Page 121 of Six Wild Crowns

By the time Seymour has once again disguised Haltrasc’s mauling as knifework and slipped into the Tower, the heat coming from the moat and the dragon pit has turned the spilt ale into fumes. Seymour steps between bodies, holding a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, and calls Haltrasc to join her. The last thing she wants is for him to breathe in too much and fall asleep himself.

As she climbs the staircase, she is thankful that the rest of the Tower is empty. The prisoners inside the other cells haven’t been deemed important enough to merit their own personal guard.

Her legs are screaming by the time she reaches the penultimate floor. She can hear someone shifting above her.

“Who goes there?” a rough voice calls out. He’s edgy and, she can tell from the movement, bulky too. A smooth rasp tells her he’s drawn his sword. Seymour squeezes Haltrasc’s collar. His musclesare tense, his mouth open, pulled back in a snarl. She has never seen him with the bloodlust on him before. He was never a pet. He was always a weapon, wild and ferocious, like Boleyn.

No, like her. Like Seymour.

They round the final spiral of the stairs together and come upon a man with a shock of red hair. He looks so uncannily like the king that in that split second where his eyes meet hers, Seymour understands that her husband placing this man here was by design – a final, brutal taunt to Boleyn. His surprise at seeing a woman, especially a woman dressed in hose, gives her the advantage. She doesn’t even need to say the words now, Haltrasc is so attuned to what she needs. He springs from her grasp. But this guard is armed, and he raises his sword at the last moment.

“No!” Seymour shouts, springing forward to throw herself on his arm. She reaches him just in time to drive his sword upwards and out of his hand, giving Haltrasc the opening he needs to thrust the man to the floor and pin him there. Haltrasc bares his teeth.

“Wait,” she says. With infinite self-control, the panther stops and looks at her, his claws digging into the man’s neck and arm.

She feels down the guard’s doublet, finding the keys at his belt. He struggles against Haltrasc as she unclips the ring, three chests heaving in unison. She holds the keys on the ring before him one by one, until the slightest catch in his throat tells her she has the right one.

“Boleyn?” she calls through the door as she unlocks it. It catches against a discarded plate that clatters as it moves. A blast of freezing air, so much colder than on the ground, reaches through Seymour’s clothes and grips her skin. Boleyn is huddled opposite her, shivering beneath the window. Seymour rushes to her.

“You?” Boleyn whispers. Tears have crystallised on her eyelashes.

“Come with me.”

Seymour helps her to her feet. She walks stiffly to the door, her face downcast. The bruises on her neck tell Seymour a little of what she’s been through today. Haltrasc still has the guard pinned down. Seymour kneels to collect his sword and passes it to Boleyn.

“Would you like to say anything, sister?” she asks.

Boleyn takes the sword dazedly, as though she doesn’t know what she’s doing. But when she looks down at the guard, her grip steadies. She kneels beside him and places one hand on his throat.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he croaks, as she squeezes and squeezes.

“They’re always sorry in the end,” she says, her own voice catching in her crushed neck. She holds the sword against the guard’s throat, gripping the hilt in one hand and the blade in the other. Seymour draws Haltrasc back as Boleyn clambers on top of the guard, kneeling on his chest to stop him from moving. She presses the blade down against the guard’s scream. His legs flail and struggle wildly, but once his voice has been taken, it isn’t long before his legs grow still too. Boleyn stays on top of his body for a moment longer, then rises, one hand dripping with her own blood, her face and chest sprayed with his. The red of her tattered wedding gown is now, truly, the red of slaughter.

“We must go, love,” Seymour tells her, holding out a hand. She lets Haltrasc lap at the opening in the guard’s neck as she leads Boleyn down the stairs to freedom. They remain silent, even when Haltrasc catches up with them. On the ground floor, dozens of rats, who came to sup on the spilled ale and the body of the dead guard, lie, bloated and sleeping. They pick their way through them all, and round the side of the Tower, towards High Hall. Keeping to the shadows of the trees, they follow the paths around the border of the palace grounds, until they reach Plythe’s wing. There, Seymour pulls Boleyn into the shelter of a bush, and they crouch there, Haltrasc between them for warmth, their fingers entwined in his fur.

“Thank you,” Boleyn whispers from time to time. Seymour inches her fingers over to hers until they are clasping hands, their skin frozen, their hearts warm, through the dregs of the night. As the sky mellows from black to blue, two figures emerge from a basement door and run at a crouch towards them. As they get closer, Clarice and Howard’s faces become clear.

“Did anyone see you?” Clarice says.

“No one who can tell anyone now,” Seymour replies. Howard is embracing Boleyn, whispering her affection into Boleyn’s ear.Something’s wrong with Boleyn, though, something none of them can voice, not even Boleyn herself. She returns Howard’s embrace stiffly, silently, her eyes vacantly fixed on something beyond their sight. Seymour thinks of the marks at her throat, and the smell of the scaffold below her window, and shudders.

“We must move before it gets too light,” Howard says at last, pulling Boleyn towards the service courtyard of her wing. The smell of the walnut trees and the light rain recedes and is replaced by that of unwashed cobbles and rotting vegetables. Wooden crates on carts are lined up on one side of the courtyard, each wagon waiting for a horse and driver. Clarice pulls one crate open, revealing a pile of rich fabrics. They show Boleyn the spyholes they’ve drilled into the side, the bag of food stowed there, with a knife to cut the apples and cheese, and the secret, sliding door they’ve installed in one side of the crate, facing away from the driver.

“These crates are destined for Garclyffe,” Howard explains. “When you get close to the town, you can slip out and make your way to Brynd. Take Elizabeth and a horse and get to the royal jetty. Clarice here has sent word to their cousins on that side of the island to have a ship ready to transport you to Capetia.”

Boleyn shakes Clarice’s hand. “I’m for ever in your debt,” she says. Clarice, impulsively, leans forward and kisses her on the cheek.

Boleyn turns to Seymour. “What about you? Will you be safe?”

“I’m returning to Hyde now, and Howard is going to Plythe. We should arrive in time for the meeting you arranged.”

It feels like an age since she received Boleyn’s hastily scribbled message:Sunscína, at noon tomorrow. The one message Boleyn sent to every queen before her arrest.

“I think Aragon is beyond hope,” she tells Seymour. “But see if you can get Parr. Once I reach Capetia, I’ll find a way to communicate with you. Hope is not lost.”

“I know. Now go,” Seymour says. Clarice and Howard step back, keeping watchful eyes on the windows and doors that lead onto the courtyard.

Boleyn clambers onto the cart, but before she gets into the crate, she turns and cups Seymour’s upturned face. Gently, she kissesSeymour on the lips. It’s a thanks, a blessing, a goodbye, entirely chaste and the most precious gift she could have given.

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