Page 22 of Six Wild Crowns

“It would come out of Brynd’s income from the mines, of course.”

The foreman fiddles with his cap, looking back at his workers. Boleyn can see the battle waging in him: the desire to see his people treated well, to take what he views as theirs, against his innate distrust.

“What would you want in return?” he says at last.

“Nothing that would harm your morals, I assure you.”

Oswyn grunts, as though he doubts she knows what his morals are.

“I would like two things from you,” she says. “The first is your guidance. I wish to earn the trust of my people. Tell me how I may do that. The second is your miner’s instinct. I believe there may be an ancient site, somewhere beneath Pilvreen. Perhaps you have already come across it?”

Oswyn shakes his head. “I’ve seen nothing like that, and I’ve worked these mines all my life.”

“Well. Maybe it is nothing. But I’d like you to look for it, when you can, if you can. There. Those are my two conditions. If there is anything else you would like to implement here then we can discuss it. Do you accept?”

Oswyn bows. “I do, Your Majesty.”

Later, as she studiously ignores Syndony’s glares, Boleyn thinks of her bargain with Oswyn and considers that she may finally be on the path to taking her rightful place as the greatest Queen of Elben.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Seymour

Seymour has grown to despise letters. She receives them weekly from her brothers. Edward’s missives are full of commands to place herself in front of the king as soon as he returns to Brynd.He has married uglier women than you, sister, he writes often. It’s the closest to a compliment he will ever give to Seymour. Thomas’s letters are more realistic:If he wants to play with you while Queen Boleyn is with child, let him. You’ll receive some trinkets and you’ll do the family some good if you perform well.

But it is not these letters that cause Seymour most anguish. It is the one she must write, and soon.

Your Majesty, most kind and gracious Queen Aragon,she writes,When last we spoke you gave me a task…

She scrunches up the paper and tosses it into the fire. She has already burned a dozen sheets trying to explain why she has not yet killed her new mistress. She knows that her letters are likely being monitored, probably by more than one party. Boleyn herself; Wolsey; maybe even her brothers. Nothing can be stated baldly, but she needs to be frank enough to placate Queen Aragon. She has triedlying: intimating that she will do it, one day; that she’s biding her time. She has tried reasoning: suggesting that to kill Boleyn would place Aragon herself in danger from the king. But none of it rings true, and her words wither as they drop from her pen.

Seymour throws her quill down, then bangs the table. If she could only confide in her brothers, they would be able to craft something contrite. But Thomas is still abroad and Edward is probably scheming his advancement at High Hall. She must deal with this alone.

She smooths another piece of paper.

Queen Aragon,she writes, knowing she will burn this page alongside the others,You have turned me into a traitor, madam, whatever path I choose. Either I must betray you, you who gave me a safe haven, or I must betray Queen Boleyn, who—

Seymour pauses. She cannot write what she truly wants to write about Boleyn, even on a piece of paper destined for the flame.

If Queen Boleyn were simply pregnant, I think I could do what you ask. But the way she carries herself, hand on stomach, cheeks flushed, eyes fervent, is a poem. I cannot destroy a poem. Please do not make me.

Seymour stares at the drying ink. She disappeared the glass of poisoned wine the day after her arrival, the same way she once heard Thomas talk of wayward diplomats being disappeared in far off lands. A gentle push from a cliff, the ocean a raging, silent accomplice. The remaining leaves are still hidden in her window seat. She sometimes wonders whether she could still do half of the job, for Princess Tudor had informed her, when she gave her the leaves, that if turned into a paste and rubbed over the stomach they can bring about miscarriage. But even if she had the courage, how could Seymour manage to gain access to Queen Boleyn’s naked belly?

Sometimes she catches the queen watching her, and she sees the question form in Boleyn’s mind every time:what kind of spy are you?If spying were Seymour’s task, she is indeed doing a poor job of it. She asks no questions. She goes exactly where she is told. She does not try to ingratiate herself.

Perhaps… perhaps she could be a spy, though. She must give her former mistress something of value. Would Queen Aragon accept knowledge, in place of death? Does Seymour even possess the skills to gather such knowledge?

She makes her way upstairs with new determination. Winds, ferocious as the wild dragons that fly over Uuvek, buffet the tower. In the queen’s antechamber, servants are roasting spiced apples over the fire, so the whole room smells of caramel and aniseed. For once, Mark Smeaton is not playing an instrument but is sequestered beside the queen, along with his spouses and Mary Boleyn. Gaming tables have been set up along one side of the chamber, and most courtiers are busy gambling or playing cards, or the more aggressivebeadulác. In another corner, Mary Boleyn’s children crouch over spinning tops.

Outside, a shard of lightning hits the tower and is absorbed through the stones, a living web of white light. The vibration shivers through Seymour’s body from her skull to her feet. When she first came here, Seymour had hated the sensation. There is much about Brynd that she has grown to enjoy. Love, even.

Seymour tarries beside the hearth until the first of the apples are ready, then follows the servants over to the queen, under pretence of waiting for food.

“What do you make of it, Lady Seymour?” Boleyn says as Seymour approaches. She stands and spins, her dress splaying out around her. It’s the scarlet fabric Seymour picked out. She was right – it does suit Boleyn. The shade lends the queen’s dark hair a warm sheen. It’s thin material too, emphasising the hint of a bump.

“It is beautiful, Your Majesty. But then you would look beautiful in anything,” Seymour says truthfully. There is a change in Boleyn, though. She seems more brittle. Fevered, even.

“Careful, George. Lady Seymour is going to steal your crown for most charming courtier,” Boleyn says. Mary, Mark and George laugh. Seymour joins in, pretending that she isn’t the object of their joke.

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