always a pleasant diversion during the long hours when there appears to be little else to do. I take my time, often sacrificing most of dinner time to get it done and enjoying every minute. When I feel fingers running gently through my hair at the back I smile and wonder which of my companions is having a joke with me.
“Would you like to take over and brush it all out?” I ask quietly.
There is no reply, which I find strange, but the fingers continue to caress my hair sensuously. I turn around, puzzled and I am shocked to find Philip, the king, his hand in my hair and a smile on his face. I pull away, out of his grip and turn to face him.
“What are you doing, Your Grace?” I ask, startled still. “You should not be in here.”
“I saw you there and your bright yellow
