Page 16 of Six Wild Crowns

Rochford and Mary don’t allow Seymour time to orientate herself. They whisk her onwards, through one of the many doorways leading from the vestibule. Seymour loses her sense of direction as they wind her through dark galleries only lit by tallow candles, pointing out rooms as they pass – library, great hall, stewardess’s office and on and on. At last, they come to the base of a turret whose windows look out towards the ocean, and direct Seymour up the narrow steps. The workers haven’t yet blocked the holes in the stonework on this side of the castle, and the wind blowing in from Pkolack sends icy gusts right through the gaps and through Seymour’s gown. She shivers, her breath a smoky exhale.

“Your room is warmer,” Rochford says, guiding Seymour up the stairs ahead of her. Seymour imagines the women exchanging glances behind her back, and wonders what they make of her. She finds their hospitality coldly efficient, but maybe that’s because she herself is slow and dull. She can’t imagine ever fitting in with this household, which is so much livelier and sharper than Queen Aragon’s considered stateliness. Then again, she is not supposed to fit in. She is supposed to tear it all down.

Each flight of stairs is perforated by a plain oak door. Delicate copper initials have been inlaid into each door. Halfway up the turret, they come to a door with the initialsS. S. Seymour Seymour. A key has been left in the lock.

“This is your room,” Mary says. “Mine is just above.”

Seymour pushes the door open. She hadn’t been expecting the smoky heat that assaults her after the chill of the staircase.

“It’s beautiful,” Seymour says. She had expected somewhere dingy and smelly, as punishment for her obvious role as spy to Queen Aragon. But her room is cosy and clean, a haven the way her rooms at Daven were. The space is dominated by a four-poster bed, covered in blankets and furs. A fire crackles on one side, and Seymour recognises the smell of heartwood. It must have been imported at great expense from the forests of Uuvek, where rich insomniacs are taken to find rest. The warmth of burning heartwood is a nurse’s embrace, broth after a windy ride, a beloved children’s tale told for the hundredth time.

Two chairs sit next to the fire, facing each other over a table, wherea game ofbeaduláchas been set up ready to play. On the other side of the room, beside the only window, a little bench sits next to another table. A platter of cheese, bread, fruit paste and wine is already laid out. Seymour spies the coastline through the window – a derelict sliver of cliff and rock, crowned by the distant port of Garclyffe.

“There’s a gift for you too,” Rochford says, pointing out a parcel on the bed.

Seymour pulls off the ribbon and tears the paper from the present, revealing a writing set, with perfumed paper and dainty quills from a bird she cannot place. The paper and the box bear Boleyn’s storm cloud insignia. This is her sting, for what does a spy need but paper and pen? If only she knew that the sting Seymour has been tasked with is so much worse than mere spying.

“This is too kind,” Seymour says.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mary says. “Kindness isn’t Boleyn’s way.”

Rochford tuts at Mary.

“What? My sister would agree with me. She’s not being kind. She’s saying that she’s willing to buy loyalty.” Mary looks hard at Seymour.

The women leave Seymour to dine in peace, telling her to join them in the queen’s antechamber once she’s rested. Even though she’s desperate to tuck into the food, she waits for Clarice to bring her trunks up and, once she’s alone again, she hurriedly opens the smallest one. Inside are her undergarments – her linen smocks and the fabric used for her monthly courses. Nestled at the bottom is an envelope. She checks that no one is loitering outside the door then draws it out. Inside, flattened by the journey, are a dozen, slender leaves. They look unremarkable to anyone who doesn’t know which plant they belong to.

Seymour casts around the room for a loose stone, but the draughts worry her – she imagines the envelope being blown loose while a maid is cleaning, or being sucked out of the wall and sinking into the sea below. She resorts to stuffing the envelope inside the cushion of her window seat. Hopefully no one will notice it. Only she will have the discomfort of knowing that she is eating good food while sitting on the instrument of her host’s death.

Just as she’s finishing her platter, Clarice knocks on the door andasks if they can help her unpack and change for the queen. Seymour isn’t ready to see Boleyn, but then she’s not sure she’ll ever be ready. Should she try to poison her immediately, or should she wait until she’s more settled? The latter will make Seymour appear less suspicious, but it risks the guilt consuming her. The thought of Boleyn’s long hair, dark and silken, already flits through her daydreams. It is dangerous to wait.

Clarice brings a bowl of water and rose petals and eases Seymour out of her travelling garments so that she can sponge the grime of the road and the sweat of a humid day from her body. Once she’s clean, Clarice helps her into a fresh bodice and petticoat, laces her into her gown and brings her sleeves bearing the queen’s insignia – the one piece of uniform that Seymour must always wear now that she is in Boleyn’s service. The green and gold of the sleeves look gaudy against the dusky pink of her gown, but Seymour has never cared about how she appears. Then Clarice brushes out her hair and pins her hood in.

“You’re ready, my lady,” they say.

She’s not, but she thanks Clarice anyway as she ascends the stairs leading up to the queen’s chambers. She makes as if to go up them, but once she’s sure Clarice has left, she doubles back and slips into her room, taking a single leaf from the envelope in the cushion and slipping it inside her sleeve so it rests against the inner embroidery of the storm cloud. Her own threat of thunder.

The stairs run up inside the turret and open out on to a wide gallery lined with portraits of kings and queens and minor royalty. Seymour only has to follow the sound of music and laughter to know which way to go. Boleyn’s antechamber is packed. The ceiling is lower than she’d expected, and the room wider and deeper. It is very different to Queen Aragon’s rooms, which are sparse and spacious and quiet. Here the corners are filled with courting couples. In every nook there is a bowl of fruit or a platter of biscuits. No tallow candles spitting fat here – tiny lantern dragons breathe their gentle flames from inside enchanted cages. At the fire, servants mull wine and roast chestnuts and try not to trip over the silver dragon that lies splayed there, belly and claws to the heat.

Mark, George Boleyn’s husband, steps into the middle of the floor, brandishing a fiddle.

“Who will dance for me?” he announces to general laughter. A handful of couples trip into formation. George cajoles Rochford into being his partner, and Mark cannot drag his eyes from his two spouses as he plays a jig. The Boleyns, always at the centre of every entertainment. But the queen herself doesn’t join in the dancing.

She sits on a throne at the head of the room, surrounded by courtiers and servants. Her head is bowed over something. She seems to sense someone watching her, for she looks up and catches Seymour’s gaze. Her eyes are piercingly dark, even when she smiles. She must be able to see straight through Seymour’s clothing, to the leaf hidden in her sleeve, to her bare skin.

“Lady Seymour,” Boleyn says, and the circle of courtiers reluctantly makes space for the new arrival. “I’m so glad you could join us at last.”

On her lap is a sequence of fabrics, all of them in varying shades of red.

“We’re trying to decide which one will work best for our victory dress.”

“I see,” Seymour says. “I was glad to hear of Lothair’s losses.”

“Yes,” Boleyn says. “And they will lose more before long, I wager.”

“I think this one,” someone says, picking up an ugly crepe.

“Then you have very poor judgement,” Boleyn says, snatching the crepe and tossing it to the floor.

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