Page 112 of Six Wild Crowns

“Take it off,” Edward mutters.

“Why? It’s a gift, is it not?” she says, trying to sound like a dullard. It is, after all, her greatest armour – that she is considered stupid. Boleyn’s greatest weakness is that she is known to be intelligent. For all that she is telling Henry that the masque is meant to soothe the other queens’ jealousy over her new pregnancy, he is no fool.

There is one more part of the masque to play. The final dance.

The minstrels in the gallery strike up a familiar tune. It is called “Queens of Fire” and is the traditional song of the Moon Ball. There must once have been lyrics, but most of them have been lost to the ages or were spoken in a tongue so ancient that the words no longer hold meaning. All that remains is a dance of six pairs that swirls across the floor, punctuated by stamps and claps that are supposed to mimic the sound of Cernunnos ripping open the earth to produce the six consorts. The partners switch throughout the dance, so that each follow dances with each lead. Boleyn curtseys to the king and looks at him coquettishly. For an instant, Seymour sees them as they were on their wedding day: for ever caught in a game of chase and catch, believing wholeheartedly that they could build a marriage on such a courtship. Then the moment passes, as Henry leads her to the centre of the floor, never anything less than a gentleman.

“Come then, sister,” Edward says, pulling Seymour to her feet and marching her to the floor. Even though she knew this must happen, Seymour’s shoulders hunch instinctively at the prospect of dancing in front of so many people. All those eyes witnessing her awkward steps.

She takes her place beside Boleyn and Henry, and on her other side, Cleves takes to the floor with her Master of Horse – that draws stares from the assembled crowds because he is wearing a doublet made of soft, warm chamlet, rather than the silk or velvet of nobility. Cleves and her dance partner look over at Seymour, and wink.

Ignoring the flush making its way up her neck, Seymour turns her attention to the other queens – Howard, who has invited George Boleyn to dance with her and is laughing merrily at one of his jokes. She may be unaware of the plan, but nevertheless she has played into Boleyn’s hands. George may not know what is about tohappen, but he will see what Boleyn is doing and direct Howard to the right place when the time comes. On the far side of the circle, Princess Tudor takes her place opposite one of Aragon’s inner circle. Queen Parr accepts Lord Cromwell’s hand.

As the dance moves into its second phase, the lantern dragons are provoked to spout flame in time with the dancers’ movements. It’s all Seymour can do to remember where her own feet should go, despite the pounding through her heart and head. The watching crowd applauds, especially when larger dragons emerge, winding lazily across the ceiling. There are six of them, each wearing a ribboned collar to match one of the queens, and they are a rare breed who live and move in packs – the Annysse dragon. Henry is watching them too, his smile more and more fixed. If Boleyn were honouring the traditional symbolism, she would have a larger, male dragon appear to dominate the six. As the dance continues and no seventh dragon appears, the crowd understands that it won’t. Some of them mutter darkly. Wolsey whispers furiously to his men. More’s reaction is less predictable: he watches the dragons with something akin to devastation. The dragonlight glints on his tears.

The song builds to its crescendo. Boleyn and Seymour catch each other’s eye. As the key changes they nod at their respective partners and, defying all the known steps of the dance, turn to each other.

Seymour takes Boleyn’s outstretched hand and places her other lightly on her waist.

“Seymour, what are you…” Edward hisses, but Seymour ignores him, leading Boleyn across the floor so that he’s forced to move aside.

“Stand up straight,” Boleyn says. Seymour uncurls her back and shoulders, until she is looking down at the woman she loves, instead of matching her diminutive height.

The king watches them, frozen, then steps back, his arms outstretched, as though this was entirely his idea. Princess Tudor shakes her head at her partner, and he leads her out of the dance. Parr quickly follows suit, although when Cromwell tries to talk to her, she answers in monosyllables, her gaze fixed to the dance.Only Cleves and Howard remain on the dance floor with their own partners, although no one spares them a glance.

At a signal from Wyatt, the candles around the room are extinguished, leaving the only light that of the dragons on the ceiling. The dragons representing Boleyn and Seymour twine around each other, their scales glowing gold and green, casting an otherworldly glow on the faces of dancers and audience alike. When the dragons next spout flame, the meaning of the gossamer overgowns becomes clear: beneath the flame of the Annysse dragon, the overgowns reflect a single shade – the bruised turquoise of the bordweal. The queens that were once distinguished by their individual colours are now unified.

There is a slow, deep power to the moment that winds around Boleyn and Seymour alone. Neither of them had anticipated it. They had hoped only to create a public spectacle – one that would set the rumour mill of Elben turning with whispers of the truth. But the power building between them now is more than spectacle, more than a trick of dragonlight on gossamer. Sparks, blue, silver, green and copper, exactly like the lights of the bordweal, fly from their interlaced fingers and whisk around the hall, charging every onlooker with feral illumination. A smell permeates the room – the sea on a summer’s day. Seymour recognises it: it is the smell ofHer. Medren. Anyone who has watched the bordweal from the coast on a winter’s evening recognises it. It is old magic. Magic that should be Cernunnos’s – magic that should be for the king to wield alone. And yet here it is, formed of two queens, dancing alone in the middle of their enemies.

It is seen, and felt, by every person in the hall, royalty, nobility, servants and performers alike. The poets among them will try to capture that feeling in their art in years to come, and fail. The servants of Brynd, newly understanding their mercurial queen, will attempt to speak of it with their families over bread and broth, and fall silent in contemplation. The nobility will gossip about it in public, and dream of it in private, wishing that they, too, could have been invited into that magic and knowing that they would not have had the courage to accept.

The atmosphere in the hall shifts, as more and more people begin to understand the truth. A kind of energy forms around the room, like the most dangerous current; peaceful on the surface but deadly beneath the waves. Through it all, Seymour keeps her eyes fixed on Boleyn, drinking in the steadfastness within her delicate frame.

You are my everything, she thinks.I would follow you into the abyss.

Boleyn smiles up at Seymour, and mouths, “I know, sister.”

Seymour is so engrossed in her, that she almost forgets the other queens. It’s only when someone taps her on the shoulder that she breaks away from Boleyn. Cleves is there, holding her hand out for Seymour’s. “This looks like fun. May I join you?”

She has stuck her flower behind her right ear.

Seymour moves from Boleyn’s arms to Cleves’s. Seymour spins her, their hands meeting at the end of her turn, fingers sliding into each other’s grasp. Then comes the part where Seymour pulls Cleves towards her, their bodies pressed together, the top of her head, short hair curled to bounce around her ears, caressing Seymour’s cheek.

“You are shining very brightly, my angry queen,” she whispers in Seymour’s ear.

Over her head, Seymour watches Howard approach Boleyn, her flower tucked into her coronet, peeping from her curls. She offers Boleyn her hand. They dance, twelve down to four – two coupled queens beneath the glow of dragons, and though Seymour has never felt more exposed, she has also never felt more alive.

Henry is whispering furiously with Wolsey now. It is only when Cromwell approaches them and points it out that Seymour sees it too – the divine magic that usually swirls around Henry is deserting him. It is reaching for the queens.

The music shifts one final time, growing in intensity, and the formation of the dance changes too. Usually, at this point, the six couples would form a circle. It is the only moment that Boleyn has tried to keep the same. She reaches for Seymour on one side and Howard on the other. Seymour spots Master Wyatt behind Queen Parr, whispering in her ear, and a moment later she too steps into the circle, taking Howard and Cleves’s hands. Only Princess Tudorcontinues to stand to one side, her glower a thin mask for fascination.

Henry approaches the circle, his expression the same as when he spied Boleyn at his wedding to Seymour; the same as the moment he realised Seymour had lost his child, and the night that child was conceived.

She must keep dancing.

Henry orbits the floor, one hand splayed towards them, the remnants of his divine magic sparking across his palm. Across the circle from her, Seymour sees Howard falter, as though her shoulders have been lashed. Henry is right behind her. Seymour wills Howard to stay on her feet, to hold the line, for they are women. They are used to pain. A crackle of light flashes from Seymour’s chest to Howard’s. Howard stands tall once more.

The five queens step from side to side – in one beat, out the other – their hands always joined, the four who wear their overgowns united in the colour of their dresses. Five dragons weave on the ceiling above them. Boleyn has designed this climax to build to fireworks – a suitably impressive ending, but she didn’t need to. The queens are alight with whirls of colour, the divine magic, Medren’s magic, dancing for and around them.

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