Page 23 of Six Wild Crowns

“Sit here and tell me all your secrets,” George says, offering her his chair.

Seymour does as she’s told, feeling as though she’s stepping into a dragon’s lair.

“My sister has us studying old maps,” Mary tells Seymour. A parchment is stretched between Rochford and Mark, not so much a map as a blueprint. Brynd’s craggy edges and maze-like rooms are drawn in detail. Seymour wonders if there might be any secrets hidden there that Queen Aragon would find interesting.

“I am considering digging an ice chamber,” Boleyn tells her. She points to a staircase that leads from the basement kitchens into the foundations of the castle, above the chamber where the lightning is held. “There’s an old tunnel that once led towards Pilvreen. We could dig out from there.”

George selects a roasted apple from the servant who’s been hovering nearby, and offers a spoonful first to Mark, then Rochford, since their hands are occupied with the map. “It’s winter, sister,” he says as he does so. “Why on earth would anyone want ice now?”

“It’s not for now, it’s for summer, you dullard.”

“No fighting, children,” Mary says. She turns to Seymour. “This is what I had to put up with as a child, Lady Seymour. Is it not a wonder that I’ve retained my sanity?”

Seymour smiles again, her heart twisting painfully. Her family is so unlike the Boleyns. Her brothers’ jibes are always intended to hurt.

“Are you not worried that the tunnels will cave in?” Rochford says once she’s swallowed her apple.

Boleyn simply looks at her. Seymour runs a hand over the parchment. “Do you like maps, Your Majesty?” she asks.

“I like exploring.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing when you leave Brynd?” Seymour says. The way Boleyn and her siblings glance at each other tells her that she was too obvious. Even she can see that it was a clumsy attempt to get information. Trying to cover her shame, she continues, “The very first Lord Seymour was an architect. My family’s home is full of such drawings. When I was a child I used to pore over them and imagine finding hidden rooms.”

George and Mary aren’t very good at hiding their smirks. Boleyn,though, tilts her head, staring at Seymour. “And what did you imagine finding in those hidden rooms?”

The truth is: nothing but solitude and escape. But she says: “Oh, what every girl dreams of. Fine jewels. Dresses. That kind of thing.”

Boleyn’s mouth twitches. Seymour is suddenly very sure thatshedid not dream of finding dresses or jewellery as a child.

“What else?” Boleyn says.

Seymour casts around for something that might impress the queen.

“Ancient things, Your Majesty, beyond common knowledge or power. A holy relic, or the Steorran sword. Or… or one of thesunscína.”

Mark looks up. “What is asunscína?”

“It’s an old wives’ tale,” says Mary. “Six glass discs that the queens of Elben used to communicate with each other.”

“How did they work?” Mark asks.

“They didn’t, silly; they’re a myth,” George says, pinching Mark’s chin.

“Can you imagine the queens of Elben talking to each other willingly?” Rochford says. The group laughs.

Shortly afterwards, Boleyn decides to go for a walk, refusing all offers of accompaniment. Seymour slips out of the antechamber after her, knowing that her absence won’t be noticed. She follows the queen from a distance. Servants hurry to bring Boleyn’s hooded cloak and gloves. Seymour does not receive the same treatment, and has no opportunity to find Clarice or return to her room. She must face the chill air or risk losing Boleyn’s trail.

Tucking her hands into her sleeves, Seymour follows Boleyn through the herb gardens and up a flight of steps into the orchards. She keeps to the side, and flits between trees. As ice sinks into her extremities, she throws up a prayer to Cernunnos that Boleyn is indeed hiding something of value to Queen Aragon, otherwise her impending death from winter fever will be in vain.

Boleyn comes to a halt very suddenly, sinking to the ground as if at prayer. Seymour wonders, at first, whether she is digging somethingup. Then Boleyn’s shoulders shake, and Seymour realises that she is sobbing.

Without thinking, Seymour darts to Boleyn’s side, pulling a handkerchief from her dress pocket.

“Your Majesty,” she says, kneeling. “Can I help? Are you well?”

Boleyn accepts the handkerchief, tear-blurred and tear-confused. “Lady Seymour?”

“Should I fetch help?”

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