Page 17 of Six Wild Crowns

No one else wants to offer an opinion.

“This one, Your Majesty,” Seymour says, pointing to a curious piece, part linen, part lace.

“Why?” Boleyn says, holding the fabric up to the light.

Seymour falters. Her reasoning is impulsive, embarrassing. Then she remembers what Queen Aragon said –you cannot lie. Best not to try, even if it’s mortifying. “I think it would suit your hair.”

Queen Boleyn laughs delightedly. She pulls her hair out of its elaborate braid and gathers it over her shoulder, so that she can see it against the fabric.

“Well, at least one of you has taste,” she pronounces eventually.She gives a servant the fabric Seymour chose. “This one. Make it up for the whole household.”

The servant scurries away. Boleyn eyes Seymour. “Well, Lady Seymour. I’m quite dependent on you already. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have such an eye for fashion.”

Boleyn’s gaze lingers on Seymour’s gown, the pink clashing with the gold and green sleeves. Some of the other courtiers smirk. Seymour curtseys, because she doesn’t trust herself to say anything. Boleyn stands up.

“Someone must dance with me!” she cries, and a dozen men and women rush forward to offer their hand. She chooses her brother, George, and the two of them spin and clap in the centre of the room. George is a fine dancer, but his sister is incomparable. Seymour can’t take her eyes off Boleyn, even as she smarts from the insult bestowed upon her and glows from Boleyn’s praise. She drinks her up – the way the corner of her gown slips off her shoulder as she moves, the way her mouth promises cruel bliss and sweet danger.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. She has to kill her. She has to kill her now.

It is not Seymour who fetches two glasses of mulled wine and takes them to a quiet corner. It is her puppet masters. Making sure no one is watching, she slips the leaf from her sleeve and breaks it in half, dunking the broken ends into one of the glasses and swirling them around, watching the sap form an oily sheen before dispersing. It is not her doing this – it is Queen Aragon.

She turns back to the dancers, holding both glasses, the strings at her wrists and arms jigging in time to the music. As the song comes to an end, she approaches Queen Boleyn.

“Your Majesty, I thought you might be thirsty.”

Boleyn takes the glass breathlessly. “Thank you. I must dance as much as I can now, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Boleyn says. Seymour knows what she is about to say before she says it, and with the realisation comes the cutting of her strings. The next choice is hers alone. “After all, it won’t be long before I’m unable to. What with the baby on its way.”

CHAPTER NINE

Boleyn

Boleyn has to give Lady Seymour credit – she barely reacts to the news. Boleyn catches the barest flicker of shock, and then she masks it.

“This is the most wonderful news.” Seymour smiles, then focuses on Boleyn’s wine glass. “May I?”

She plucks the glass from Boleyn’s grasp and exchanges it for hers. “I think yours was a little dirty. Please, have mine.”

Seymour moves away from Boleyn, towards the edge of the room, towards the door. Boleyn is minded to let her go – let her send the news back to Aragon as swiftly as possible – but then she decides to have a little fun.

“What do you think I’m carrying? A prince or a princess?” she asks.

Seymour freezes, staring at Boleyn like a stuffed fowl.

“Only Cernunnos knows such things.”

“But if you were a betting woman, Lady Seymour, although I must say you don’t look like one. Which would you pick?”

Seymour’s hand – the one holding the dirty glass – trembles. Interesting. If Seymour were truly as dull as she appears, she wouldn’t hesitate to answer Boleyn. Her dithering suggests that she understands the bind she is in: predict an heir and she betraysQueen Aragon, who could not give Henry a living son. Predict a princess and she will anger her new mistress.

Mary steps in. “Really, sister, allow your new lady to settle before you begin to taunt her.”

“A question is not a taunt, Mary.” Boleyn finishes her wine. “Come now, Lady Seymour, I won’t hold you to your prediction.”

Something settles across Seymour’s expression, like a veil falling.

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