Page 53 of Six Wild Crowns

“Not at all. Queen Seymour seemed very appreciative.”

He doesn’t look down at her as he says it, and his voice is level, agreeable. Still, a shiver runs up Boleyn’s spine. A distant cousin curtseys to Boleyn and she takes her time noticing the woman, thankful for the excuse not to answer Cromwell. When they keep moving, Cromwell changes the subject.

“The king told me of your research, Your Majesty.”

“Research?”

“Your desire to strengthen the bordweal and increase the divine magic?”

“Ah. Yes.” Boleyn smiles at Cromwell, determined to hide how wrong-footed she is that Henry has been discussing her with his advisors. She rebukes herself. Of course Henry’s discussed her. It shows how much he respects her, that he’s taken her research seriously enough to talk about it to others.

“It’s a desire I share,” Cromwell says. “I have long wanted to read the bishop’s books on the matter, but he is not fond of me.”

“I’m not sure the bishop is fond of anyone other than the great god,” Boleyn says.

“When the king told me that he had destroyed one of the books…” Cromwell places a fist over his heart in an exaggerated fashion. “There’s something distressing about the thought of ruining a book, isn’t there?”

Boleyn wonders whether Cromwell is trying to goad her into criticising Henry, which she will not do. Instead, she says, “I had no idea you were such a proponent of dangerous literature, Master Cromwell. You have become ten times more interesting to me.”

Cromwell laughs. Somehow, they have arrived at her guard chamber, although Boleyn could have sworn they were on the wrong floor. On the opposite side of the room, armed guards stand on either side of the gilt double doors to her privy chambers. Groups of courtiers and servants, all in green, stand when they spot her. Cromwell holds up a hand, warning them not to approach for now. It dislodges something in one of the pockets of his doublet.

“I wonder if I might assist you in your endeavour,” Cromwell says, lowering his voice and gesturing to her belly. “You will soon have your hands full with other matters, but I believe in your aims. We both know that our enemies are only waiting for the right moment to invade. If there is anything that can strengthen the bordweal and aid our king in Elben’s foreign wars, we must find it out.”

“And you wish to be the man to find it,” Boleyn says. “And to take the credit, no doubt.”

Cromwell presses his hand to his chest again. “How can we talk of credit when the safety of our country lies in the balance?”

“Indeed,” Boleyn says. She reaches over to his doublet and pulls from the pocket five squares of fabric: violet, white, silver, yellow and the orange of Cleves.

“Ah,” Cromwell says.

Boleyn hands him the squares.

“Loyalty above all, Master Cromwell.”

“I am loyal. I am loyal to the king.”

Henry doesn’t need anyone to pin their allegiance to their clothes. Their obeisance to him is a given.

Boleyn turns away from him, nodding to the waiting courtiers to approach. Cromwell blocks them.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. I did not mean to appear dishonest.”

“Then you should notbedishonest, sir.”

He bows. “There is much I would do to gain access to Bishop More’s library. Is there no agreement we could reach that would be beneficial to both of us?”

Boleyn regards him coolly. The truth is, she rather likes Cromwell. She regards him much as she regards Syndony: more worthy of her time than people born with wealth and status but lacking wit. And a Cromwell in her debt could be extremely useful. He has a network of spies and messengers almost as extensive as Wolsey’s. If Syndony cannot find out the origin of those rumours, Cromwell might be able to. And if he’s the originator, then this might be sufficient for him to stop them.

“I will think on it, Master Cromwell,” is all she says, as she sweeps past him towards her private apartments.

Her family is waiting for her, gathered around a game ofbeadulác. George and Mary are staring intently at their board, Rochford, Mark and Wyatt standing behind them. Mary’s children sit at the window with their tutor and grammar books.

“I’m taking very good odds on your sister,” Mark tells Boleyn as she approaches the gaming table. She holds the back of Mary’s seat, rocking gently from foot to foot to ease the discomfort in her back, making her hipbones click oddly.

She can see immediately that George is in the lead. He is surrounded by discs of copper and bronze, each one stamped with a different image – dukes, knights, queens, cavalry and foot soldiers. On the board is another pile of discs – some bronze, some copper, the images turned down so they’re not visible. George holds aloft a thicker, golden disc, ready to hit the pile and see how many he can flip.

“How was the wedding?” Mary says, her eyes never leaving the board.

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