Anjou holds court at the centre of the room, the pampered favoured prince surrounded by his followers.
‘God. They’re like peas in a pod, aren’t they?’ commented Sir Francis. ‘I wonder if Catherine duplicates them in some secret laboratory? Mirror images of her favourite son?’
Brad has to concede his boss has a point. They all wear the same uniform of close fitting satin or silk doublets in light colours, perfumed curled hair and a profusion of jewels, lace, ribbon and plumes. They look like pampered peacocks striding round in their arrogance and pride. Brad doubts that any of them have ever done an honest day’s work in their entire lives.
‘Please tell me you don’t expect us to go around in that get up, Sir? We’ll look ridiculous.’
Sir Francis cracks his dry as bones smile. ‘I suppose a
