Page 103 of Six Wild Crowns

“And what of your future? If Henry does not have a male heir, then what happens to Elben?”

“My nephew…”

“Do you truly think that Capetia will permit a king of Quisto to take the most valuable trading post in the known world? There will be war, and you and the princess will be little more than playing pieces in their games of conquest. And we both know what happens to women who become entangled in such games.”

“Quisto will protect me,” she insists.

“Don’t you wish for a better life for your daughter?” Boleyn says.

“Never question my love for my daughter.”

“I’ll question it when you refuse to remove the man who is standing in the way of her greatness.”

“I have been happy. Tudor will be happy also.”

“And what if your daughter wishes to marry women? Elizabeth might be allowed, but do you think, as the eldest daughter, that she will be permitted to? She’ll be expected to have sons of her own.”

“You’re being crude,” Aragon says, looking away. Boleyn moves to the other side of her throne. Like a child, Aragon looks the other way again. Boleyn reaches out, knowing how rude she’s being, and takes hold of her chin, forcing the older woman to look at her.

“I am being truthful,” Boleyn says. “You may be the king’s first wife. Maybe you are his most valued. But that doesn’t mean he will place you or your daughter above the lowliest man when the time comes.”

Aragon jerks her head back. Boleyn wonders suddenly why she hasn’t got up yet. If she were Aragon, as strong and quick to anger, she would have been on her feet a long time ago.

“You’re wrong,” Aragon says. “I have not deserted my homeland and lived on this cold, dreary island for twenty years only to be discarded. I haven’t given up everything for him to turn his back on me and Tudor.”

“You’re sick,” Boleyn says, realisation suddenly dawning.

“No,” Aragon replies.

With a deft movement, Boleyn flicks back the blankets covering Aragon’s legs. Beneath them, her gown lacks the padding of layers Boleyn would expect from a queen. The fabric is soft and light, not the heavy brocade of her ladies’ dresses. A patient’s fabric.

“How dare you,” Aragon says, reaching for the blanket. Boleyn pulls it away and kneels before her.

“Can you not walk?”

“Give it back to me. I am cold.”

Boleyn lifts the hem the smallest amount. She catches a glimpse of wizened skin draped over bone. The skin is grey and lifeless. There is no muscle left to support it.

“Get away from her!” a voice cries. Princess Tudor is running towards them, her skirts balled up in her fists, her mouth snarled. Boleyn falls back, her hand automatically going to her ribs and arm,where grey flesh over bone is all that is left of her own once vibrant body. Tudor snatches the blanket from Boleyn and turns to her mother, smoothing the gown out gently over those lifeless legs before arranging the blanket so that it gives the impression of bulk.

“I’m so sorry,” Boleyn whispers. But the two women are murmuring to each other – both soothing the other. When the princess turns to Boleyn, she is stone once more. The rage has been caged, for now. But Boleyn doesn’t want it to be caged. She wants to wield it. Slowly, she unlaces the sleeve of her dress, pulling it down to expose the grey skin now ravaging her arm.

“Don’t you see?” Boleyn says to them both. “Hehas done this.”

Princess Tudor looks from Boleyn’s arm to her mother’s legs, her mouth open. “You said it was the holy fire…”

Boleyn purses her lips. Of course Aragon would say it was the holy fire; a disease said to only afflict the virtuous.

“Cernunnos has seen fit to take my strength…” Aragon says.

“No,” Boleyn says. “The same thing happened to Queen Blount. I saw her on her death bed.”

Boleyn sees it all so clearly now. It’s not simply that Henry is pretending to be the source of Cernunnos’s power when the power truly belongs to the queens. He is leaching his consorts of their lives. Marry him for long enough and all will fall ill and wither away, while he will only grow in power. She knows that the inhuman strength he possesses is not his at all – it is his wives’. And he is using them up.

Boleyn clutches the back of her chair. The bordweal weakening for the first time in centuries is not because the king is choosing the wrong queens, or for lack of a male heir, as the rumours have it. It’s because he is the first sovereign in hundreds of years to use the power to do more than protect Elben. He is using it to wage war, to display his prowess, to make poesy rings.

“When did you begin to waste away?” she asks Aragon.

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