Page 123 of Six Wild Crowns

By the time Seymour bursts out of the building and flies across the courtyard of her own wing, the sun has risen fully. In the distance, a hue and cry is going up. Clarice is vibrating as they cling on to the side of the carriage. Seymour throws herself inside, next to Haltrasc, and Clarice slams shut the door.

“Go!” Clarice instructs the driver, his hands glittering with some of Seymour’s old rings. He urges the horses forward. They spring off, throwing Clarice and Seymour into the back of their seats. Seymour peers out of the curtain as they race down the track. There are soldiers at the end of the road, and they carry spears.

“Don’t you dare stop!” Clarice yells up at the driver. He cracks the horses’ harnesses, pushing them into a gallop.

“Move move move, you fools,” Seymour says, watching the soldiers stand firm in their line, their spears pointed directly towards them. The horses go faster, and faster, and faster…

At the last moment, the line of soldiers breaks. They scatter, throwing themselves out of the way of the careening steeds. Their shouts follow as the carriage swerves onto the scrind road towards Hyde. For now at least, Seymour is free.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Boleyn

Waiting has always been Boleyn’s downfall. She hates the anticipation of it. She needs to be doing something. Dancing, sewing, writing, reading. Her mind requires active employment, or it withers. So being stuck inside a box, waiting to see whether she will be able to escape to find her daughter, is a form of hell.

The cramp in her leg is excruciating by the time she hears voices. Her crate wobbles – someone has leaped into the driving seat of the cart. Boleyn massages the limb, craning to hear what the driver and his companions are discussing. It can’t be long before her disappearance is discovered. She didn’t want to mention the flaw in Seymour’s plan – that unless the goddess grants her a miracle, the king will prevent anyone from leaving the grounds of the palace until she is discovered. The smallest amount of hope is more precious than none at all.

There’s the sound of hooves on the cobblestones, and another shake as horses are attached to the cart’s harness. Someone makes a joke and his fellow laughs. Through the wood, it sounds like the laugh of the man lying dead at the top of the Tower. The one Boleyn beheaded, more slowly and cruelly than Wyatt’s execution. Boleyn wonders if he had a wife, or children. She wonders if hetreated her the way he treated Boleyn, or if he reserved the worst of his behaviour for other women.

“Right, think we’re ready,” a voice says, right next to her crate. Even though he can’t see her, Boleyn leans away from the sound, pulling fabric around herself. For a moment, she is back in the Tower.

The cart jolts forward, and Boleyn risks peering out. The marble of the palace walls is sliding past them. The remaining crates containing jewels or food or weapons, destined for other towns and other ports, remain in place.

“Stop!” someone else shouts. Boleyn closes her eyes. Foolish hope.

“What’s the matter?” the driver says.

“There’s been an escape from the Tower. No one’s to leave the palace.”

“From the Tower?” the driver says. “It can’t be possible. How?”

“Never you mind. What’s in there?”

Boleyn pulls out the knife that Clarice left for her. They hadn’t said it, but she had understood that it was not just for food.

“What is this?” a familiar voice says. Howard. Boleyn risks peering out of the hole once more. There she is, her thick curls loose and abundant. Her gown is stunning – a thin velvet embroidered with flowers, the sleeves and undergown cut through with light blue tulle. She stands lightly, her head tilted, doll-like. The man she addresses is handsome the way a mad stallion is handsome. He is dressed in the satin of a gentleman, but he is no noble of significance, despite his easy confidence.

“Your Majesty,” the man says, unruffled by Howard’s sudden appearance. “We’ve been ordered to stop anything from leaving.”

“But I need this one gone,” Howard says, her voice high. “I’m sending fabrics of my own design to the dressmakers in Perfugi and they simplymustbe on today’s shipment.”

“The king’s orders…”

“Ugh!” Howard stamps her foot. “I said they need to be on today’s shipment! What don’t you understand about that?”

“This is a security matter.”

“I don’t know anything about that and I don’t care. It’s fabric. Fabric fabric fabric.”

She stamps her foot again.Too much, Boleyn thinks.

“Why don’t I check inside the crate?”

“And put your grubby hands on it? Absolutely not. Drive on,” Howard tells the driver. Boleyn imagines him looking between the irate queen and the gentleman and wondering whose anger is more dangerous.

“Then I’ll check with His Majesty,” the man says.

“Fine,” Howard says, crossing her arms. “Go on up and ask my husband if it’s all right for his wife to send a bit of fabric to the ports. But if it misses today’s shipment, then I swear I will make sure you lose whatever insignificant position you currently hold.”

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