Behind them both, as a backdrop and extending over their heads, is the cloth of estate showing the royal crest, above that a gold seal like a holy halo that the old idolatrous church painters used to enamel over the heads of painted saints. In the middle of the picture, still half concealed by the drape, which the pages are desperately tugging, is the king himself. The painter has made him the heart of the picture, plumb center in the blazing colors of a golden sun. His huge puffed sleeves, fat as a pair of bolsters, are in cloth of gold, slashed with white silk, the skirts of his short robe are red and gold, his parted sturdy legs are blazing silver in ivory stockings, the strong calves gleaming, the round knees like two little moons. His gown is trimmed with sable, thrown off the huge padded shoulders, his face is big, pale, and unlined, and his codpiece—“My God,” I murmur at the very sight of it. The huge ivory codpiece is boldly erect at the very center of his body, at the heart of the picture. Enormous and gleaming palely, among all the red and the gold, it does everything but announce to the viewer: Here is the king’s cock. Admire!

I bite the inside of my lips so that I do not allow even the whisper of a giggle to escape me, I don’t dare look at Catherine Brandon. The painter must have lost his wits to be so brash; even the king’s monstrous vanity cannot think that this is anything but ridiculous. But then the page finally frees the curtain that has concealed the rest of the portrait, the fabric drops to the floor and at last I see my own likeness.

I am seated at the king’s left hand, in the gown that the painter and I chose together, the red underskirt and sleeves complementing the red of Prince Edward’s robe, my gold bodice and overskirt matching the king’s puffy sleeves, and the white ermine lining and sleeves marking my royalty. The English hood that Nicholas de Vent chose from the royal wardrobe is perfectly rendered, the girdle at my waist done in fine detail, my skin as pearly and as pale as the king’s magnificent legs. But my face...

But my face...

My face...

There is a murmur of comment in the court like the whisper of wind through the trees of an autumn wood. I hear people remark, “Oh, I didn’t expect...” and, “But that isn’t...” and, “Surely that’s...” and then everyone bites off the end of their sentences as if nobody wants to observe what is painfully, terribly obvious, and grows more and more obvious, as a silence falls, and someone clears their throat, and someone else turns away, and slowly, though they don’t want to stare, no one can resist it any longer: and everyone turns to look at me.