Page 14 of Six Wild Crowns

“And with Lothair ours, it will be the start of the Elbenese empire,” Henry says into her ear. Then he pulls back, doubt clouding his features. “Do you wish this, Boleyn? It will be a sacrifice for you, too. And with Blount sick…”

She leans her forehead against his.

“I will hold the bordweal while you are gone, my love. If I have to sacrifice all of Brynd to Cernunnos, if I have to fasten myself to the spirit stone every hour of your absence, I will hold it.”

Henry claims her mouth with his. She is barely aware of Cromwell and Wolsey leaving the room.

Henry leaves for the east coast the next morning. From the port of Garclyffe to the villages that nestle in the shade of the Hyfostelle Mountains and further south to the fairy reeds of the Fietherford, the call goes out for men to join the glorious war. The nobility of Elben compete to see who can send the most fighting bodies.

The greatest recruiter of all is Henry himself, his youth eternal,his power undeniable. All believe, though none say it, that some of the king’s divine magic might be shared with them. That they, too, might become more than mere men if they join his cause.

Brynd feels empty without him, despite the efforts of Boleyn’s siblings. In only a few weeks, they transform the castle. As Henry sets sail in his royal warship, George fills the dank hallways with candles and bunches of dried flowers. The faded cornicing in the banqueting hall is painted bright blue to match the garlands of fabric that fall from the minstrels’ gallery and the rugs strewn across the stone floors. Every fireplace is lit at dawn, every table adorned with piles of iced wafers. As the Elbenese warships rain cannons upon Lothair’s fleet, Mark goes into Pilvreen and trawls the port of Garclyffe, returning to Brynd with musicians ready to fill the castle with folk songs. As what remains of Lothair’s navy turns tail and attempts to sail back to safety, Mary commissions artists to replace mould-ridden portraits and rusted metalwork. Rochford, who shares Boleyn’s love of finely illustrated manuscripts, takes it upon herself to oversee the restocking of Brynd’s library.

But for all Boleyn’s promises to hold the bordweal with the strength of dragons, she finds herself uncommonly tired. There are few days where she can rouse herself from bed before midday.

“He is still alive,” Mary says, unusually sharply, from her vigil at Boleyn’s bedside.

“It’s not because of that,” Boleyn says. Why must Mary always compare her grief with others’ feelings?

“Then why this lethargy, B.? It makes you very tiresome.”

Boleyn forces herself out of bed, even though she feels as though her ankles are in chains.

It is not until Boleyn receives word that the Lothairian warships have been destroyed that she understands what is happening to her. She and George climb up to the very top of the lightning tower, where they sip on mulled wine and stare out over the clear sky and still sea. A quiet celebration. A justification of Boleyn’s strategy.

“And look, a new moon,” George says, pointing up at the orb.It is fitting, she thinks. And then she thinks,My course should have begun by this moon. And then she knows.

“I am with child,” she says unthinkingly, because the realisation is too great to hold inside herself. Once she says it, though, she is glad that it is to George. Henry would have been too overjoyed. Mary would have fussed and grown all terse. George’s eyes widen, and he turns to her fully, a smile brimming.

“Are you happy?” he says.

She laughs. “Yes. Yes.” She has energy for the first time in weeks. She grabs George’s hands and together they jump like children around the silent tower. When they are out of breath, he envelops her in his arms.

“I warn you, I am going to be a very irresponsible uncle,” he says, his head next to hers.

“I actively encourage you to be. He will need some irresponsibility in his life.”

George pulls back, takes her by the shoulders. “If anyone can guarantee a boy through sheer force of will, I do believe it is you, Boleyn. But—”

Boleyn kisses him on the cheek. “Do not grow serious, brother. It doesn’t suit you.”

He accepts the diversion. She understands him, but she is not yet ready for the wave that she can already feel on the horizon of her thoughts. Soon a thousand worries will crash over her: what if she is mistaken? When should she tell Henry? When should she tell others? What if it is not a boy? What if she loses it? For now, she wants to rest in the pool of contentment.

There is one concern, though, that she must address now. “You’re not angry, or sad, or…?”

“Jealous?” George finishes for her. He cups her cheek lightly. “Do not worry about us, sister. If Rochford has a babe, we will be happy. If she does not, we will be happy, just the three of us. We do not need anyone else.”

“You always were my favourite brother,” she says. It’s an old jest, always certain to make him laugh.

They lean on the tower battlements, side by side.

“And you were always my favourite sister,” he says quietly.

In the still triumph of that night, a pulse in her womb, real or imagined, everything is perfect.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Seymour

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