Page 101 of Six Wild Crowns

The maid did dance and the lord did love

To watch her move before his gaze,

He locked her up in a tower above

And visited her always.

And so the lady danced for him

Her heart, her life she gave freely.

She danced until her light did dim

Then he mourned her very deeply.

As Howard finishes the song and snaps the harpsichord cover closed, her eyes rise to Seymour’s. Seymour realises that she has made a fundamental error. She had assumed that Howard viewed the king the same way that Seymour and Cleves viewed him – that conjugal relations are at best a chore and at worst a festering wound that eats into the mind and soul. She thinks she could have even persuadedHoward if she, like Boleyn, truly loved and desired him, but could recognise the injustice of what he is doing. She was wholly unprepared for Howard’s viewpoint: she has always understood her queenship as a transaction. And in that simple misunderstanding, Seymour has lost.

“Very well,” Seymour says. “I understand.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Boleyn

From the outside, the Palace of Daven reminds Boleyn of a tortoise; ancient, slow and dying. When she is shown into the vestibule with its vast tiled walls and the towering tree that vibrates with the gnawing of thegealgenadragon within, she sees nothing to change her mind. She can see how the Seymour who came to Brynd nigh on a year ago might have felt at home here. She wonders whether she would still find peace in this fading grandeur.

Boleyn would much rather have been having this conversation at Brynd, ideally through thesunscína. Mindful of how Seymour once came across Aragon and Parr, she tried to do the same, haunting her folly for days until they appeared in the glass. But no sooner had they seen her than they left without uttering a word. Boleyn had been forced to resort to inviting herself to Daven by the traditional method – a politely imperious letter brooking no refusal.

At least it is no wrench to leave Brynd now. Bishop More’s insight is proving correct, and Boleyn suspects that he plays at least some part in that, questioning her role in both the mine explosion and the executions in that mild way of his. The residents of Pilvreen now stare at her, openly hostile, when she ventures into the town.Even her own household falls silent when she passes. Only Syndony does not turn her back on Boleyn. Instead, she came to her chamber one day with a plain glass bottle and urged her to drink it when her monthly course is due.

“It’ll keep up the pretence, and keep you alive,” she told Boleyn.

But a missed course will not fool Henry’s spies for long.

Boleyn is shown into Aragon’s receiving chamber, with its vast window overlooking a wide beach, and beyond that a gentle sea cradled within a finger of land, so very different from the wild ocean at Brynd. The queen herself sits stiffly in her throne. Her lap is covered in blankets and furs that reach to the floor, and in her hand she holds aguirnalda, the beads of her faith. Boleyn observes her pet monkey clamber up her gown and onto her hood with a shudder. A girl about Howard’s age stands next to her, a hand on her shoulder. They make a pleasing picture, framed by the window and the statues that line it – undoubtedly the effect they were aiming for. Boleyn’s eyes fall on the hand-held mirror sitting on a table next to Aragon – hersunscína.

“Salutations, Queen Boleyn,” Aragon says. “Forgive our humble manner of greeting you. You hardly gave us time to prepare after receiving your letter.”

“Thank you for welcoming me into your beautiful palace,” Boleyn says, feeling how falsely her words ring. She must play the game of courtesy if she is to win Aragon over, and she must win her, or there will be no alliance against Henry.

“A beverage for our guest,” Queen Aragon says to a nearby servant. “She must be thirsty after her long journey.”

The two women smile at each other as the drink is poured and offered to Boleyn. Boleyn takes the goblet, large and heavy with sapphires. Inside is a thick red wine with a heady aroma. It would be all too easy to have sprinkled a little powder into it. This is precisely why Boleyn did not wish to meet Aragon in person. It is hard to build an alliance when one person has already tried to have the other killed.

Boleyn raises the goblet. “To our continued and everlasting friendship,” she says. She takes a deep breath, hoping that Aragon is wiseenough not to murder a queen in her own palace, and drinks the goblet dry.

Queen Aragon’s laughter cuts through the haze that has come over Boleyn. She isn’t used to such strong wine.

“Staking everything on one throw, Your Majesty?” Princess Tudor says.

“Quiet,” Aragon says to her. “That was a gracious show of trust, all things considered. Please, Queen Boleyn, come and sit beside me.”

The seat is lower than Aragon’s throne – designed for a lesser mortal, so that the difference in status can never be doubted. Boleyn should rightfully demand a chair of equal height and grandeur, but today she is a diplomat, like her father. Her father would sit without complaint or pride. So she does.

“Leave us,” Aragon demands, and the servants and courtiers milling around the chamber leave instantly. Only Princess Tudor remains.

“You too,” Aragon tells her daughter.

“But, Mother…”

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