Page 116 of Six Wild Crowns

Slowly, Clarice picks up the rings, as though they were still molten from the forge, and slips them into their pockets. Then Clarice looks at Seymour, new respect in their eyes.

“He is nothing. He has never done a single thing for you, yet you always placate him. Whereas she – she has been a true friend to you, and you repay her by fleeing.”

“She told me to.”

“And you always do as you’re told.”

“No, that’s not…” she begins.

Seymour stretches her hands out to Clarice, pleading.

“What could I do? I’m not clever like her.”

“No? You were clever enough to seduce a king. You were clever enough to drug your brother without him realising. You were clever enough to make a whole kingdom think you hate someone when in truth you love them.”

Clarice snorts.

“You queens. All of you except Boleyn are so anxious that men think you’re not smarter than them that you end up believing it yourselves.”

“So clever she continued to bed him knowing what he did to me.”

Seymour clamps a hand over her mouth, surprised by her anger. Such thoughts had only fluttered through the darkest parts of her mind before. Now they are laid bare. Clarice raises an eyebrow. “She loves him, Seymour. People forget a lot when they’re in love. But she still moved against him. You don’t think that’s at least in part because of what he did to you?”

The coachman knocks twice on the roof of the carriage, to let them know that they are in sight of High Hall. It brings Seymour back to herself, and Clarice seems to follow her thoughts, because they raise a finger to their lips. They have been indiscreet. Seymour nods, then speaks more quietly. “I told you to be honest with me, Clarice. Are you certain you couldn’t be a little more excoriating?”

Clarice jingles their pocket. “You’d need to give me the other hand’s rings for that.”

Seymour laughs, peeking out of the window at the sight of High Hall, rising like a shining beehive from between the Holtwode that borders Brynd’s territory.

“What am I going to do, Clarice?” she says softly.

“What do you want to do?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“That’s your brother’s thinking, and your father and the king andWolsey and Cromwell getting into your head. What doyouwant to do?”

The carriage bumps and grates over the scrind road. The trees thin and, suddenly, they are in the light, a thin ray of sun illuminating the way ahead.

She stops at High Hall instead of going directly to Hyde. From her suites, Seymour sets one of her guards at the doorway, to keep Edward at bay. She changes into the most demure gown she owns – a black linen overgown, with cut sleeves revealing deep purple beneath and a matching hood. She forces her shoulders back as she studies herself in the mirror.

“You are clever. You are a liar. You can do this.” Haltrasc raises his head from the long chair beside her, and purrs in approval. From the bag secured to her belt, she pulls Boleyn’s message, relayed through her stewardess:Sunscína, at noon tomorrow. Run.

Outside the sanctuary of her rooms, the court is in disarray. Capetian ambassadors haunt Queen Parr’s rooms, attempting to curry favour with a potential ally who has not been arrested for treason. The courtiers who had once proudly worn Boleyn’s green token have hastily torn it off their clothes, leaving a shadow of the fabric’s shape as a reminder of their fickleness. Everywhere, the news whisks past her like an ill wind:

“… her pregnancy was a lie…”

“… some kind of witchcraft on the other queens…”

“… this will show her father – no good comes of educating a woman…”

“… is it true, do you think? About the bordweal…”

“… Shh. Are you mad? Don’t talk about it here…”

“… the brother’s gone back to Hever, tail between his legs…”

“… the king went directly to his rooms. Won’t see anyone apparently.”

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