Page 25 of Six Wild Crowns

Boleyn lets the silence drag out as she surveys him. He is all bravado and nerves, his cocksure smile an act, just as the fine doublet he’s wearing cannot fully disguise the patches on his shirt.

“Mistress Syndony, please put this man on a horse back to whatever hovel he crawled from.”

He laughs. “Is this why you don’t have a jester, Your Majesty? Because you can’t take a joke?”

Boleyn nods to Syndony and stands, walking to the fireplace asnonchalantly as she can manage. Well, thatnimænwill remain elusive for a little longer, that’s all, until she can find a scholar who will treat her as the queen she is. She accepts a bowl of hot chestnuts from a servant who cannot meet her eyes. If people are saying she’s a whore, it’s because they’re jealous. When the news of her pregnancy spreads, when she gives birth to a son, they will be forced to alter their opinion. Boleyn knows a little of gossip, having navigated four years in the Capetian court. She knows that in the eyes of the public, mothers are rarely considered prostitutes.

“Your Majesty, my apologies,” the poet calls out. “I beg one more chance.”

Wyatt is struggling against Syndony. Boleyn wouldn’t bet against her. Last week she witnessed the woman lift an entire hog from a cart without help.

“He’s got spirit, hasn’t he?” Mark whispers.

In the struggle, Wyatt knocks one of the side tables, and a little clock – a gift from Henry – topples to the floor and shatters, sending a starburst of golden mechanisms and glass shards across the floorboards. The lantern dragons on the walls twist in their cages, unsettled by the noise.

“Enough!” Boleyn says, clapping her hands. Syndony lets Wyatt go and he stumbles to the floor. When he rises, his palms are punctured by the remnants of the clock. He smiles at Boleyn, brushing his bloodied hands clean on his hose.

“I do not like disloyalty,” Boleyn says.

“What do you like?”

Boleyn pops a chestnut in her mouth as she circles the man. She comes to stand behind him, enjoying the flush rising on the back of his neck.

“I like people who are clever. I like people who are helpful. I like people who want to please me. At the moment, Master Wyatt, you seem to be none of those things.”

He turns to face her, and she pops another chestnut in her mouth. In the corner of her vision, she sees Mark place a hand on George’s arm in anticipation.

“I don’t believe I gave you permission to look at me,” she says.

Inexplicably, Wyatt grins and covers his face with his hands. The crowd edges backwards, wondering what this unpredictable commoner is playing at.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I am not here.”

“What?” Boleyn says, almost choking on her chestnut.

“Imagine, if you will, that I was never here. Imagine that you could not admit me before, but left me waiting outside this very excellent door—”

As he speaks, Wyatt moves with exaggerated soft steps towards the door, the crowd parting before him.

“Imagine,” he continues, “that when this door closes behind me, all memories of what has been said and done between us are magically erased, quick and easy as a shooting star.”

Syndony looks pointedly at the remnants of the clock, scattered underfoot, and says, “How did we do that then?”

Wyatt bows to her, his arms wide. “A most excellent point, kind mistress. A regrettable accident. Who knows how it came about? But an accident that this stranger, who you will never have seen before when he enters, will most certainly clean up.”

Syndony puts her hands on her hips, refusing to be flattered. “He had better, because my maids aren’t doing it.”

Now so low to the ground that he looks utterly ridiculous, Wyatt opens the door and gives them all one final bow. “Remember, all memories – vanished!”

The mood of the crowd has shifted now. Not one person, even Syndony, can hold back a smile. Even Boleyn is minded to offer him a second chance.

Wyatt closes the door behind him, and silence descends. No one is quite sure how to play this out now. No one except Boleyn.

“Mistress Syndony,” she says, loudly enough for her voice to carry. “I believe we have kept our new visitor waiting long enough. Would you be so kind as to admit him into my presence?”

Syndony curtseys with a look that says she thinks the whole company is quite mad, but opens the door to reveal Wyatt standing, head proud, hand pressed to his heart. He strides in and kneels before Boleyn, his knee grinding glass fragments into the floor.

“Your Majesty, Thomas Wyatt at your service,” he says, hand still over his chest.

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