Page 126 of Six Wild Crowns

As soon as the gates are open enough for Fauvel to fit through, Boleyn urges her into a canter and flies through the gap, leaning low over her neck to avoid any arrows. She takes the army waiting outside by surprise, as was her intention. Henry is at the front, as Boleyn knew he would be, and he is the first to spring into action.

“After her!” he commands, whipping his stallion into a gallop. The bulk of his army follows, streaming after Boleyn as she races towards the orchards and into the shelter of the trees.

“Boleyn!” Henry roars. There is no joy in his voice now. There is only the hunt.

Fauvel weaves between branches, her light hooves keeping ahead of the king’s charger. Boleyn steers her this way and that, always away from the castle, towards the outskirts of the orchards, towards the smell of the sea and the cries of the gulls.

They burst out of the cover of the trees and mount the hill that leads up to the folly. Boleyn halts Fauvel just as they reach the cliff. Henry and his army close in around them.

“Well done, girl,” Boleyn whispers, stroking her neck. Boleyn dismounts, and chases her beloved horse away from her, urging her to flee down the slope. She does not want her in the line of fire.

Henry dismounts his horse too, as Boleyn knew he would. His notions of courtly behaviour mean he cannot sanction anything else. It would be unseemly for an entire army to advance upon one weak woman. She takes the bow from her shoulder and notches an arrow into the string.

The distant bells of Pilvreen chime, the sound carried all this way on the wind, just for her. She edges around the side of the folly. One hand on her bow, she presses thesunscína, then springs away as Henry rounds the corner, his sword drawn.

In the corner of Boleyn’s vision, Seymour’s face appears. ThenHoward’s. Then Cleves’s. And finally, the two queens she thought would never join them. Parr and Aragon, their expressions taut, lips pursed. As soon as they see Henry, and Boleyn’s arrow pointed directly at him, they are silenced.

“Boleyn,” Henry says, his voice deep and full, his eyes dragging over her body. The memory of their first meeting has filled both of them. “You’ve led me on quite a chase.”

“Well, you know how much I love a hunt.”

She keeps her arrow trained on him.

“You know what happens when the prey is cornered,” he says. “There’s always that moment where you see it in their eyes. The acceptance of their fate.”

He peers at her, and he has the audacity to smile in the way he knows used to make her weak. “I don’t see that in your eyes yet, Boleyn.”

“Maybe I’m not the prey.”

Henry laughs then, throwing his head back, exposing his neck. She takes the shot.

Her aim is true, but the arrow flies wide, disappearing into the cover of the orchard. Henry raises his sword.

“How unlike you to miss, Boleyn. Perhaps you don’t truly wish me dead.”

Boleyn knows the real problem. She needs five queens to defeat him, and neither Parr nor Aragon have pledged to join her yet. She just needs one of them to say the words, then she can shoot, then she can end this.

“Oh, Boleyn,” he says. “I do love you, you know. You’re so different from other women.”

Aragon hisses, almost inaudibly. Henry neither sees nor hears her – any of them, in fact, for the mirrors are for queens alone to use.

“I no longer find that a compliment, Henry,” Boleyn says. “I am exactly like other women, and I am proud to be one of them.” She’s lying, of course, but it must be said. She is nothing like the others, or she would not be here.

Henry laughs again, and Boleyn chances another shot. She aims at his chest this time. The arrow flies true, but at the last momenta sudden gust of wind, unnatural in this alcove of the folly, blows the arrow off course. It embeds, not in his chest, but in his thigh. Henry roars in pain and throws his sword towards Boleyn like an axe. She ducks out of its path, darting towards the sea. As she crests the cliff, only just in sight of the folly, she realises that while the sword missed her, it has broken her bow. She discards the weapon, raising her hands in surrender as Henry stumbles towards her, cursing. He pulls the arrow from his thigh and tosses it to one side. The goddess’s magic flows down his body to the wound, healing it, leaching life and strength from the six queens to mend the broken skin.

The oracle is right. Five queens are needed, not one, not four.Five. Boleyn must unite them somehow. She glances towards thesunscína. They are all still watching, Howard and Seymour through hands clasped over their mouths. Aragon is more circumspect. She arches an eyebrow, curious to know what Boleyn will do next.

Henry collects his sword from the ground.

“You’ll pay for that.”

“I found a way, you know,” she says.

Henry sneers, recognising the stalling tactic.

“I did. In More’s books. I found the truth. I found a way to make the magic even stronger.”

That makes Henry pause. “You’re lying,” he says.

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