Page 4 of Six Wild Crowns

Every movement at court is a performance. This is the first thing Boleyn remembers learning, and the only knowledge that she reminds herself of daily. The Royal Sanctuary commands a display with its gilded formality. But when she sees Henry standing there, Boleyn forgets her mantra. She forgets the representatives from Capetia that she has been entertaining. She forgets the five ladies-in-waiting, the disdain and awe and jealousy she senses through their veils. She even forgets her own family, and all their practice. They had timed her walk to make sure she would reach Henry at exactly the right swell of the choir. But as soon as she sees him she flies up the sanctuary’s aisle, her hands outstretched for his.

It’s only when she stands opposite him – those eyes that always seem to be laughing, the soft waves of his hair, the whisper of divine magic that ripples across his skin – that Boleyn realises that despite the impropriety, it was absolutely the right thing to do. Henry’s grinning down at her:Not very ladylike, Boleyn. Desperate to make me yours, are you?

She tilts her head at him, silently replying:No more than you’re desperate to make me yours.

His grip tightens. Beneath his linen shirt, his arms tense. Howshe longs to push up those sleeves and run her hands along the ridges of his muscles, across his chest and down the tautness of his stomach, to revel in the hot balm of his magic as it plays across her skin as well as his. Yes, she wants to make him hers, as a dragon desires blood. She will always be hunting him, and he her. It was the way their courtship began, after all.

Slowly, the pews in the sanctuary fill. The royal family comes first – a handful of Henry’s cousins, his two sisters being abroad – followed by Boleyn’s family. After them are the high-ranking courtiers with their sable-trimmed doublets, and then the lower ranking nobility in crimson or blue damask. Boleyn clears her throat, turning away from her audience and towards Henry. In the silence that follows, she feels curiously aware of the space around her. The chapel is small, intimate, the huge stained-glass windows that line one side of it doing nothing to make it feel more spacious. It is busy, even without the mass of bodies filling it – every wall, every object is decorated or filigreed. In any other room, it would feel gaudy, but there’s a solemnity to the faded gold, the sad smiles of the statues looking down on them from the pillars. The only space that does not feel cluttered is the wall behind the altar, which is dominated by a pair of antlers, stark white and big as a man, that hangs from iron brackets.

Bishop More steps onto the dais. A chain, devoid of gems, seems too heavy for his slender frame. His cap hides a thick mane of dark hair. He avoids looking at either the king or the bride. He’s a well-known acolyte of Queen Aragon, despite his see lying in Boleyn’s new territory of Brynd. She wonders if Aragon is trying to pinch her between Lady Seymour and the bishop, to make her feel uneasy on her wedding day. If that’s the case, Aragon doesn’t know that Boleyn grows sharper with every such move. Behind More, two servants place a cage containing a ceremonial dragon about the size of a goat, pearl-scaled and meaty, on the altar. It is submissive, drugged with tincture of pypas, ready for the bonding.

More raises his arms to frame the giant antlers on the wall behind him. When he speaks, his voice is sonorous. “We are gathered here today, beneath His antlers, to celebrate the binding of the King ofElben to this honoured woman, the Lady Boleyn.” Boleyn stares into Henry’s eyes. It can’t have only been a few months since they met, since they fell in love beneath hazel trees.

The bishop turns to the antlers behind the altar, and raises his arms once more in supplication.

“Haehfaeder upyrdum, besiroth tusenunga debryd,” he intones.Highfather above us, we seek your blessing on this union.Old Elbenese is too guttural for Boleyn’s taste – she prefers the cradle-rock lilt of the Osharan languages – but More’s reverence lends the words a certain beauty. He turns back to the assembled guests, returning to the modern tongue: “Our precious island of Elben, the confluence and gem of the three oceans, has long been coveted by those who would strip it of its riches.”

Boleyn does not look away from Henry. She doesn’t want to see the Capetian ambassador scowling on a day when she – and he – should be victorious. She doesn’t even wish to see the discomfort of the Quistoan representatives. It may be tradition to tell the story of how Elben’s queens came to be, but More is being needlessly heavy-handed. Henry rubs his thumb across the back of her left hand.It will pass, he is telling her.It matters not.

“There came a time, in Elben’s youth, when it seemed as though our island might be overwhelmed and lost. Our verdant forests burned, our glittering mines turned to dust, our livestock and people slaughtered. The king, strong and fearless though he was, could not hold off our enemies.”

There is a rustling of satin and velvet as the foreign ambassadors shift in their pews. Boleyn knows precisely what they are thinking. It was the one point of contention between her and her hosts during her time in Capetia. No country likes to believe that their shared god favours another.

More opens the cage and the servants help him to lift the ceremonial dragon, still slumbering. Its scales wax cream and silver beneath the sanctuary’s candlelight. The only mark on its hide is a thin scar at its throat, where its vocal cords have been removed. The bishop brings the dragon to the altar, where the servants bind its feet and wings.

“In despair and hope,” More continues, “King Aethelred journeyed to the sacred mountains of Hyfostelle, and there he made a sacrifice before the great god Cernunnos.”

A servant brings More a plain, golden dagger. More raises it so that all can see, then stands over the sleeping dragon. The air in the sanctuary congeals around Boleyn.

“Beteoth tufolgestaella, Haehfaeder!” he calls, his voice echoing around the chamber.Protect your people, Highfather. More brings the dagger down upon the dragon’s stomach. The beast rears from its stupor, writhing. Its jaws stretch open in agony, but the only sound is the clanking of the chains against the marble altar.

It is the first time since entering the sanctuary that Henry and Boleyn have willingly taken their eyes from each other. More ignores the dragon’s death throes, carving through the length of its stomach and dipping a long hand into the cavity to collect the fire brewed there. The dragon has been fed with nothing but honeyed meat for a month, to ensure its flames are golden, but there is always the fear of fate speaking louder than design. Of brown flames, or pale yellow – augurs of a weak bordweal, or the wrong choice of queen. The stories tell of fire thick and red as blood at the wedding of the traitor Queen Isabet.

More pulls his hand out of the dragon’s stomach. Cradled in his bare palm is a swirl of fire, molten gold. In the smile that Henry and Boleyn share lies a promise: the gold means certainty, safety, a loyal queen and a strong bordweal. It means, surely: a son.

Boleyn turns to the guests. She doesn’t return the relieved smiles of her family – to do so would be to admit that she had been uncertain of the outcome of the sacrifice. No, she stands tall and justified as More deposits the flame into a lantern and continues the story.

“From the mountain, Cernunnos, the great Highfather, spoke. Our antlered god looked upon King Aethelred. He said, ‘For the great love I bear for you and for this blessed isle, I will grant you protection.’ From a crevice at the apex of the mountain he pulled forth six substances, and fashioned each into a fortress. From sand, he made the Palace of Daven and set it upon the north coast. Fromfire, he made the Castle of Brynd, and placed it beyond the Holtwode, facing the Sea of Hreonessa. From ice, he made the Palace of Hyde, and buried it in Elben’s eastern rocks. From flesh, he made the Palace of Cnothan on the southern coast. From air he spun the Palace of Plythe and placed it at the mouth of the Kyttle River. And from rock and earth, he made the Castle of Mathmas and set it on the western cliffs.”

As the bishop speaks, servants remove the dragon’s body and in its place set a platter of six locked boxes, each one forged from a different metal.

“Cernunnos said unto the king, ‘I hereby give to you my strength. The strength of a god. Take six wives, loyal and humble and true, and place each of them in one of these sovereign castles, and visit them. Through them, your divine strength shall flow, and through them this blessed isle shall be protected from those who seek to harm it.’”

Boleyn watches as Henry produces a set of keys from a leather pouch, and passes one to the bishop. The key is made of garnet, and it fits into a box beaten from copper plates and engraved with flames. The bishop unlocks the box and withdraws from it a length of tattered cloth, once vivid purple, now faded to grey. The binding cloth of the dowager queen, one of Henry’s stepmothers. As she watches More burn the old cloth in the dragon’s flame, Boleyn imagines a day long hence when her son will replace her binding cloth with a fresh one as he marries his own beloved queen. She stirs, trying to shift a sudden light-headedness, and focuses on More’s voice.

“And so King Aethelred found six wives, humble, loyal and true, and through their marriage he passed to them a portion of his new divine strength. Through their marriage, and through the castles of Cernunnos, the power of the bordweal was formed, and Elben’s enemies were expelled. And ever since that day, so long as Elben is ruled by an heir of Aethelred and the six castles are occupied by queens humble, loyal and true, the power of Cernunnos has flowed from king to queens to bordweal, and thus we have thrived.Heahthrima eCynn. Haethrima eHaehfaeder!”Glory to the King.Glory to the Highfather. More’s sudden shout echoes around the sanctuary, making Boleyn’s sister-in-law, Rochford, jump. Boleyn wills George not to descend into juvenile laughter as she raises her arm for the next part of the ceremony.

More takes fresh purple cloth and binds Henry and Boleyn’s arms together. The bishop is rougher than he needs to be, the cloth so tight around her forearm that the circulation begins to wane.

“With this cloth, I invoke the ancient magics of this country. Lord Cernunnos, with this marriage the six palaces of Elben are filled. Grant us safety and protection, we beg of you.Beteoth tufolgestaella, Haehfaeder.”

Something clouds Henry’s features. Boleyn doesn’t like the implication either – this reminder that the king must fill the six palaces, that he must have six queens, or the kingdom falls. His other marriages were of convenience, that’s what he’s always told Boleyn.Thisunion, though – this is a love match. He and Howard may have a meeting of bodies; he and Aragon may have a meeting of minds, but he and Boleyn – they have both. She clasps Henry’s hand, but there’s still a shadow across his features that she cannot shift.

The Bishop holds the dragonflame lantern beneath their bound arms. His eyes are closed, as though he’s silently communing with Cernunnos. Boleyn fights the urge to laugh. George, in the front pew, is losing his own struggle. While she may defend Elbenese beliefs to the Capetians, the god has never been tangible to Boleyn the way He is to most. She has never heard Him answer her when she’s praying as Mary has. Nor does Boleyn like it when the good she has made happen is attributed to Cernunnos. It should be enough that He protects Elben. Let the mortals have their own victories.

But as Boleyn stands in the oppressive beauty of the sanctuary, she feels the heat from the lantern and the divine magic begin to work upon her. A heavy, floral scent fills the room. The cloth seems to flow across her skin, even though it doesn’t move. This is the start of the true bonding, where the king’s inexhaustible strength is meted out to the consorts for the good of the kingdom. Henrywatches her. Of course, he’s been through this ceremony five times already. He knows what to expect. He had warned her that it would be uncomfortable, and that no matter what she feels, she cannot make a sound if the bonding is to work. But god help her this isn’t uncomfortable – this is torture. She had imagined the divine power would make her strong, but she has never felt weaker. Beneath her skin, she is being twisted, stretched, snapped, suffocated. The pain is a fever, engulfing. It is the bite of a hundred dragons. It is the bone-deep memory of overhearing her parents agreeing that Mary was the beautiful sister.

Henry exhibits no discomfort. Maybe her experience is different to his. Maybe the pain is reserved for the consorts. She clings to his gaze. Their love for each other is her lighthouse. As long as she has sight of him, safety is within reach.

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