The Last Song – Historical Flash Fiction

The lute’s polished wood was as smooth against Mark Smeaton’s hand as the leg he dared not covet. Cold sweat covering his palm, he plucked the first, soft chord. 

The melody had come to him like a whisper, as dangerous as shuddering breath against his skin.

Queen Anne sat poised yet rigid, as if perched on a bed of stones. Her kirtle suffocated her, her hands stiff in her lap—she dared not to look at him, lest…

Mark had written songs for noble ladies before—ditties of courtly love, harm...