Page 54 of Six Wild Crowns

“We saw her getting into her carriage,” Mark says. “What a drab little gown for a drab little queen.”

“If she’d been wearing anything more elaborate you’d have scorned her for trying too hard,” Boleyn remarks. “You don’t need to insult her for my sake, dear.”

“I was insulting her because she deserves it,” Mark says, butRochford quiets him with a hand on his sleeve. The group’s focus returns to the game at hand.

“If I take this, you’ve lost, sister,” George tells Mary.

“Ifis a large word, brother,” Mary says. “I will not surrender if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Cromwell wants my help,” Boleyn tells them as she leans over Mary to study the size of the discs in the pile.

“Does he indeed?” Mary says. “He’s an interesting man, isn’t he? I don’t think there’s a single subject he does not strive to be an expert on. I once asked him about the properties of the Hildew Mountains and he ended up giving me a lecture on gunpowder.”

George throws his king… and the pile remains intact. Rochford and Mark groan.

“Ha!” Mary shouts. She brandishes her own king, taunting George with his possible defeat, then throws it, flipping every disc so that George’s queens are displayed neatly next to Mary’s cavalry. Mary collects her winnings, ungracious in victory.

As the others pack up the game, Wyatt says, “You never did say how the wedding went.”

Before Boleyn can respond, George snorts.

“Can you imagine her in bed tonight,” he says, then does an impression of a limp fish.

“Especially after our little firework sister,” Mark says.

“Stop it,” Boleyn says. She watches Rochford, who is primly sorting George’sbeadulácdiscs back into their box, eyes downcast. She has more in common with Seymour than she does with the Boleyn family, and she knows it.

“Stop it,” Boleyn says again. “Seymour was my lady-in-waiting not so long ago. She was our friend.”

“Some friend, taking your husband from beneath your very nose,” Mary points out.

“Maybe she had her reasons,” Rochford says quietly.

Boleyn can’t bring herself to agree with Rochford, because even though she understands Seymour’s reasons, she cannot give her blessing to Seymour’s deception of Henry. But her silence and the chill that permeates the room is enough for the others to drop the topic.

Mark springs across the room, plucking a lute from a hook on the wall. He strums it experimentally.

“An excellent instrument,” he says.

“Wasn’t that the one Queen Howard gave you?” Wyatt asks.

George snorts again. “It’s all she’s good for, from what I hear. Music and whoring.”

Boleyn turns on them. “And what do they say I’m good for, do you think?”

Mary looks stricken. “We’re on your side, sister.”

Boleyn stares at them, blood pounding in her head. Inside her womb, the baby kicks and squirms. Wyatt coughs softly, moving to the side of the room, removing himself from the family argument.

“I know you are,” Boleyn says. “That doesn’t mean you can’t be on theirs too.”

She walks silently to the chamber that serves as her office. It’s a round room, set in one of the turrets. A bookcase occupies one wall, and a desk and chair the other, set beneath the only window. Boleyn sits at the desk, calls for ink and paper and when it is brought, she begins to write.

To Her Majesty Queen Howard of the Palace of Plythe, in the twenty-seventh year of the reign of our husband, the great King Henry, eighth of his name.

My dear sister,

One of my company just played a tune on the lute you so kindly gave me at my marriage to our husband, and it made me think of you. It seems strange that we have never met, even though we are so intimately connected. I have heard much about you, and I am in no doubt that you have heard much about me.

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