Page 125 of Six Wild Crowns

“She will soon be in my position, I fear. And my family will be watched too closely for you to take her to Mary.”

“And what about you?”

Boleyn smiles at her. “I’m going to be the distraction that allows you to escape.”

Syndony shakes her head. “No. No, you come through the tunnels with us. We’ll all go.”

“No, Syndony, that cannot happen.”

“Why not?” the woman juts her chin like a teenager.

“You know why.”

A hush settles over the castle. Outside, the army amasses beyond the gates.

“He’ll never stop until he’s found you,” Syndony says.

“That’s right. So I’m going to let him find me.”

Elizabeth begins to cry. Boleyn does not let herself comfort her, or her resolve will crumble. She forces herself to turn away as the nurse soothes her and Urial nuzzles her feet.

“You know there are some people here who’d die for you. That masque got people talking.”

“They think I’m a witch.”

“Not all of them. Not any more. You have loyal followers in this castle.”

“I will not allow another massacre to blight these people. Besides, Elben needs people to die fighting for the truth, not for me. There’s a difference, Syndony.”

Boleyn opens her arms, desperate for an embrace from this woman who helped her to birth her child, who stood by her when she didn’t need to, who put her trust in her when she had no use for trusting queens. But instead of stepping into Boleyn’s arms, she curtseys. A full, floor-deep curtsey as she has never before offered any noble.

“My queen,” she says. Then she rises, and leads the nurse away to the tunnels, without looking back. Boleyn kneels and strokes Urial’s scaled neck, letting the dragon’s warmth comfort her. “Protect her,” she tells the dragon. He licks Boleyn roughly, then twists into the air, following Syndony, the nurse and Elizabeth into Brynd’s depths.

Alone, Boleyn walks towards the stables, all the aches and pains of her journey and imprisonment filling her muscles once more. Fauvel is waiting for her, saddled up and jittery from lack of exercise. Boleyn runs her hand along the mare’s neck before swinging up into the saddle. The sun is almost at its zenith. It’s time. She asks the groom to fetch her something from the guardroom, and slings it over her shoulder.

Boleyn urges Fauvel out into the courtyard, where guards and servants mill nervously. Some of them clutch kitchen knives or gardening tools, pointing them inexpertly towards the closed gates.

“You don’t need to do that,” Boleyn calls. A semicircle forms around her.

“Raise the white flag,” she instructs a guard.

“But, Your Majesty, we can fight.”

“Remember you said that,” she says, pointing at him. “Remember you offered to fight for a queen of Brynd. But for now, retreat. Tell them you despise me. Tell them all the rumours about me are true. Tell them you are pleased I was taken.”

They stir, indignantly, uncomfortably. No one likes to know the truth and not shout about it.

“Do as I say – raise the white flag.”

Someone brings a bedsheet from the castle and thrusts it on a pole, so that it is visible over the gates.

“Open the gates if you surrender!” the king’s herald calls.

The guards look to Boleyn.

“Do as he says.”

They fall back behind her as the guards ease the gates apart. They creak open slowly. The last time they were closed, another queen accused of treason was mistress of this palace. Another queen who had discovered the truth and paid for it dearly.

---