Page 29 of Six Wild Crowns

Seymour tries to laugh. “The queen was making it very clear that she doesn’t trust me.”

Seymour has to hold the tankard in both hands but cannot lift it to her lips until she’s stopped trembling.

“Can she?” Clarice says lightly.

“What do you mean?”

Clarice looks out of the window, avoiding Seymour’s gaze and question.

“The storm’s dying off. You should be able to go back to your room soon.”

“Are you all right?” Seymour says.

“I always am, my lady.”

There’s a kerfuffle outside the hall, and a messenger strides in, heading straight for Queen Boleyn. He hands her a letter and she reads it quickly, avidly. The muted conversations that had whispered like snakes around the hall fall silent.

Boleyn stands up, flourishing the letter, holding it high.

“Lothair is ours! The king rides to Brynd to celebrate!”

George leads the cheering. No storm can dampen the spirits of those in the hall.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Seymour says to Clarice. The sudden lightness in her chest is overwhelming. For a natural outsider, like her, the joy of patriotism is one of the few ways she can feel connected to others.

“Congratulations, my lady,” Clarice says, unsmiling.

“Come on, Clarice, don’t sulk. This is a victory for all of us.”

“If you say so.” Clarice wanders off to talk to other servants, leaving Seymour to her milk. The Feorwa Isles, where Clarice is from, are part of Elben’s territory now, and have been for decades. This victory is theirs too. Well, Seymour refuses to let her servant’s behaviour affect her mood.

By the time Seymour has finished her milk, the stewardess has proclaimed the worst of the storm over.

“There’s no point going back to bed,” the queen announces. “Let us all have wine and cake in my chambers and make Master Wyatt recite poetry as we watch the storm’s death throes.”

Another cheer goes round the room. Everyone’s anticipating a delicious, lazy, silly day before the king’s arrival.

Seymour stops off in her bedchamber on the way up to the queen’s rooms to freshen up. In one corner of her room there’s an empty copper basin, a flannel and jug of water next to it. Seymour pours a little water into the basin and cradles some in her hands to rub up her wrists.

She can tell something’s wrong almost immediately. It starts as a prickle on her palms. Soon, it’s a fire. She watches in horror as the skin grows red, and then blisters. She grabs a towel and tries to dry her hands – but all that happens is that great discs of skin sloughoff, leaving bleeding, flayed flesh exposed. Seymour screams, the pain unbearable.

That’s when she sees it, on the mirror above the basin – someone has written, in red ink – or blood:DO YOUR JOB.

Clarice runs into the room and stops in their tracks, fixating on Seymour’s raised hands.

“Get help!” she shouts at them before they can see the writing on the mirror, and once they’re out of the room Seymour scrubs at the words, trying to use her arms and elbows instead of her hands. By the time Clarice has returned with an apothecary, no trace of the warning remains. The apothecary sets down his box of tools, tells Clarice to fetch fresh water, then sniffs the liquid in the basin.

“The Queen’s Kiss,” he whispers.

“What?” she says, her teeth gritted against the agony.

“It’s a flower, my lady. A very poisonous flower that grows only in darkness. It smells delightful. The petals are used in royal perfumes, hence the name. But the sap is strongly acidic. Put enough of it in water, and, well…”

He trails off, eyeing Seymour’s injuries with a mixture of disgust and professional interest.

“Can you heal me?” she asks.

“Certainly, but it will take time.”

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