Page 36 of Six Wild Crowns

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Boleyn

Boleyn has never viewed Lady Seymour as a threat, even after she understood that there might be more to the woman than her mousy exterior. So why is Henry looking at Seymour with such admiration? Why do his eyes follow her as she brushes past Boleyn with a flushed curtsey and flees down the stairs? Why does it take him so long to meet Boleyn’s gaze?

“My queen,” he says, opening his arms for her. For the first time since that rainy race through the woods when they first met, she does not want to obey. She is unsure how to react. If she shows her displeasure, she’ll seem insecure. Unthinkable. But if she feigns ignorance, she betrays herself. She is the queen who is difficult to please. The queen who rules the king’s heart, who tussles with him in every way possible. That is her self-portrait.

“On the hunt for a new Queen of Hyde before the current one is dead, Henry?” she says at last, sidestepping his embrace and going instead to the apex of the tower. She presses her hand against the conductor. The fizzle of the latent lightning makes the muscles in her arm twitch.

“I was getting to know your mouse,” he says, pulling her away from the tower and lifting her onto one of the crenelations. His words are too light, too easy – he wants her to ask about Seymour, about theirconversation. If she accepts his challenge, her insecurity will be obvious. She has no desire to spend more time on blasted Lady Seymour, so she wraps her legs around his waist, letting herself enjoy the warmth of his body, and leans back over the edge instead of replying.

“You’re a madwoman!” Henry laughs, looping his arms around her back to keep her from falling.

“Mad or free?” she says, letting the wind claim her words. Her hair whips around her face. The baby kicks, once, twice, little flutters just for her.

“I have to leave soon,” Henry says. She loses the high of the danger and lets him pull her up.

“No. Henry.” She fails to keep the whine from her voice.

“I’m sorry, my love. But we must press our advantage.”

“You’re going to ally with Capetia?”

The fact that Henry is following her advice almost makes her feel better about Seymour, and his imminent absence.

“Perhaps. I want to discuss it with Cromwell and Wolsey. Maybe More.”

“Hm.”

Henry kisses her, long and slow. “We must humour them,” he says.

The Quistoan ship beyond the bordweal fires another cannonball, sending another shock through the ocean and into the foundations of Brynd.

“When will you leave?” she asks.

“I’ll stay one more week, perhaps. Maybe two. I need to check some things. I have to put some more security in place for you.”

His eyes dart to the stairway.

“You can tell me anything, Henry,” she says.

He plays with her hair, looking over her shoulder towards the ship.

“Lady Seymour informed me of a plot hatched against you.”

Boleyn almost laughs. The ploy is so transparent. There’s little better way to a good man’s heart than claiming to care for those he loves. But all she says is, “Just because Lady Seymour is unable to protect herself, doesn’t mean I can’t.”

The physician told her about Seymour’s injuries. She assumes that it’s some strange Seymour matter. That family is cold. Theladies at court are warned not to be left alone with the eldest brother, Edward. It follows that Lady Seymour would try to spin a family quarrel into something grander, for her own ends.

“Truly, Henry, you’re worrying for nothing.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” he says. She sees two Henrys side by side: the flame-licked dragon, loving and frightening her in equal measures; and the scared little boy watching his older brother dying and, now, watching Queen Blount dying too. She holds him. “I won’t,” she whispers. “I’ll take good care, I promise.”

While Henry rides into Pilvreen to visit Bishop More, Boleyn rests. She used to believe that she had limitless energy, but she finds herself worn out too often these days. She knows it’s the baby, and Mary reassures her that her vigour will return after the birth, but the discontent still grows with her belly.

For as long as she can remember, Boleyn has felt intimately connected to her body. She has always known how much bread to eat before she will feel bloated, always known just where to touch to make herself feel pain or pleasure, always known that a gallop through the rain would make her chest light and her thighs present and solid. But as the child inside her grows, so does the distance between her metaphysical and her physical forms.

Now, she has to reach deeper to understand what her gut is telling her. Even when she can hear it, its directions are jumbled. Her mother told her that what’s best for baby is best for mother too, but now Boleyn isn’t so sure. If she rides and falls, she might lose the baby, but if she doesn’t ride she risks running mad. If she begins to eat the venison she so craves, she fears she won’t be able to stop until she has eaten the whole bloodied carcass. She has never wanted something more than she wants this pulsing entity inside her, and she has never been more frightened that it will consume her, dominate her, leave her.

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