Page 118 of Six Wild Crowns

The first thing Seymour notices about him is his smell. Usually, he smells of bonfire smoke and pinewood. But today there is a new note – honeysuckle. The sweetness is so jarring that Seymour almost steps back. And yet… she knows that scent. Where has she found it before?

“Wolsey tells me to forgive you your ignorance,” he says, not looking at her.

“If you do, it will be the truest mercy, for I cannot forgive myself,Henry. And I can never forgive her for drawing me unwittingly into her act of treason.”

“You make much of your stupidity, Seymour. I am starting to think it is a shield.”

Ice prickles up Seymour’s spine. Of everyone in this court, he is the one she must not underestimate.

“What can I do to prove my loyalty to you, my love?”

The last two words feel alien in her mouth, she so rarely uses them. Boleyn, she knows, addressed him as such, and his jaw tightens, reminded of her.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Whatcanyou do to prove your loyalty to me?”

Seymour thinks of the things she might offer. Sexual acts prove nothing, and besides, she is past the point where she is willing to sell her body for safety. She must do something that will get him to trust her. That will make him believe that she despises Boleyn. He has never truly got inside her head, but Seymour likes to think that she knows something of his mind. She knows what he values above all: his legacy. The legacy of an heir. She swallows bile at the terrible lie she is about to tell.

“I’m sorry to say it, Henry, but I’m angry with you for having such little faith in me, given what Boleyn did to me.”

He looks at her at last, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

“You heard the rumours, I know you did. That she was the cause of my miscarriage.”

“I thought they were simply the malicious whisperings of her enemies.”

Seymour turns away from him and covers her face, concealing her dry eyes.

“My brother had warned me that Boleyn was not to be trusted, but I did not want to believe it. The symptoms of my pregnancy started when I was on the road to stay with her prior to her confinement. She must have heard news of my pregnancy. Perhaps one of my servants was too free with their words. On the last day of my stay, she made her servants run me a scented bath.”

“And you obeyed her?”

“You know how domineering she can be, Henry. I am no match for her. The next day… Well, you were there.”

She pretends to sob into her hands. Henry’s heavy grip rests on her shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, his deep voice vibrating.

“I wasn’t certain. It might have happened anyway, after all. But with what I now know about her…” she continues, still pretending to sob.

“I know. I know.” Henry paces to the window once more, and Seymour can almost hear Boleyn’s sentence being announced, his thoughts are so loud.

Oh, goddess, please let me help her, now that I’ve condemned her to save myself.

As he ruminates, his back to her, Seymour looks around the room once more. Its size had made her mistakenly think it devoid of decoration, but it has some adornment. Portraits on the walls, thick rugs across the wooden floor, and a vase on the table next to a long-chair. There’s something small and glittering next to the vase, and it takes Seymour a moment to see what it is from this distance – a woman’s bracelet, fitted with diamonds. Suddenly, she understands the strange scent on the king – he has another woman here, possibly just beyond the tapestry that conceals his bed. Perhaps he is already arranging Boleyn’s replacement. The bile returns to the back of her throat.

“It’s decided,” he says at last. “She’ll die tomorrow.”

Seymour doesn’t know how she manages it, but she makes the long walk back to her rooms, a demure smile fixed on her face like a mask. If anyone notes her brimful eyes, she can only hope that they attribute it to tiredness, or her naturally mousy demeanour. As soon as the guard opens the door to her rooms, she collapses. Clarice is already waiting for her. They usher out the other servants before helping her to a chair and fetching a sweet red wine. She gulps it down as she tells them what she has learned.

“I condemned her, Clarice,” she finishes. “I couldn’t see another way of proving my innocence, but I sentenced her to death.”

“No, you didn’t,” Clarice says roughly. “It was already decided she’d die, just not when. They’ve arrested the poet as well. The one who was fond of her.”

“Master Wyatt?”

“He’s to get the axe this evening, under cover of darkness. I’m guessing they don’t want anyone knowing she cuckolded the king.”

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